Lady Midnight
Page 90

Mark looked ill with horror. “I know.”
“He’s a kid, not a bomb,” said Emma, buckling on a weapons belt. There were several seraph blades and a stele thrust through it. She wasn’t in gear, just jeans and a jacket that would hide the sword on her back. Not that she expected trouble, but she hated going out without Cortana, currently napping in the trunk. “It’ll be okay. Dru and Livvy can help.”
“Maybe this mission of yours is too dangerous,” Mark said, as Julian slammed the trunk shut. “A faerie would tell you that a rook is a black crow—a bird of ill omen.”
“I know,” Julian said, sliding a final, thin dagger into the holder strapped around his wrist. “It also means to cheat or to swindle. It was my word of the day last year from Diana.”
“Johnny Rook is a swindler, all right,” Emma agreed. “He swindles mundanes. We’ll be fine.”
“The children could set themselves on fire,” Mark said. He didn’t sound like he was joking.
“Ty and Livvy are fifteen,” said Emma. “They’re nearly the same age you were when you joined the Hunt. And you were—”
“What?” Mark turned his odd eyes on her. “I was fine?”
Emma felt herself flush. “An afternoon in their own home is not exactly the same as being kidnapped by cannibalistic faerie predators.”
“We didn’t eat people,” Mark said indignantly. “At least not to my knowledge.”
Julian unlocked the driver’s side door and slid inside. Emma climbed into the passenger seat as he leaned out the window and looked sympathetically at his brother. “Mark, we have to go. If anything happens, have Livvy text us, but right now Rook is the best chance we have. Okay?”
Mark straightened up as if readying for battle. “Okay.”
“And if they do manage to set themselves on fire?”
“Yes?” Mark said.
“You’d better find a way to put them out.”
Johnny Rook lived in Victor Heights, in a small craftsman bungalow with dusty windows sandwiched between two ranch houses. It had a disused air that Emma assumed was carefully cultivated. It looked like the sort of place neighborhood children would skip over when searching for candy on Halloween.
Otherwise it was a nice street. There were kids playing hopscotch a few houses down, and an old man reading a newspaper in his gazebo, surrounded by lawn gnomes. When Julian pictured mundane life, it looked a lot like this. Sometimes he thought it wouldn’t be so bad.
Emma was strapping Cortana on. They were already glamoured, so there was no worry about the children down the street seeing her as she pulled the strap tight, a small frown line appearing between her eyebrows as she got the fit right. Her hair shone in the California sunlight, brighter than the gold of Cortana’s hilt. The white scars on her hands gleamed, too, diffuse, a lacelike patchwork.
No. Mundane life was not an option.
Emma lifted her head and smiled at him. A familiar smile, easy. It was like last night—the dancing and the music that still seemed to him like a fever dream—hadn’t happened. “Ready to go?” she said.
The paved path that led to the front door was cracked where the roots of trees had grown up, their inexorable force snapping the pavement. The persistence of growing things, Julian thought, and wished he had a canvas and paints. He was reaching for his phone to snap a picture when it went off with the dull ring that signaled a text message.
He glanced at the screen. It was from Mark.
CAN’T FIND TY.
Julian frowned and thumbed a reply while jogging up the steps after Emma. DID YOU LOOK IN HIS BEDROOM?
There was an ornate knocker on the front door in the shape of a wild-haired, wild-eyed Green Man. Emma lifted it and let it fall as Julian’s phone beeped again.
DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A BUFFOON? OF COURSE I DID.
“Jules?” Emma said. “Is everything all right?”
“Buffoon?” he muttered, his fingers flying over the touch pad. WHAT DOES LIVVY SAY?
“Did you just mutter ‘buffoon’?” Emma demanded. Julian could hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. “Julian, try to act not weird, okay?”
The door flew open. The man standing on the other side was tall and rangy, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. His hair was so close-cropped it was hard to tell its color, and tinted glasses hid his eyes.
He slumped against the doorjamb the moment he saw Emma. “Carstairs,” he said. It was a sound between a prayer and a groan.
Julian’s phone pinged. LIVVY SAYS SHE DOESN’T KNOW.
The man raised an eyebrow. “Busy?” he said sardonically. He turned to Emma. “Your other boyfriend was politer.”
Emma flushed. “This isn’t my boyfriend. This is Jules.”
“Of course. I should have recognized the Blackthorn eyes.” Rook’s voice turned silky. “You look just like your father, Julian.”
Julian didn’t much like the man’s smirk. Then again, he’d never liked anything about Emma associating with Rook. Mundanes who dabbled in magic, even ones with the Sight, were a gray area to the Clave—there wasn’t a Law, but neither were you supposed to deal with them. If you needed magic done, you hired a nice, Clave-approved warlock.
Not that Emma had ever cared much about the approval of the Clave.
LIVVY’S LYING. SHE ALWAYS KNOWS WHERE TY IS. MAKE HER TELL YOU. Jules shoved the phone back into his pocket. It wasn’t unusual for Ty to vanish, into corners of the library or places in the hill where he could coax lizards out from under their rocks. And he was angry, which made it more likely he’d hide.
The man swung the door open. “Come in,” he said in a resigned tone. “You know the rules. No taking out weapons, Carstairs. And no back talk.”
“Define ‘back talk,’” Emma said, stepping inside. Julian followed her. A wave of magic as thick as smoke in a burning building hit him. It hung in the air of the small living room, almost visible in the dim light that filtered through the yellowing curtains. Tall craftsman bookshelves held spell books and grimoires, copies of The Malleus Maleficarum, the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, The Lesser Key of Solomon, and a blood-red volume with the words Dragon Rouge lettered on the spine. A yellowish rag rug that matched the curtains lay crookedly on the floor; Rook kicked it aside with an unpleasant grin.
Under it was revealed a spell circle chalked onto the hardwood planks. It was the kind of circle warlocks stood inside when they summoned demons; the circle created a protective wall. It was actually two circles, one inside the other, making a sort of frame, and inside the frame were scrawled the sigils of the seventy Lords of Hell. Julian frowned as Rook stepped neatly into the circle and crossed his arms.
“A protection circle,” Rook said unnecessarily. “You can’t get in.”
“And you can’t get out,” Julian observed. “Not easily, anyway.”
Rook shrugged. “Why would I want to?”
“Because that’s some powerful magic you’re playing with.”
“Don’t judge,” Rook said. “We who cannot wield the magic of Heaven must use what comes to hand.”
“The sigils of Hell?” Julian said. “There’s some middle ground between Hell and Heaven, surely.”