Lady Midnight (64 page)

Not since she’d left Mexico had she so clearly and painfully remembered what they had been to each other when they were younger. How much she had loved him. Her heart had felt torn to pieces when he cried out for his brother, pleading with him.
Jaime, Jaime, ayúdame. Help me.
And then he had cried out for her, and that was worse.
Cristina, no me dejes. Regresa.

Cristina, don’t leave me. Come back.

I’m here,
she’d told him.
Estoy aquí
, but he hadn’t woken up, and his fingers had clawed at the sheets until he’d fallen into an uneasy slumber.

She didn’t remember how long after that she’d fallen asleep herself. She’d been able to hear the sound of voices from downstairs, and then footsteps in the hall. Emma had ducked in to check on her and Diego, had hugged her and gone to sleep when Cristina had assured her that everything was all right.

But there was light streaming through the window now, and Diego was looking at her with eyes clear of pain and fever.

“¿Estás bien?”
she whispered, her throat dry.

He sat up, and the sheet fell away from him. It was, Cristina thought, rather a sudden reminder that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She focused on the fact that there was a mark on his chest where Malcolm’s magic had struck him. It was over his heart, like a marriage rune would be, and it was a more intense violet than a bruise. It was almost the color of Malcolm’s eyes.

“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I am all right. Were you with—” He looked down, and for a moment he was very much the little boy Cristina remembered, trailing in Jaime’s disastrous wake, weathering trouble and scoldings in quiet silence. “I dreamed you stayed with me.”

“I did stay with you.” She resisted the urge to lean forward and push his hair back.

“And everything’s all right?” he asked. “I don’t remember much after we returned.”

She nodded. “It worked out surprisingly well.”

“This is your room?” Diego said, glancing around. His gaze lit on something past her left ear and he smiled. “I remember that.”

Cristina turned to look. Perched on a shelf by the bed was an
árbol de vida
, a tree of life—a delicate pottery framework hung all over with ceramic flowers, moons, suns, lions, mermaids, and arrows. The angel Gabriel rested at the bottom, his back against the tree, his shield across his knee. It was one of the few reminders of home she’d brought with her when she left.

“You made it,” she said. “For my birthday. I was thirteen.”

He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Do you miss home, Cristina?” he asked. “Even a little bit?”

“Of course I miss it,” she said. The line of his back was smooth, unbroken. She remembered digging her nails into his shoulder blades when they kissed. “I miss my family. I miss even the traffic in the D.F.—not that it’s much better here. I miss the food, you wouldn’t believe what they call Mexican food here. I miss eating
jicaletas
in the park with you.” She remembered lime and chile powder on her hands, a little bit sour and a little bit hot.

“I miss you,” he said. “Every day I miss you.”

“Diego . . .” She slid from the chair onto the bed and reached for his right hand. It was broad and warm in hers, and she felt the pressure of his family ring against her hand—both of them wore the
ring of the Rosales family, but hers had the pattern of the Mendozas on the inside, and his the Rocios. “You saved my life,” she said. “I regret that I was so unforgiving. I should have known better. Should have known you better.”

“Cristina . . .” His free hand found her hair, her cheek. His fingertips brushed her skin lightly. He leaned toward her, giving her ample time to back away. She didn’t. When his mouth found hers, she tipped her head up for the kiss, her heart expanding with the strange feeling that she was moving toward both her future and her past at the same time.

*   *   *

Somewhere, Mark thought. It was somewhere in the house. Julian had told him that he’d boxed up everything in Mark’s room and put it into the eastern storage area. It was past time for him to reclaim his old belongings and make his room look like someone lived in it. Which meant he had to find the storage space.

Mark would have just asked Julian where it was, but he hadn’t been able to find him. Maybe he was hiding himself somewhere, scribbling away on Institute business. It seemed more than strange to Mark that things were going to go back to the way they had been, with Julian running the Institute and the Clave never knowing.

Surely there must be some way to help take the burden off his brother. Certainly now that he and Emma knew, it would be easier on Jules. The time had probably come to tell the younger ones too. Silently, Mark vowed he would stand by his brother through that. It was easier to live in truth than a lie, Kieran had always said.

