Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 67

Greg looked at the paper again. “Just my opinion,” he said, “but the guy behind me looks like Humphrey Bogart.”
“Humphrey it is!” said Aline, waving her stamp. “Do you want to be Humphrey Bogart?” she asked the next Downworlder, a skinny, tall warlock with a sad face and poodle ears.
“Who doesn’t?” said the warlock.
Most of the Downworlders were wary as they worked their way through the rest of the line, but cooperative. There were even some smiles and thanks. They seemed to understand that Aline and Helen were attempting to undermine the system, if not why.
Aline pointed at a tall blond faerie in the line, wearing a gossamer dress. “That one’s Taylor Swift.”
Helen smiled as she handed a werewolf a stamped form. “How much trouble are we going to get into for this?”
“Does it matter?” said Aline. “We’re going to do it anyway.”
“True enough,” said Helen, and reached for another form.
* * *
Take me to him. Take me.
There was quiet and silence—and then light, and a thousand sharp, pricking pains. Cristina yelped and struggled free of what felt like a tangle of briars, tumbling sideways and thumping hard onto grassy earth.
She sat up, looking ruefully down at her hands and arms, dotted with dozens of tiny pinpricks of blood. She had landed in a rosebush, which was more than a little ironic.
She got to her feet, brushing herself off. She was still in Faerie, but it seemed to be daytime here. Golden sunlight burnished a thatched-roof cottage of pale yellow stone. A turquoise-blue river ran past the small house, lined with blue and purple lupin flowers.
Cristina wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this pastoral bliss. She dabbed gently at the blood on her hands and arms, gave up, and glanced up and down the small, winding trail that cut through the tall grass. It led from the front door of the cottage, across the meadow, and vanished into the hazy distance.
Cristina marched up to the cottage door and knocked firmly. “Adaon!” she called. “Adaon Kingson!”
The door swung open as if Adaon had been waiting on the other side. The last time Cristina had seen him, he had been decked out in the regalia of the Unseelie Court, with the broken crown insignia on his chest. Now he wore a plain linen tunic and breeches. His deep brown skin looked warm in the sunlight. It was the first time she had been able to see his resemblance to Kieran.
Maybe it was because he looked furious.
“How is it possible that you are here?” he demanded, looking around as if he couldn’t believe she had come alone.
“I sought help,” she said. “I was in Faerie—”
He narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be staring suspiciously at a bluebird. “Come inside immediately. It is not safe to speak outside.”
The moment she was inside the cottage, Adaon closed the door and set himself to fastening a number of intricate-looking, complicated locks. “Faerie is a dangerous place right now. There are all sorts of ways you could have been tracked or followed.”
They were inside a small wood-paneled entryway. An arched doorway led through to the rest of the cottage. Adaon was blocking it, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was glowering. After a moment’s hesitation, Cristina held out the artifact to him. “I could not have been tracked. I used this.”
If she’d hoped Adaon would look relieved, he didn’t. “Where did you get that?”
“It is a family heirloom,” Cristina said. “It was given freely as a gift by a family of hadas who an ancestor of mine aided.”
Adaon scowled. “It is a token of Rhiannon. Treat it with care.” He stalked out of the entryway and into a small living room, where a well-scrubbed wooden table stood in a shaft of sunlight pouring through wide, leaded windows. A small kitchen was visible: A vase on the table held a riot of colorful flowers and stacked bowls of painted pottery.
Cristina felt a bit as if she were inside the cottage of the dwarves in Snow White: Everything was diminutive, and Adaon seemed to tower, his head nearly scraping the ceiling. He gestured for her to sit down. She took a chair, realizing as she sat how exhausted her body was and how much she ached all over. Worry for Emma and Julian, now compounded by panic over Mark and Kieran, pounded through her like heartbeats.
“Why are you here?” Adaon demanded. He wasn’t sitting. His big arms were still crossed over his chest.
“I need your help,” Cristina said.
Adaon slammed a hand down on the table, making her jump. “No. I cannot give aid or help to Nephilim. I may not agree with my father on many things, but I would not go directly against his wishes by conspiring to aid a Shadowhunter.”
He stood for a moment in silence. Sunlight illuminated the edges of the white lace curtains at the window. Through the glass Cristina could see a field of poppies stretching away in the distance toward glimmering cliffs, and a faint sparkle of blue water. The house smelled like sage and tea, a soft and homey scent that made the ache inside her worse.
“Do you know why I came to you?” she said.
“I do not,” Adaon said grimly.
“In London, I followed Kieran from the Institute because I didn’t trust him,” she said. “I thought he was on his way to betray us. It turned out he was on his way to speak to you.”
Adaon’s frown didn’t budge.
“I realized as the two of you talked that he was right to trust you, that you were the only one of his brothers who cared for him,” said Cristina. “He said that you gave him Windspear. You are the only member of his family who he speaks of with any affection at all.”
Adaon threw up a hand as if to ward off her words. “Enough! I don’t want to hear more.”
“You need to hear it.”
“I do not need the Nephilim to tell me about Kieran!”
“You do,” said Cristina. “Guards are taking Kieran to your father right now, as we speak. He will certainly be killed if we do nothing.”
Adaon didn’t move. If Cristina hadn’t seen him swallow, she would have thought he was a statue. An angry, towering statue. “Helping him would be a true betrayal of my father.”
“If you don’t help, then it will be a true betrayal of your brother,” said Cristina. “Sometimes you cannot be loyal to everyone.”
Adaon leaned his big hands on the back of a chair. “Why did you come here?” he said. “Why did you bring me this news? It is possible my father will spare him. He is well liked by the people.”
“You know your father will kill him for just that reason,” said Cristina. Her voice shook. “Before the Hunt no one in Kieran’s life ever loved or cared for him at all, save you. Are you really going to abandon him now?”
15
TURRETS AND SHADOWS
“Sebastian’s son,” Emma whispered. “He had a son.”
They had taken shelter in a room that looked like a disused food pantry. Bare shelves lined the walls, and empty baskets littered the floor. Emma thought of the fruit and bread they had certainly once held, and tried to ignore the gnawing of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches the day before.
“There have always been rumors that Sebastian had an affair with the Queen,” Julian said. He was sitting with his back against a wall of the pantry. His voice sounded remote, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. He’d sounded like that since they’d left the throne room. Emma didn’t know if it was a side effect of the potion or of seeing Annabel and letting her go. “But he only died five years ago.”
“Time passes differently in Faerie,” said Emma. “Ash seems maybe thirteen.” She scowled. “He looks like Sebastian. I remember seeing Sebastian in the Institute. He was so . . .” Vicious. Cold. Inhuman. “Blond.”
Julian didn’t look up. His voice was like ice. “You should have let me end her.”
“Julian, no.” Emma rubbed at her temples; her head was aching. “You would absolutely have been killed if you tried.”
“Emma—”
“No!” She dropped her hands. “I hate Annabel too. I hate her for standing there alive when Livvy’s dead. I hate her for what she did. But there are more important things at stake right now than our revenge.”