Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 31

“Four days isn’t that much time,” said Emma. “Do you think this plan could work? Or is Horace just trying to get us killed?”
“Be a pretty elaborate way to kill us,” said Julian. He took a bite out of his sandwich and looked meditatively into the distance. “He wants the Black Volume. You heard him. I don’t think he cares how he gets it, and we’ll probably have to watch our step. But as long as we have it in our hands . . .” He pointed at the map. “Look. Bram’s Crossroads.”
The fact that their extraction point actually existed made Emma feel slightly better.
“I wish I knew what he was going to do with the Black Volume,” Emma muttered.
“Probably nothing. He wants it so the faeries can’t have it. It would be a political coup for him. The Consul couldn’t get it, now he does, he gets to hold it up at the next Council meeting and praise himself.”
“He’ll probably say Zara found it,” Emma said—and then paused, staring at Julian. “You’re eating lettuce,” she said.
“Yes?” He was leaning over the map, his fingers keeping it flat.
“You hate lettuce.” She thought of all the times he’d eaten lettuce in front of the kids to be a good example and then complained to her later that it tasted like crunchy paper. “You’ve always hated it.”
“Have I?” He sounded puzzled. He rose to his feet, starting to gather up their things. “We should head out. This time we travel by daylight. Too much weird stuff abroad in Faerie at night.”
It’s just lettuce, Emma told herself. Not that important. Still, she found herself biting her lip as she bent to pick up her rucksack. Julian was strapping his crossbow to his back; his rucksack went across the other shoulder.
From the woods came a cracking noise, the kind a breaking branch might make. Emma whirled around, her hand at her hip, feeling for the hilt of a knife. “Did you hear that?”
Julian tightened the strap of his crossbow. They stood there for long moments, on their guard, but there was no second sound, and nothing appeared. Emma wished fiercely for a Vision or Hearing rune.
“It could have been nothing,” Julian said, finally, and though Emma knew he wasn’t really trying to comfort her, just trying to get them on the road, it still seemed like something the Julian she knew would say.
In silence they headed away from the clearing, which moments ago had been bright with sunlight and now seemed ominous and full of shadows.
8
LONG-FORGOTTEN BOWERS
Diana hurried toward the canal house on Princewater Street, the cool morning wind lifting her hair. She felt shot through with adrenaline, tense at the prospect of spilling her history to Emma and Jules. She’d kept it hugged so close to herself for so many years, telling Gwyn had been like cracking open her ribs to show her heart.
She hoped the second time would be easier. Emma and Julian loved her, she told herself. They would—
She stopped dead, the heels of her boots clacking on the cobblestones. The cheerfully painted blue canal house rose in front of her, but it was surrounded by a ring of Council guards. Not just Council guards, in fact. Quite a few of them were young Centurions. Each was armed with an oak bo staff.
She glanced around. A few Shadowhunters hurried by, none of them glancing at the house. She wondered how many of them knew Jules and Emma were even still in Alicante—but then, the Inquisitor had planned to make an example of their testimony. They’d have to know eventually.
At the top of the steps was Amelia Overbeck, who had been giggling with Zara at the funeral. Annoyance sped up Diana’s stride, and she pushed past the first ring of guards and ascended the steps.
Amelia, who had been leaning against the door talking to a girl with long orange-red hair, turned to Diana with a brittle smirk. “Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “Is there something you want?”
“I’d like to see Julian Blackthorn and Emma Carstairs,” said Diana, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.
“Gosh,” said Amelia, clearly enjoying herself. “I just don’t think so.”
“Amelia, I have every right,” said Diana. “Let me by.”
Amelia slewed her gaze toward the redhead. “This is Diana Wrayburn, Vanessa,” she said. “She thinks she’s very important.”
“Vanessa Ashdown?” Diana looked more closely: Cameron’s cousin had left for the Academy as a spindly teen, and was almost unrecognizable now. “I know your cousin Cameron.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “He’s boring. Emma’s whipped puppy. And no, don’t think you can get into the house by making nice with me. I don’t like the Blackthorns or anyone who pals around with them.”
“Great news, since you’re supposed to be protecting them,” said Diana. Her adrenaline was coiling into rage. “Look, I’m going to open this door. If you want to try to stop me—”
“Diana!”
Diana turned, pushing hair out of her face: Jia was standing outside the ring of guards, her hand raised as if in greeting.
“The Consul.” Vanessa’s eyes bugged out. “Oh sh—”
“Shut up, Vanessa,” hissed Amelia. She didn’t look worried or afraid of Jia, just annoyed.
Diana pushed her way down the steps and to Jia’s side. Jia wore a silk blouse and trousers, her hair held back with a jeweled clip. Her mouth was an angry slash. “Don’t bother,” she said in a low voice, placing her hand on Diana’s elbow and guiding her away from the crowd of hooting guards. “I heard them say Emma and Julian were with the Inquisitor.”
“Well, why didn’t they just tell me that?” Diana snapped, exasperated. She glanced back over her shoulder at Vanessa Ashdown, who was giggling. “Vanessa Ashdown. My mother used to say some people had more hair than sense.”
“She does seem to aptly prove that theory,” said Jia dryly. She had stopped some distance from the house, where a small stone bank inclined into the canal. It was thick with moss, bright green under the silver water that slopped up the side. “Look, Diana, I need to talk to you. Where can we not be overheard?”
Diana looked at Jia closely. Was it her imagination, or when the Consul glanced at the Centurions surrounding the small canal house, did she look—afraid?
“Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I know exactly what to do.”
* * *
She was climbing a spiral staircase that seemed to reach toward the stars. Cristina didn’t remember how she had found the staircase, nor did she recall her destination. The staircase rose from darkness and soared into the clouds; she kept the material of her long skirts clutched in her hands so she wouldn’t trip over them. Her hair felt dense and heavy, and the scent of white roses thickened the air.
The stairs ended abruptly and she stepped out in wonder onto a familiar rooftop: She was perched atop the Institute in Mexico City. She could see out over the city: El Ángel, shining gold atop the Monumento a la Independencia, Chapultepec Park, the Palacio de Bellas Artes lit up and glowing, the bell-shaped towers of the Guadalupe Basilica. The mountains rising behind it all, cupping the city as if in an open palm.
A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the rooftop: slender and masculine, hands looped behind his back. She knew before he turned that it was Mark: No one else had hair like that, like gold hammered to airy silver. He wore a long belted tunic, a dagger thrust through the leather strap, and linen trousers. His feet were bare as he came toward her and took her in his arms.
His eyes were shadowed, hooded with desire, his movements as slow as if they were both underwater. He drew her toward him, running his fingers through her hair, and she realized why it had felt so heavy: It was woven through with vines on which grew full-blown red roses. They fell around Mark as he cradled her with his other arm, his free hand running from her hair to her lips to her collarbones, his fingers dipping below the neckline of her dress. His hands were warm, the night cool, and his lips on hers were even warmer. She swayed into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck, where the fine hairs were softest, straying down to touch his scars. . . .
He drew back. “Cristina,” he murmured. “Turn around.”