Mark flinched at the thought of Kieran and yanked a door open. A music room. Clearly not one that anyone used much—there was a dusty piano, a series of stringed instruments hung on the wall, and a violin case. The violin case, at least, looked polished. Emma’s father had played the violin, Mark recalled. The faerie Courts’
obsession with those who could play music had kept Mark far away from any interest in melody.

“Mark?”

He jumped and turned. Ty was behind him, barefoot in a black sweater and dark jeans. The dark colors made him look even thinner.

“Hello, Tiberius.” Mark liked the long version of his little brother’s name. It seemed to suit him and his solemn demeanor. “Were you looking for something?”

“I was looking for you,” said Ty in his direct way. “I tried last night, but I couldn’t find you, and then I fell asleep.”

“I was saying good-bye to Kieran,” said Mark.

“Good-bye?” Ty hunched his shoulders up. “Does that mean you’re staying here definitely?”

Mark couldn’t help a smile. “I am. I’m staying here.”

Ty exhaled a long sigh; it sounded like half relief, half nervousness. “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

“I thought so.”

“It is,” Ty said, as if Mark was being a bit slow, “because you can take over from Julian.”

“Take over?” Mark stared in puzzlement.

“Julian isn’t technically the oldest,” said Ty. “And even though they’d never put you in charge officially because you’re half-faerie, you could still do what Julian does. Look after us, tell us what to do. It doesn’t have to be him. It could be you.”

Mark braced himself against the doorway. Ty was wearing a completely open expression, and there was hope in the back of his pale gray eyes, and Mark felt a wash of panic that nearly made him sick. “Have you said anything about this to Julian?” he demanded. “Have you told him that you were planning on asking me this?”

Ty, not catching the half-furious note in Mark’s voice, drew his delicate dark brows together. “I think I mentioned it to him.”

“Ty,”
Mark said. “You can’t just arrange other people’s lives like
that. What would make you think that this was a good idea?”

Ty’s eyes darted around the room, resting everywhere but on Mark. “I didn’t mean to make you angry. I thought you had a good time that night, in the kitchen, when Julian left you in charge—”

“I had a good time. We all had a good time. I also set fire to the stove and covered your little brother in sugar. That’s not how things are supposed to be all the time. That’s not how—” Mark broke off, leaned back against the wall. He was shaking. “What on earth would make you think I was qualified to be Tavvy’s guardian? Or Dru’s? You and Livvy, you’re older, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need a
parent.
Julian’s your parent.”

“Julian’s my brother,” Ty said, but the words came out strained. “And so are you. You’re like me,” he added. “We’re like each other.”

“No,” Mark said sharply. “We’re not. I’m a mess, Ty. I barely know how to live in this world. You’re capable. I’m not. You’re a whole person—you were raised by someone who loved you, loved you more than his own life, and that’s not anything to be grateful for, that’s what parents
do
, but for years, I haven’t had that. By the Angel, I barely know how to take care of myself. I certainly can’t take care of the rest of you.”

Ty’s lips had gone white. He took a step back, then bolted out into the hallway, his running steps fading.

God,
Mark thought.
What a disaster. What a total disaster.
He was already starting to panic. What had he said to Ty? Had he made him feel like a burden? Had he wrecked things with his little brother, hurt Ty in some unfixable way?

He was a coward, he thought, cringing from the responsibility that Julian had carried for so many years, panicked at the thought of what could happen to his family in his thoughtless, inexperienced hands.

He desperately needed to talk to someone. Not Julian; it would
be another burden on him. And Emma couldn’t keep a secret from Julian. Livvy would murder him; the others were too young. . . .

Cristina. Cristina always gave him good advice; Cristina’s sweet smile calmed his heart. He hurried toward her room.

He should have knocked, of course. That was what normal people did. But Mark, who had lived in a world without doors for so many years, put his hand to Cristina’s and pushed it open without a thought.

