Lady Midnight (51 page)

“Don’t ever say that again!” He shoved himself away from the pillar, the rising sun, behind him, turning the edges of his hair to copper. Emma couldn’t see his expression, but she knew it was furious.

Emma got to her feet. “What, that I should have known? I should have—”

“That you failed me,” he said hotly. “If you knew—you’ve been all that’s kept me going, for weeks sometimes, months. Even when I was in England, thinking of you kept me going. It’s why I had to be
parabatai
with you—it was completely selfish—I wanted to tie you to me, no matter what, even though I knew it was a bad idea, even though I knew I—”

He broke off, a look of horror flashing across his face.

“Even though what?” Emma demanded. Her heart was pounding. “Even though what, Julian?”

He shook his head. Her hair had escaped from its ponytail and the wind was whipping it around her face, bright pale strands on the wind. He reached up to tuck one behind her ear: He looked like someone caught in a dream, trying to wake up. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Do you love me?” Her voice was a whisper.

He wound a piece of her hair around his finger, a silver-gold ring. “What’s the difference?” he asked. “It won’t change anything if I do.”

“It changes things,” she whispered. “It changes everything for me.”

“Emma,” he said. “You’d better go back inside. Go to sleep. We both should. . . .”

She gritted her teeth. “If you’re going to walk away from me now, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

He hesitated. She saw the tension in him, in his body, rise like a wave about to break.

“Walk away from me,” she said harshly.
“Walk away.”

His tension crested and fell; something in him seemed to collapse, water breaking against rocks. “I can’t,” he said, his voice low and broken, “God, I can’t,” and he half-closed his eyes, bringing up his other hand to cradle her face. His hands slid into her hair, and he drew her toward him. She inhaled a breath of cold air and then his mouth was on hers and her senses exploded.

She had wondered, in the back of her mind, if what had happened on the beach between them had been a fluke born of their shared adrenaline. Surely kisses weren’t meant to be like that, so all-encompassing that they ripped through you like lightning, tore down your defenses and decimated your self-control.

Apparently not.

Her hands fisted in the material of Julian’s jacket, dragging him toward her, closer, closer. There was sugar and caffeine on his lips.
He tasted like energy. Her hands slid up under his shirt, touching the bare skin of his back, and he broke away from her to suck in his breath. His eyes were closed, his lips parted.

“Emma,” he breathed, and the desire in his voice tore a scorching path through her. When he reached for her, she almost fell against him. He swiveled her body around, pushing her back against a pillar, his body a strong, hot line against hers—

A sound cut through the fog in her mind.

Emma and Julian tore apart, staring.

Both of them had been in the Hall of Accords in Idris when the Wild Hunt had come, howling around the walls, tearing at the ceiling. Emma remembered the sound of Gwyn’s horn, blasting through the air. Vibrating every nerve in her body. A high, hollow, lonesome sound.

It came again now, echoing through the morning.

The sun had risen while Emma had been wrapped up in Julian, and the road that led down to the highway was illuminated by sunlight. There were three figures coming up it, on horseback: one black horse, one white, and one gray.

Emma recognized two of the riders immediately: Kieran, sitting his horse like a dancer, his hair nearly black in the sunlight, and next to him, Iarlath, wrapped in dark robes.

The third rider was familiar to Emma from a hundred illustrations in books. He was a big, broad man, bearded, wearing dark armor that looked like the overlapping bark of a tree. He had tucked his horn under his arm; it was a massive object, etched all over with a pattern of deer.

Gwyn the Hunter, the leader of the Wild Hunt, had come to the Institute. And he did not look pleased.

22

T
HOSE
W
HO
W
ERE
O
LDER

Mark stood at an upstairs
window and looked out at the sun rising over the desert. The mountains seemed cut out of dark paper, sharp and distinct against the sky. For a moment he imagined he could reach out and touch them, that he could fly from this window and reach the top of the highest peak.

The moment passed, and once again he saw the distance between himself and the mountains. Ever since he had returned to the Institute, he had felt as if he were struggling to see everything through a thin layer of glamour. Sometimes he saw the Institute as it was, sometimes it faded from view and instead he saw a bare landscape and the fires of the Wild Hunt burning in small encampments.

