Lady Midnight (35 page)

“That is very human,” he said. “To be jealous of a body but not a heart.”

Cristina had studied faeries closely. It was true that unmarried
faerie folk, regardless of sexual orientation, placed a very low value on physical fidelity, though a much greater value than humans did on emotional loyalty. There were few if any vows that had to do with sex, but many that had to do with true love. “You see, I do not want a body without a heart,” she said.

He did not reply, but she could read the look in his eyes. If she said the word, she could have Mark Blackthorn, for some value of having him. It was a strange thing to know, even if she did not want what he offered. But if he were offering
more—
well, there had been a time she had thought she would never want anyone again.

It was good to know that wasn’t true.

“Is Kieran the reason?” she said. “That you might return to Faerie, even if the killer is caught?”

“Kieran saved my life,” said Mark. “I was nothing in the Wild Hunt.”

“You are not nothing. You are the son of the Lady Nerissa.”

“And Kieran is the son of the King of the Unseelie Court,” said Mark flatly. “He did everything for me in the Wild Hunt. Protected me and kept me alive. And he has only me. Julian and the others, they have each other. They do not need me.”

But he didn’t sound convinced. He spoke as if the words were dead leaves, blowing across some hollow and aching space inside him. And in that moment Cristina yearned toward him more than she ever had, for she knew that feeling, to be so hollowed out by loss that you felt as if the wind could blow through you.

“That is not love,” Cristina said. “That is debt.”

Mark set his jaw. He had never looked more like a Blackthorn. “If there is one thing I have learned in my life, and I grant I have not learned much, it is this: Neither Fair Folk nor mortals know what love is or is not. No one does.”

16

B
Y THE
S
IDE

“So, basically, you kind of
solved the investigation,” said Livvy. She was lying on the rug in Julian’s room. They were all sprawled around his bedroom: Cristina perched neatly on a chair, Ty sitting against a wall with his headphones on, Julian cross-legged on his bed. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The cuff links Emma had given him gleamed on the nightstand. Mark lay on his stomach across the foot of the bed, eye to eye with Church, who’d decided to pay them a visit, probably because of the weather. “I mean, now we know who did it. The murders.”

“Not exactly,” said Emma. She was sitting on the floor, leaning her back against the nightstand. “I mean, here’s what we do know. This group, these Followers or whatever they call themselves, they’re responsible for Stanley Wells’s murder. The Followers are mostly people who’ve had some brush with the supernatural. They have the Sight, they’re part faerie—Sterling’s sort of a werewolf. Every month they hold a Lottery. Someone gets picked, and that someone becomes a sacrifice.”

“Wells was a sacrifice,” said Julian. “So it stands to reason that the other eleven murders have been because of this cult too.”

“It also explains the fey bodies,” said Cristina. “Since so many
of them are half-fey, it makes sense that they’ve been picked for the sacrifices.”

Julian glanced at Mark. “Do you think the Courts know if the bodies were half-fey or full-blooded?”

“Hard to say,” said Mark, still staring at the cat. “They often cannot tell just by looking, and some of the Followers are full-blood faeries.”

“It seems like full-blood faeries would have better things to do.” It was Ty, having pulled the headphones from his ears. Emma could faintly hear classical music drifting from them. “Why would they join something like this?”

“It is a place for lost souls,” said Mark. “And since the Cold Peace, many of the Fair Folk are lost. It makes sense.”

“I saw them advertising at the Shadow Market,” said Emma. “I saw Belinda there too. They seemed to be specifically looking for anyone with the Sight, anyone who seemed frightened or alone. Having a group to belong to, being promised good luck and wealth, getting strength from the sacrifices—you can see how it would be appealing.”

“They do seem very confident,” Cristina said. “How much do they know about the existence of Nephilim, I wonder?”

“Sterling seemed afraid of us,” said Emma. “It’s weird. He got picked, so that means they’re going to sacrifice him. You’d think he’d want any help he could get, even from Shadowhunters.”

“But getting help is forbidden, right?” said Livvy. “If they caught him accepting it, they could torture him. Do worse than kill him.”

Cristina shuddered. “Or he could be a true believer. Maybe he thinks it would be a sin to accept help.”

“Men have gone to their deaths for less,” said Mark.

“How many of them do you think there were? The Followers?”

“About three hundred,” said Julian.

“Well, if we can’t go to the faeries yet, we’ve got two options,” said Emma. “One, we track down every one of those three hundred losers and beat them up until they tell us who did the actual killing.”

“That seems impractical,” said Ty. “And time-consuming.”

“Or we could go straight to finding out who the leader is,” Emma said. “If anyone knows, it’s that Belinda girl.”

