Lord of Shadows
Page 141

But it was Kieran.
Emma froze in surprise. Though she’d grown somewhat used to Kieran being around, he still made the fine hairs on Emma’s arms rise with tension. It wasn’t that she blamed him, specifically, for the injuries she’d suffered at Iarlath’s hands. But the sight of him still brought it back to her, all of it: the hot sun, the sound of the whip, the copper scent of blood.
It was true that he looked enormously different now. His black hair was a little wilder, more untidy, but otherwise he cut an incongruously human figure in his jeans. The wild hair hid the tops of his pointed ears, though his black and silver eyes were still startling.
He gave a small, courtly bow. “My ladies.”
Cristina looked puzzled. Clearly she hadn’t expected this visit either.
“I came to speak with Cristina, if she will permit it,” Kieran added.
“Go ahead, then,” Emma said. “Speak.”
“I think he wishes to speak to me alone,” said Cristina, in a whisper.
“Yes,” said Kieran. “That is my request.”
Cristina looked at Emma. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”
Humph, Emma thought. She’d missed Cristina, and now a brash faerie princeling was kicking her out of her friend’s room. Kieran barely spared her a glance as she climbed off the bed and headed to the door.
As she passed Kieran on her way out, Emma paused, her shoulder almost touching his. “If you do anything to hurt or upset her,” she said, in a voice low enough that she doubted Cristina could hear it, “I will pull off your ears and turn them into lock picks. Get it?”
Kieran glanced at her with his night-sky eyes, unreadable as clouds. “No,” he said.
“Let me spell it out,” Emma said sharply. “I love her. Don’t mess around with her.”
Kieran put his long, delicate hands in his pockets. He looked absolutely unnatural in his modern clothes. It was like seeing Alexander the Great in a biker jacket and leather pants. “She is easy to love.”
Emma looked at him in surprise. It hadn’t been what she’d expected him to say at all. Easy to love. Nene had behaved as if the concept was bizarre. But then what did the Fair Folk know about love, anyway?
* * *
“Would you like to sit down?” Cristina inquired. Then she wondered if she was turning into her mother, who had always claimed that the first thing one did with a guest was offer them a seat. Even if they are a murderer? Cristina had asked. Yes, even murderers, her mother had insisted. If you didn’t want to offer a murderer a seat, you shouldn’t have invited him in the first place.
“No,” Kieran said. He moved across the room, hands in his pockets, his body language restless. Not unlike Mark’s, Cristina thought. They both moved as if they had energy trapped beneath their skin. She wondered what it would be like to contain so much movement, and yet be forced to stay still.
“My lady,” he said. “Because of what I swore to you in the Seelie Court, there is a bond between us. I think you have felt its force.”
Cristina nodded. It wasn’t the enchanted bond she had with Mark. But it was there anyway, a shimmering energy when they danced, when they spoke.
“I think that force can help us do something together I could not do alone.” Kieran came closer to the bed, drawing his hand out of his pocket. Something glimmered in his palm. He held it out to Cristina, and she saw the acorn there that Mark had used earlier, to summon Gwyn. It looked slightly dented, but it was whole, as if it had been sealed back together after breaking open.
“You want to summon Gwyn again?” Cristina shook her head. Her hair fell completely out of its unfastened braid, spilling down her back. She saw Kieran glance at it. “No. He won’t interfere again. You want to speak to someone else in Faerie. Your brother?”
“As I thought.” He inclined his head slightly. “You guess my intentions exactly.”
“And you can do it? The acorn won’t just call Gwyn?”
“The magic is a fairly simple one. Remember, you are not of the blood than can cast spells, but I am. It should bring a Projection of my brother to us. I will ask him of our father’s plans. I shall ask him as well if he can stop the Riders.”
Cristina was astonished. “Can anyone stop the Riders?”
“They are servants of the Court, and under its command.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Cristina asked.
“Because to summon my brother, I must reach out with my mind into Faerie,” said Kieran. “And it would be safer, should I wish to keep my mind intact, for me to have a connection here in the world. Something—someone—to keep me anchored while I seek my brother.”
Cristina slid off the bed. Standing straight, she was only a little shorter than Kieran. Her eyes were level with his mouth. “Why me? Why not Mark?”
“I have asked enough of Mark,” he said.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but even if that is true, I do not think it is the whole truth.”
“Few of us are lucky enough ever to know the whole truth of anything.” She knew Kieran was young, but there was something ancient in his eyes when he spoke. “Will you put your hand in mine?”
She gave him the hand whose wrist bore the red mark of her bond with Mark. It seemed fitting, somehow. His fingers closed around hers, cool and dry, light as the touch of a leaf.
With his other hand, Kieran dashed the golden acorn against the wall beside the fireplace mantel.
For a moment, there was silence. Cristina could hear his ragged breathing. It seemed strange for a faerie—everything they did was at such a remove from ordinary human emotion, it was odd to hear Kieran gasp. But then she remembered his arms around her, the uneven thud of his heart. They were flesh and blood after all, weren’t they? Bone and muscle, just as Shadowhunters were. And the flame of angelic blood burned in them, too . . . .
Darkness spread across the wall like a stain. Cristina sucked in her breath, and Kieran’s hand tightened on hers. The darkness moved and shivered, trembled and re-formed. Light danced within it, and Cristina could see the multicolored night sky of Faerie. And within the shadow, a darker shadow. A man, wrapped in a dark cloak. As the darkness lightened, Cristina saw his grin before she saw anything else, and her heart seemed to stop.
It was a grin of bones set within a skeletal half face, beautiful on one side, deathly on the other. The cloak that wrapped him was ink-black and bore the insignia of a broken crown. He stood straight and broad, grinning his lopsided grin down at Kieran.
They had not summoned Adaon at all. It was the Unseelie King.
* * *
“No. NO!” Tavvy wept, his face buried in Julian’s shoulder. He’d taken the news that he was going to Idris with Alec, Max, and Rafe worse than Mark had expected. Did all children cry like this, like everything in the world was ruined and their hearts were broken, even at the news of a short parting?
Not that Mark blamed Tavvy, of course. It was only that he felt as if his own heart was being shredded into pieces inside his chest as he watched Julian walk up and down the room, holding his small brother in his arms as Tavvy sobbed and pounded his back.
“Tavs,” Julian said in his gentle voice, the voice Mark could hardly reconcile with the boy who had faced down the Unseelie King in his own Court with a knife to a prince’s throat. “It’s only going to be a day, two days at most. You’ll get to see the canals in Alicante, the Gard . . . .”