Sometimes he turned to say something to Kieran only to discover that he wasn’t there. Kieran had been there every morning that Mark had woken up for years of Faerie time.

Kieran had been meant to come and see him the night Mark had watched the children in the kitchen. But he’d never come. There’d been no communication from him, either, and Mark was worried now. He told himself that the faerie prince was probably just being cautious, but he found his hand straying to the arrowhead at his throat more often than usual.

It was a gesture that reminded him of Cristina, the way she touched the medallion at her throat when she was nervous. Cristina. He wondered what had passed between her and Diego.

Mark turned away from the window just as the sound came. His hearing had been sharpened by years in the Hunt; he doubted anyone else in the Institute would have heard it or been awakened.

It was a single note, the sound of Gwyn the Hunter’s horn: sharp and harsh, as lonely as mountains. Mark’s blood went cold. It was not a greeting or even a call to the Hunt. It was the note Gwyn blew when they were searching out a deserter. It was the sound of betrayal.

*   *   *

Julian had straightened up, raking his hands through his tangled curls, his jaw set. “Emma,” he said. “Go back inside.”

Emma turned and strode back into the Institute—only long enough to seize up Cortana from where it hung beside the door. She stalked back outside to find that the faerie convoy had dismounted their horses, who remained unnaturally still, as if tied in place. Their eyes were blood red, their manes wound with red flowers.
Faerie steeds.

Gwyn had approached the foot of the steps. He had a strange face, slightly alien: wide eyes, broad cheekbones, wicked eyebrows. One black eye, and one that was pale blue.

Beside him came Iarlath, his yellow eyes unblinking. And at his other side, Kieran. He was as beautiful as Emma had remembered him, and looked as cold. His pale face was as severely cut as white marble, his black and silver eyes uncanny in the daylight.

“What’s going on?” Emma demanded. “Has something happened?”

Gwyn glanced at her dismissively. “This is none of your affair, Carstairs girl,” he said. “This matter concerns Mark Blackthorn. None of the rest of you.”

Julian crossed his arms over his chest. “Anything that concerns my brother concerns me. In fact, it concerns all of us.”

Kieran’s mouth set into a hard, uncompromising line. “We are Gwyn and Kieran of the Wild Hunt, and Iarlath of the Unseelie Court, here on a matter of justice. And you
will
fetch your brother.”

Emma moved to stand in the center of the top step, unsheathing Cortana, which sent bright sparks skittering into the air. “Don’t tell him what to do,” she said. “Not here. Not on the steps of the Institute.”

Gwyn gave an unexpected, rumbling laugh. “Don’t be a fool, Carstairs girl,” he said. “No single Shadowhunter can hold off three of the Fair Folk, not even armed with one of the Great Swords.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate Emma,” said Julian in a voice like razor wire. “Or you’ll find your head lying on the ground next to your still-twitching body.”

“How graphic,” said Iarlath, amused.

“I’m here,” said a breathless voice behind them, and Emma half-closed her eyes, fear going through her like pain.

Mark.

It looked as if he had thrown on jeans and a sweater in a hurry, and jammed his feet into sneakers. His blond hair was ruffled and he looked younger than he usually did, his eyes wide with surprise and undefended astonishment.

“But my time isn’t up,” Mark said. He was speaking to Gwyn but looking at Kieran. There was an expression on his face—one Emma couldn’t interpret or describe, one that seemed to mix pleading and pain and gladness. “We’re still trying to find out what’s going on. We’re nearly there. But the deadline—”

“Deadline?”
Kieran echoed. “Listen to you. You sound like one of them.”

Mark looked surprised. “But, Kieran—”

“Mark Blackthorn,” said Iarlath. “You stand accused of sharing
one of the secrets of Faerie with a Shadowhunter, despite being expressly forbidden to do so.”

Mark let the door of the Institute fall shut behind him. He took several steps forward, until he was standing beside Julian. He clasped his hands behind his back; they were shaking. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I haven’t told my family anything forbidden.”