Sunlight was streaming through her window. She was sitting up on her bed, propped against the pillows, and Diego, kneeling in front of her, was kissing her. He was holding her head in his hands as if it was something precious, and her black hair was spilling out between his fingers.

Neither of them noticed Mark as he froze in the doorway or as he pulled the door shut as silently as he could. He leaned against the wall, shame burning through him.

I’ve misunderstood everything,
he thought,
wrecked everything
. His feelings for Cristina were muddled and strange, but seeing her kiss Diego hurt more than he would have thought. Some of the pain was jealousy. Some was the realization that he had been away from mortal people so long that he no longer understood them. Perhaps he never would.

I should have stayed with the Hunt.
He slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands.

*   *   *

A cloud of dust and wood and plaster rose from the place where the Rooks’ floor had been destroyed. Now a fine spray of blood joined it. Kit slid from the chair he’d been standing on and stood stunned. His face was splattered with blood and he could smell it in the room, the hot iron stench of it.

My father’s blood.

The demons were gathered in a circle, tearing at something on
the floor. The body of Kit’s father. The sound of ripping flesh filled the room. Sickened, Kit felt his stomach lurch—just as the demon who had tumbled down the stairs came screeching back up them.

Its eyes, milky bulbs in its spongy head, seemed fixed on Kit. It advanced on him, and he seized up the chair beside him and held it out like a shield. In the back of his mind he was conscious that it probably shouldn’t be possible for an untrained fifteen-year-old boy to swing around a heavy piece of oak furniture like it was a toy.

But Kit didn’t care; he was half-insane with panic and horror. As the demon reared up in front of him, he swung the chair at it, knocking it backward. It surged up and lunged again. Kit feinted but this time a razored foreleg came down, slicing the chair in half. The demon sprang toward him with its teeth bared, and Kit held up the remains of the chair, which shattered in his hands. He was flung backward against the wall.

His head hit, hard, and dizziness flooded through him. He saw, through a haze, the praying mantis monster rearing up over him.
Make it quick
, he thought.
For God’s sake let me die fast.

It descended toward him, mouth open, showing row upon row of teeth and a black gullet that seemed to fill his vision. He raised a hand to ward it off—it was closer, closer—and then it seemed to burst apart. Its head went one way, its body another. Green-black demon blood spattered onto him.

He stared upward and through the haze he saw two people standing over him. One was the blond Shadowhunter girl from the Institute, Emma Carstairs. She was brandishing a golden sword, stained with ichor. Beside her was another woman who looked a few years older. She was tall and slender, with long, curling brown hair. Vaguely, he knew he had seen her before—in the Shadow Market? He wasn’t sure.

“You deal with Kit,” said Emma. “I’ll take care of the other Mantids.”

Emma disappeared from the narrow field of Kit’s vision. He could see only the other woman. She had a sweet and gentle face, and she looked at him with surprising affection. “I’m Tessa Gray,” she said. “Get up, Christopher.”

Kit blinked. No one ever called him Christopher. No one but his father, when his father was angry. The thought of Johnny stabbed through him, and he stared over at the place where his father’s body lay crumpled.

To his surprise, there were two people there. A tall man with dark hair, wielding a sword-headed cane, had joined Emma, and the two of them were laying about themselves, slicing the demons to ribbons. Green ichor sprayed into the air like a geyser.

“My father,” Kit said, licking his dry lips and tasting blood. “He . . .”

“You must grieve later. Right now you are in great danger. More of those things may come, and worse things as well.”

He looked at her through the haze. His mouth tasted bitter. “Are you a Shadowhunter?”

“I am not,” Tessa Gray said with a surprising firmness. “But you are.” She reached her hand down toward him. “Come now,” she said. “On your feet, Christopher Herondale. We’ve been looking for you a long time.”

*   *   *

“Say something,” Emma said. “Please.”

But the boy in the passenger seat next to her didn’t speak. He was looking out the window toward the ocean; they had made it all the way to the coast highway without Kit saying a word.

“It’s all right,” Tessa said from the backseat of the car. Her voice was gentle, but then, her voice was always gentle. “You don’t need to speak, Christopher.”