Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 58

“I seek a friend,” Kieran said.
The woman’s eyes darted over Cristina and then Mark. Her mouth widened into a smile. “You seem to have several.”
“That’s enough,” said Mark. “The prince would proceed unhindered.”
“Now, if it were a love potion you sought, you might come to me,” said the faerie woman, ignoring Mark. “But which of these two Nephilim do you love? And which loves you?”
Kieran raised a warning hand. “Enough.”
“Ah, I see, I see.” Cristina wondered what it was she saw. “No love potion could assist with this.” Her eyes danced. “Now, in Faerie, you could love both and have both love you. You would have no trouble. But in the world of the Angel—”
“Enough, I said!” Kieran flushed. “What would it take to end this bedevilment?”
The faerie woman laughed. “A kiss.”
With a look of exasperation, Kieran bent his head and kissed the faerie woman lightly on the mouth. Cristina felt herself tense, her stomach tightening. It was an unpleasant sensation.
She realized Mark, beside her, had tensed as well, but neither of them moved as the faerie woman drew back, winked, and danced away into the crowd.
Kieran wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “They say a kiss from a prince brings good luck,” he said. “Even a disgraced one, apparently.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Kier,” said Mark. “We could have gotten rid of her.”
“Not without a fuss,” Kieran said. “And I suspect Oban and his men are here in the crowd somewhere.”
Cristina glanced up at the pavilion. Kieran was right—it was still empty. Where was Prince Oban? Among the rutting couples in the grass? They had begun to make their way across the clearing again: Faces of every hue loomed out of the mist at her, twisted in grimaces; Cristina even imagined she saw Manuel, and remembered how Emma had been forced to see an image of her father the last time they had been in Faerie. She shuddered, and when she looked again it was not Manuel at all but a faerie with the body of a man and the face of a wise old tabby, blinking golden eyes.
“Drinks, madam and sirs? A draft to cool you after dancing?” said the tabby faerie in a soft and cooing voice. Cristina stared, remembering. Mark had bought her a drink from this cat-faced faerie at the revel she’d been to with him. He held the same gold tray with cups on it. Even his tattered Edwardian suit had not changed.
“No drinks, Tom Tildrum, King of Cats,” said Kieran. His voice was sharp, but he clearly recognized the cat faerie. “We need to find a Seelie procession. There could be several coins in it for you if you led us to the road.”
Tom gave a low hiss. “You are too late. The Queen’s procession passed by here an hour ago.”
Mark cursed and flung his hood back. Cristina didn’t even have time to be startled that usually gentle Mark was cursing; she felt as if a hole had been punched through her chest. Emma. Emma and Jules. They’d missed them. Kieran, too, looked dismayed.
“Give me a drink, then, Tom,” said Mark, and seized a glass of ruby-colored liquid from the tray.
Kieran held out a staying hand. “Mark! You know better!”
“It’s just fruit juice,” Mark said, his eyes on Cristina’s. She flushed and glanced away as he drained the glass.
A moment later he sank to the ground, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Mark!” Cristina gasped, flinging herself to the ground beside him. He was clearly unconscious, but just as clearly breathing. In fact, he was snoring a bit. “But it was just fruit juice!” she protested.
“I like to serve a variety of beverages,” said Tom.
Kieran knelt down by Cristina. His hood had partly fallen back, and Cristina could see the concern on his face as he touched Mark’s chest lightly. The smudges on his cheeks made his eyes stand out starkly. “Tom Tildrum,” he said in a tight voice. “It’s not safe here.”
“Not for you, for the sons of the Unseelie King are at each other’s throats like cats,” said Tom Tildrum with a flash of incisors.
“Then you see why you must lead us through to the road,” Kieran said.
“And if I do not?”
Kieran rose to his feet, managing to exude princely menace despite his dirty face. “Then I will yank your tail until you howl.”
Tom Tildrum hissed as Kieran and Cristina bent to lift Mark and carry him between them. “Come with me, then, and be quick about it, before Prince Oban sees. He would not like me helping you, Prince Kieran. He would not like it at all.”
* * *
Kit lay on the roof of the Institute, his hands behind his head. The air was blowing from the desert, warm and soft as a blanket tickling his skin. If he turned his head one way, he could see Malibu, a chain of glittering lights strung along the curve of the seashore.
This was the Los Angeles people sang about in pop songs, he thought, and put into movies; sea and sand and expensive houses, perfect weather and air that breathed as soft as powder. He had never known it before, living with his father in the shadow of smog and downtown skyscrapers.
If he turned his head the other way, he could see Ty, a black-and-white figure perched beside him at the roof’s edge. The sleeves of Ty’s hoodie were pulled down, and he worried their frayed edges with his fingers. His black eyelashes were so long Kit could see the breeze move them as if it were ruffling sea grass.
The feeling of his own heart turning over was now so familiar that Kit didn’t question it or what it meant.
“I can’t believe Hypatia agreed to our plan,” Kit said. “Do you think she really means it?”
“She must mean it,” said Ty, staring out over the ocean. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the ocean seemed to be absorbing light, sucking it down into its black depth. Along the border where the sea met the shore, white foam ran like a stitched ribbon. “She wouldn’t have sent us the money if she hadn’t. Especially enchanted money.”
Kit yawned. “True. When a warlock sends you money, you know it’s serious. I guarantee you that if we don’t get this done like we said we would, she’s going to come after us—for the money, at least.”
Ty pulled his knees up against his chest. “The issue here is that we have to get a meeting with Barnabas, but he hates us. We’ve already seen that. We can’t get near him.”
“You should maybe have thought of that before you made this deal,” said Kit.
Ty looked confused for a moment, then smiled. “Details, Watson.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should disguise ourselves.”
“I think we should ask Dru.”
“Dru? Why Dru?” Now Ty looked baffled. “Ask her what?”
“To help us. Barnabas doesn’t know her. And she does look a lot older than she is.”
“No. Not Dru.”
Kit remembered Dru’s face in the library when she’d talked about Jaime. He listened to me and he watched horror movies with me and he acted like what I said was important. He remembered how happy she’d been to be taught lock picking. “Why not? We can trust her. She’s lonely and bored. I think she’d like to be included.”
“But we can’t tell her about Shade.” Ty was pale as the moon. “Or the Black Volume.”
True, Kit thought to himself. I’m definitely not telling Drusilla about a plan that I hope falls apart before it ever comes to fruition.
He sat up. “No—no, definitely not. It would be dangerous for her to know anything about—about that. All we need to tell her is that we’re trying to get back on good terms with the Shadow Market.”
Ty’s gaze slid away from Kit. “You really like Drusilla.”
“I think she feels very alone,” said Kit. “I get that.”
“I don’t want her to be in danger,” said Ty. “She can’t be in any kind of danger.” He tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie. “When Livvy comes back, I’m going to tell her I want to do the parabatai ceremony right away.”
“I thought you wanted to go to the Scholomance?” said Kit without thinking. If only Ty could see that was a possibility for him now, Kit wished—and instantly hated himself for thinking it. Of course Ty wouldn’t want to consider Livvy’s death to be any form of freedom.