“Not your family,” said Kieran, an ugly twist to his voice.
“Her.”

“Her?” Julian said, looking at Emma, but she shook her head.

“Not me,” she said. “He means Cristina.”

“You didn’t expect us to leave you unobserved, did you, Mark?” Kieran said. His black and silver eyes were like etched daggers. “I was outside the window when I heard you speaking with her. You told her how Gwyn could be deprived of his powers. A secret known only to the Hunt, and forbidden to repeat.”

Mark had turned the color of ashes. “I didn’t—”

“There is no point lying,” said Iarlath. “Kieran is a prince of Faerie and cannot speak untruths. If he says he overheard this, then he did.”

Mark shifted his gaze to Kieran. The sunlight no longer seemed beautiful to Emma, but merciless, beating down on Mark’s gold hair and skin. Hurt spread across his face like the stain of red from a slap. “It would never mean anything to Cristina. She would never tell anyone. She would never hurt me or the Hunt.”

Kieran turned his face away, his beautiful mouth twisting at the corner. “Enough.”

Mark took a step forward. “Kieran,” he said. “How can you do this? To me?”

Kieran’s face was bleak with pain. “Mine is not the betrayal,” he said. “Speak to your Shadowhunter princess of promises broken.”

“Gwyn.” Mark turned to plead with the Hunt’s leader. “What is between myself and Kieran is not a matter for the law of the Courts or the Hunt. Since when did they interfere in matters of the heart?”

Matters of the heart.
Emma could see it on both their faces, Mark’s and Kieran’s, in the way they looked at each other and the way they didn’t. She wondered how she had missed it before, in the Sanctuary, that these were two people who loved each other. Two people who had hurt each other the way only two people in love could.

Kieran looked at Mark as if Mark had taken something irreplaceably precious from him. And Mark looked—

Mark looked crushed. Emma thought of herself on the beach, in the morning, with Julian, and the lonely screech of the gulls circling overhead.

“Child,” said Gwyn, and to Emma’s surprise, there was gentleness in his voice. “I regret the necessity of this visit more than I can say. And believe me, the Hunt does not interfere, as you say, in matters of the heart. But you broke one of the oldest laws of the Hunt, and put every member of it into danger.”

“Exactly,” said Kieran. “Mark has broken the law of Faerie, and for that, he must return to Faerie with us and tarry no longer in the human world.”

“No,” said Iarlath. “That is not the punishment.”

“What?” Kieran turned to him, puzzled. His hair flared at the edges with blue and white like hoarfrost. “But you said—”

“I said nothing to you of punishments, princeling,” said Iarlath, stepping forward. “You told me of Mark Blackthorn’s actions and I said they would be duly dealt with. If you believed that meant he would be dragged back to Faerie to be your companion, then perhaps you should remember that the security of the gentry of Faerie is more paramount than the fancies of a son of the Unseelie King.” He looked hard at Mark, his eyes eerie in the bright sunlight. “The King has given me leave to choose your punishment,” he said. “It will be twenty whip-lashes across the back, and count yourself lucky it is not more.”

“NO!”
The word was like an explosion. To Emma’s surprise it
was Julian—Julian, who never raised his voice. Julian, who never shouted. He started down the steps; Emma followed him, Cortana ready in her hand.

Kieran and Mark were silent, looking at each other. The rest of the blood had left Kieran’s face and he looked sick. He didn’t move as Julian stepped forward, blocking Kieran’s view of Mark.

“If any of you touch my brother to harm him,” Julian said, “I will kill you.”

Gwyn shook his head. “Do not think I do not admire your spirit, Blackthorn,” he said. “But I would think twice before moving to harm a convoy of Faerie.”

“Move to prevent this, and our agreement will be at an end,” said Iarlath. “The investigation will stop, and we will take Mark back with us to Faerie. And he will be whipped there, and worse than any whipping he could receive here. You will win nothing and lose much.”

Julian’s hands tightened into fists. “You think you alone understand honor? You who cannot understand what we might lose by standing here and letting you humiliate and torture Mark? This is why faeries are despised—this senseless cruelty.”