Julian ran a hand through his hair. “Belinda’s not her real name—”

“I’m telling you, Johnny Rook knows her,” Emma said. “In fact, he probably knows a lot, given that information about the Shadow World is his business. We’re asking him.”

“Yes, you agreed to this already in the car,” Mark said, and frowned. “This cat is looking at me with judgment.”

“He’s not,” said Jules. “That’s just his face.”

“You look at me the same way,” Mark said, glancing at Julian. “Judgy face.”

“This is still progress,” Livvy said stubbornly. She glanced at Mark sideways, and Emma saw anxiety in her gaze. It was so rare for Livvy to show the worry she felt that Emma sat up straight. “We should go to the faerie convoy, tell them the Followers are responsible—”

“We can’t,” said Diana, appearing in the doorway. “The fey were very specific. ‘The one with blood on his hands.’ You might think they want progress reports, but I don’t think they do. They want results, and that’s all.”

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Julian asked, though there was no hostility in the question. He glanced at his watch. “It’s awfully late for you to be here.”

Diana sighed. She did look bone weary. Her hair was untidy and she was uncharacteristically dressed down in a sweatshirt and jeans. There was a long scrape across one of her cheeks.

“I went by the convergence on my way back from Ojai,” she said. “I got in and out fast. Only had to kill one Mantid.” She sighed again. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s been back there since the night you went. I’m worried our necromancer’s found a new place.”

“Well, if he doesn’t use a convergence, the next time he uses dark magic, he’ll show up on Magnus’s map,” said Ty.

“Did you find anything useful in Ojai?” Emma asked. “What warlock is up there? It’s not anyone we know, is it?”

“No.” Diana leaned against the doorjamb, clearly not planning on saying anything else. “I did hear about the Followers; I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you were tracking them down here. I wish you’d told me, but—”

“You’d already left,” said Jules. He leaned back on his hands. His dress shirt stretched across his chest. Knowing what his body looked like under the cotton was not helping Emma’s concentration. She looked away, hating her uncontrolled thoughts. “But I can give you the summary.”

As he started to talk, Emma quietly turned and walked out of the room. She could hear Julian’s voice behind her, recounting the events of the evening. She knew he’d tell the story exactly right; she knew she didn’t have to worry. But right now there were two people she urgently needed to talk to, and she needed to do it alone.

*   *   *

“Mom,” Emma whispered. “Dad. I need your help.”

She had taken off her dress and boots and stashed them in a corner with her weapons. The weather had worsened: Gusts tore around the Institute, rattling the copper gutters, streaking the panes of glass with feathery patterns of silver. In the distance, lightning flashed over the water, illuminating it like a sheet of glass. In her pajamas, Emma sat cross-legged, facing her open closet.

To a stranger the closet might look like a jumble of photos and string and scribbled notes, but to her it was a love letter. A love
letter to her parents, whose photograph was at the center of the compilation. A photo of them smiling at each other, her dad caught in the middle of laughing, his blond hair shining in the sun.

“I feel lost,” she said. “I started this because I thought there was some connection between these murders and what happened to you. But if there is, I think I’m losing it. Nothing connects to the attack on the Institute. I feel like I’m wandering through fog and I can’t see anything clearly.”

It felt like there was something stuck in her throat, something hard and painful. Part of her wanted nothing more than to run out into the rain, feel it spill down over her. Walk or run down to the beach, where the sea and the sky would be melding into one, and let her screams be drowned out by thunder.

“There’s more,” she whispered. “I think I’m messing up. As—as a Shadowhunter. Ever since the night Jules got hurt, when I healed him, ever since then when I look at him, I feel—things I shouldn’t. I think about him the way you aren’t supposed to think about your
parabatai.
I’m sure he doesn’t feel the same way, but just for a few minutes tonight, when we were dancing, I was . . . happy.” She closed her eyes. “Love’s supposed to make you happy, isn’t it? It’s not supposed to hurt?”

There was a knock on her door.

Jules
, she thought. She scrambled up just as the door opened.

It was Mark.

He was still in his formal clothes. They were very dark against his blond hair. Anyone else would have seemed awkward, she thought as he moved into the room and glanced at her closet, then at her. Anyone else would have asked if they were barging in or interrupting, considering she was in pajamas. But Mark behaved as if he’d arrived for an appointment.

“The day I was taken,” he said. “It was the same day your parents were killed.”

She nodded, glancing at the closet. Having it open made her feel strangely exposed.

“I told you I was sorry about what happened to them,” he said. “But that isn’t enough. I didn’t realize that this investigation would become about me. About my family trying to keep me here. That my presence would be stealing from you the meaning of what you were doing.”

Emma sat down on the foot of the bed. “Mark . . . It’s not like that.”

