Lord of Shadows
Page 56

“Whatever gods have done this,” Kieran whispered, “they are gracious to bring me the one my soul loves, in my last moments.” His head fell back against the tree, exposing the scarlet gashes around his throat where the thorns had cut in. “My Mark.”
“Hush.” Mark spoke through a tightened throat. The elf-bolt was sharp, and he drew the blade of it against the ropes that bound Kieran’s throat and then his wrists. They fell away, and Kieran gave a gasp of pain relieved.
“It is true, as they say,” said Kieran. “The pain leaves you as you die.”
Mark slashed away the ropes binding Kieran’s ankles, and straightened up. “That is enough,” he said. “I am Mark, not an illusion. You are not dying, Kieran. You are living.” He took Kieran by the wrist and helped him to his feet. “You are escaping.”
Kieran’s gaze seemed dazzled by moonlight. He reached for Mark and laid his hands on Mark’s shoulders. There was a moment where Mark could have drawn away, but he didn’t. He stepped toward Kieran just as Kieran did toward him, and he could smell blood and cut vines on Kieran, and they were kissing.
The curve of Kieran’s lips under his own was as familiar to Mark as the taste of sugar or the feel of sunlight. But there was no sugar or sunlight here, nothing bright or sweet, only the dark pressure of the Court all around them and the scent of blood. And still his body responded to Kieran’s, pressing the other boy up against the bark of the tree, gripping him, hands sliding on his skin, scars and fresh wounds under his fingertips.
Mark felt himself lifted up and out of his body, and he was in the Hunt again, hands gripped in Windspear’s mane, leaning low into the wind that tore his hair and seared his throat and carried away his laughter. Kieran’s arms were around him, the only warm thing in a cold world, and Kieran’s lips against his cheek.
Something sang by his ear. He jerked away from Kieran. Another object whistled by and he instinctively crowded Kieran against the tree.
Arrows. Each arrow tipped with flame, they ripped their way through the Court like deadly fireflies. One of the Unseelie princes was racing toward Mark and Kieran, raising a bow as he came.
They had been noticed after all, it seemed.
* * *
The grass in front of the Institute seemed to boil, a mass of sea demons and Centurions, whipping tentacles and slashing seraph blades. Kit half-threw himself down the stairs, almost knocking into Samantha, who, alongside her twin, was battling furiously with a grotesque gray creature covered with sucking red mouths.
“Look where you’re going!” she yelled, and then shrieked as a tentacle snaked around her chest. Kit whipped Adriel forward, severing the tentacle just above Samantha’s shoulder. The demon shrieked from all its mouths and vanished.
“Disgusting,” said Samantha, who was now covered in thick grayish demon-blood. She was frowning, which seemed ungrateful to Kit, but he hardly had time to worry about it; he was already turning to raise his sword against a spiny-looking creature with nubbly, stony skin like a starfish.
He thought of Ty on the beach with the starfish in his hand, smiling. It filled him with rage—he hadn’t realized before how much demons seemed like the beautiful things of the world had been warped and sickened and made revolting.
The blade came down. The demon shrieked and flinched back—and arms were suddenly around Kit, dragging him backward.
It was Diana. She was half-drenched in blood, some human and some demon. She seized hold of Kit’s arm, pulling him back toward the stairs, the Institute.
“I’m fine—I don’t need help—” he panted, wrenching at her grip.
She plucked Adriel out of his hand and threw it toward Diego, who caught the blade and spun to drive it into the thick body of a jellyfish demon, bringing his ax down with the other hand. It was very impressive, but Kit was too angry to care.
“I don’t need help!” he shouted again, as Diana hauled him up the steps. “I don’t need to be saved!”
She spun him around to look at her. One of her sleeves was bloody, and there was a red mark on her throat where her necklace had been ripped away. But she was as imperious as always. “Maybe you don’t,” she said. “But the Blackthorns do, and you are going to help them.”
Stunned, Kit stopped fighting. Diana let go of him and shouldered the doors of the Institute open, stalking inside; after one last glance back, he followed.
* * *
The moments after Julian seized Erec and put his knife to his throat were chaotic. Several of the faeries near the pavilion howled; the knights fell back, looking terrified. The Unseelie King was shouting.
Julian kept his mind focused: Hold your prisoner. Keep the knife to his throat. If he gets away, you have nothing. If you kill him too quickly, you have nothing. This is your advantage. Take it.
At a command from the King, the knights moved aside, forming a sort of tunnel for Julian to walk down, marching Erec ahead of him. The tunnel ended below the King’s throne. The King was standing at the edge of the pavilion, his white cloak snapping in the breeze.
Erec didn’t struggle, but when they reached the pavilion, he craned his head back to look up at his father. Julian could feel them lock eyes.
“You won’t cut my son’s throat,” said the Unseelie King, gazing down at Julian with a look of disdain. “You’re a Shadowhunter. You have a code of honor.”
“You’re thinking of Shadowhunters the way they used to be,” said Julian. “I came of age in the Dark War. I was baptized in blood and fire.”
“You are soft,” said the King, “gentle as angels are gentle.”
Julian settled the knife more firmly into the curve of Erec’s throat. The faerie prince smelled like fear and blood. “I killed my own father,” he said. “You think I won’t kill your son?”
A look of surprise passed over the King’s face. Adaon spoke. “He is telling the truth,” he said. “Many were in the Hall of Accords during the war. It was witnessed. He is a ruthless one, that one.”
The King frowned. “Adaon, be silent.” But he was clearly troubled. Shadows moved behind his eyes. “The price you would pay for spilling the blood of my family in my Court would be unspeakable,” he said to Julian. “Not just you would pay it. All the Clave would pay it.”
“Then don’t make me,” Julian said. “Let us depart in peace. We will take Erec with us, for the distance of a mile, then let him go. No one is to follow us. If we sense we are being followed, we will kill him. I will kill him.”
Erec cursed and spat. “Let him kill me, Father,” he said. “Let my blood begin the war we know is coming.”
The King’s eyes rested for a moment on his son. He is the King’s favorite, Mark had said. But Julian couldn’t help but wonder if the King was more concerned about the war to come, controlling how and when it began, than he was about Erec’s fate.
“You think angels are gentle,” said Julian. “They are anything but. They bring justice in blood and heavenly fire. They take vengeance with fists and iron. Their glory is such it would burn out your eyes if you looked at them. It is a cold and brutal glory.” He met the King’s gaze: his angry eye, and his empty one. “Look at me, if you doubt what I say I will do,” said Julian. “Look at my eyes. Faeries see much, they say. Do you think I am someone who has anything to lose?”