“Careful, boy,” rumbled Gwyn. “You have your Laws and we have ours. The difference is only that we do not pretend ours are not cruel.”

“The Law is hard,” said Iarlath with amusement, “but it is the Law.”

Mark spoke for the first time since Iarlath had pronounced his sentence. “A bad law is no law,” he said. He looked dazed. Emma thought of the boy who had collapsed in the Sanctuary, who had screamed when he was touched and spoken of beatings that still clearly terrified him. She felt as if her heart was being ripped out—to whip Mark, of all people? Mark, whose body might heal but whose soul would never recover?

“You came to us,” Julian said. There was desperation in his voice. “You came to us—you made a bargain with us. You needed our help. We have put everything on the line, risked everything, to solve this. Fine, Mark made a mistake, but this loyalty test is misplaced.”

“It is not about loyalty,” said Iarlath. “It is about setting an example. These are the laws. This is how it works. If we let Mark betray us, others will learn we are weak.” His look was pleased. Greedy. “The bargain is important. But this is more important.”

Mark moved forward then, catching at Julian’s shoulder. “You can’t change it, little brother,” he said. “Let it happen.” He looked at Iarlath, and then at Gwyn. He didn’t look at Kieran. “I will take the punishment.”

Emma heard Iarlath laugh. It was a cold, sharp sound like cracking icicles. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of blood-red stones. He threw them to the ground. Mark, clearly familiar with what Iarlath was doing, blanched.

At the spot on the ground where Iarlath had thrown his stones, something had begun to grow. A tree, bent and gnarled and twisted, its bark and leaves the color of blood. Mark watched it in horrified fascination. Kieran looked as if he was going to throw up.

“Jules,” Emma whispered. It was the first time she had called him that since the night on the beach.

Julian stared blindly at Emma for a moment before turning and lurching the rest of the way down the steps. After a frozen moment Emma followed him. Iarlath moved immediately to block her way.

“Put your sword away,” he snarled. “No weapons in the presence of the Fair Folk. We know well you cannot be trusted with them.”

Emma whipped Cortana up so fast that the blade was a blur. The tip of it sailed beneath Iarlath’s chin, a millimeter from his skin, describing the arc of a deadly smile. He made a noise in his
throat even as she slammed the sword into the sheath on her back with enough force to be audible. She stared at him, eyes blazing with rage.

Gwyn chuckled. “And here I thought all the Carstairs were good for was music.”

Iarlath gave Emma a filthy look before whirling away and stalking toward Mark. He had begun unwinding a coil of rope from where it was tied at his waist. “Put your hands on the trunk of the quickbeam,” he said. Emma assumed he meant the dark, twisted tree with its sharp branches and blood-colored leaves.

“No.” Kieran, sounding desperate, whirled fluidly toward Iarlath. He dropped to the ground, kneeling, his hands outstretched. “I beg you,” he said. “As a prince of the Unseelie Court, I beg you. Do not hurt Mark. Do what you will with me, instead.”

Iarlath snorted. “Whipping you would incur your father’s wrath. This will not. Get to your feet, child-prince. Do not shame yourself further.”

Kieran staggered upright. “Please,” he said, looking not at Iarlath, but at Mark.

Mark gave him a look full of so much searing hate Emma nearly recoiled. Kieran looked, if possible, even sicker.

“You should have forseen this, whelp,” said Iarlath, but his gaze wasn’t on Kieran—it was on Mark, hungry, full of appetite, as if the thought of a whipping drew him like the thought of food. Mark reached out toward the tree—

Julian stepped forward. “Whip me instead,” he said.

For a moment everyone froze. Emma felt as if a baseball bat had slammed into her chest. “No,” she tried to say, but the word wouldn’t come.

Mark whirled around to face his brother. “You can’t,” he said. “Mine is the crime. Mine must be the punishment.”

Julian stepped past Mark, almost pushing him aside in his
determination to present himself in front of Gwyn. He stood with his back straight and chin up. “In a faerie battle, one can pick a champion to represent them,” he said. “If I could stand in for my brother in a fight, why not now?”

“Because I’m the one who broke the law!” Mark looked desperate.