“It is like that,” he said. His eyes were luminous in the strange light—her window was open, and the illumination that streamed in was touched by the glow of lightning-infused clouds. “They should not be working on this only to keep me, when I might not stay.”

“You wouldn’t go back to Faerie. You wouldn’t.”

“All that was promised was that I would choose,” he said. “I have not—I cannot—” His hands balled into fists at his sides, the frustration clear on his face. “I thought you would understand. You are not a Blackthorn.”

“I am Julian’s
parabatai
,” she said. “And Julian needs you to stay.”

“Julian is strong,” he said.

“Julian
is
strong,” she agreed. “But you are his brother. And if you go—I don’t know if I can pick up those pieces.”

His eyes flicked back to her closet. “We survive losses,” he whispered.

“We do,” Emma said. “But my parents didn’t leave me on purpose. I don’t know what would have happened to me if they had.”

Thunder cracked, snapping through the room. Mark’s hand crept to his throat. “When I hear thunder, see lightning, I think I should be riding through it,” he said. “My blood calls out for the sky.”

“Who gave you that pendant?” she asked. “It’s an elf-bolt, isn’t it?”

“In the Hunt, I had skill with them,” he said. “I could strike at an enemy while riding, and hit the target nine times out of ten. He called me ‘elf-shot’ because—” Mark broke off, turning to look at Emma where she perched on the bed. “We are alike, you and I,” he said. “The storm calls you as it calls me, doesn’t it? I saw in your eyes earlier—you wanted to be out in it. To run on the beach, perhaps, as the lightning comes down.”

Emma took a shaking breath. “Mark, I don’t—”

“What’s going on?” It was Julian. He had changed out of his suit and was standing in the doorway. The look on his face as he glanced from Mark to Emma—Emma couldn’t describe it. She’d never seen Jules look like that before.

“If you two are busy,” he said, and his voice was like the edge of a knife, “with each other, I can come back some other time.”

Mark looked puzzled. Emma stared. “Mark and I were talking,” Emma said. “That’s it.”

“We are done now.” Mark rose to his feet, one of his hands resting on the elf-bolt.

Julian looked at them both levelly. “Tomorrow afternoon, Diana’s taking Cristina to Malcolm’s,” he said. “Something about Cristina needing to interview the High Warlock about how we do things here as opposed to Mexico City. Probably Diana just wants to check up on how Malcolm’s translation is coming and she needs an excuse.”

“Okay, then we can head to Rook’s,” said Emma. “Or I could go on my own if you want—he’s used to me. Not that our last interaction was so friendly.” She frowned.

“No, I’ll come with you,” Julian said. “Rook needs to understand it’s serious.”

“And I?” said Mark. “Am I to be a part of this expedition?”

“No,” Julian said. “Johnny Rook can’t know you’re back. The Clave doesn’t know, and Rook is someone who doesn’t keep secrets, he sells them.”

Mark looked up at his brother through his hair, his strange, odd-colored eyes gleaming. “Then I suppose I will sleep in,” he said. He gave one last glance at Emma’s closet—there was something in his expression, something disquieted—and left, closing the door behind him.

“Jules,” Emma said, “what’s wrong with you? What was that about, ‘if you two are busy with each other’? Do you think Mark and I were making out on the floor before you came in?”

“It wouldn’t have been my business if you had been,” Julian said. “I was giving you privacy.”

“You were being a jerk.” Emma slid off the bed and went over to her dresser to take off her earrings, looking at Julian in the mirror as she did so. “And I know why.”

She saw his expression change and tighten, surprise giving way to unreadability. “Why?”

“Because you’re worried,” she said. “You don’t like breaking the rules and you don’t think going to Rook’s is a good idea.”

He moved restlessly into the room and sat down on her bed. “Is that how you think of me?” he said. “Emma, if we need to go to Rook’s, then I’m part of the plan. I’m in it, a hundred percent.”

She looked at herself in the mirror. Long hair didn’t hide the Marks on her shoulders; her arms had muscles; her wrists were strong and sturdy. She was a map of scars: the old white scars from used-up runes, wending trails of cuts, and the splotches of burns from acidic demon blood.

She felt suddenly old, not just seventeen instead of twelve, but
old.
Old in her heart, and too late. Surely if she were going to find her parents’ murderer she would have done so by now.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He leaned back against her headboard. He was wearing an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “What for?”

For the way I feel.
She shoved the words back. If she was having
strange feelings about Jules, it wasn’t fair to tell him about them. She was the one in the wrong.

And he was hurting. She could see it in the set of his mouth, the darkness behind his light eyes.

“Doubting you,” she said.

“Back at you.” He flopped back onto her pillows. His shirt, untucked, rode up, giving Emma a clear view of his stomach, the corrugation of muscles, the smatter of golden freckles over his hip. . . .