She sounded as if she were struggling to keep her temper. Emma couldn't blame her.
Zara looked at her with a sort of superior pity. "Well, with all these sea demons crawling up out of the ocean--which they wouldn't be doing if Malcolm Fade's body wasn't in there somewhere, you know--I think they're called for. Don't you?"
There was a murmur of voices: most of the Centurions, except for Diego, Jon, and Rayan, seemed to be in agreement. As they made plans to set the wards up that morning, Emma tried to catch Julian's eye to share his annoyance, but he was looking away from her, toward Mark and Cristina. "What were you two doing outside last night, anyway?"
"We couldn't sleep," Mark said. "We bumped into each other."
Zara smiled. "Of course you did." She turned to whisper something into Samantha's ear. Both girls giggled.
Cristina blushed angrily. Emma saw Julian's hand tighten on his fork. He laid it down slowly next to his plate.
Emma bit her lip. If Mark and Cristina wanted to date, she'd give them her blessing. She'd stage some kind of breakup with Mark; their "relationship" had already done a lot of what it needed to do. Julian could barely look at her anymore, and that was what she'd wanted--wasn't it?
He didn't seem happy about the idea that she and Mark might be over, though. Not even a little bit. If he was even thinking about that. There had been a time when she could always tell what Julian had on his mind. Now, she could read only the surface of his thoughts: His deeper feelings were hidden.
Diego looked from Mark to Cristina and stood up, shoving back his chair. He walked out of the room. After a moment, Emma dropped her napkin onto her plate and followed.
He had stomped all the way to the back door and out into the parking lot before he noticed she was following him--a sure sign he was upset, given Diego's level of training. He turned to face her, his dark eyes glittering. "Emma," he said. "I understand you wish to scold me. You have for days. But this is not a good time."
"And what would be a good time? You want to pencil it into your day planner under Never Going to Happen?" She raised an eyebrow. "That's what I thought. Come on."
She stalked around the side of the Institute, Diego reluctantly following. They reached a spot where a small mound of dirt rose between cacti, familiar to Emma from long experience. "You stand there," she said, pointing. He gave her a disbelieving look. "So we won't be seen from the windows," she explained, and he grouchily did as she'd asked, crossing his arms across his muscular chest.
"Emma," he said. "You do not and cannot understand, and I cannot explain to you--"
"I bet you can't," she said. "Look, you know I haven't always been your biggest fan, but I thought a lot better of you than this."
A muscle twitched in his face. His jaw was rigid. "As I said. You cannot understand, and I cannot explain."
"It would be one thing," Emma said, "if you'd just been two-timing, which I still would think was despicable, but--Zara? You're the reason she's here. You know we aren't-- You know Julian has to be careful."
"He should not worry too much," said Diego tonelessly. "Zara is only interested in what profits her. I do not think she has any interest in Arthur's secrets, only in getting attention from the Council for completing this mission successfully."
"Easy for you to assume."
"I have reasons for everything I do, Emma," he said. "Maybe Cristina does not know them now, but one day she will."
"Diego, everyone has reasons for everything they do. Malcolm had reasons for what he did."
Diego's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Do not compare me to Malcolm Fade."
"Because he was a warlock?" Emma's voice was low, dangerous. "Because you think like your fiancee does? About the Cold Peace? About warlocks, and faeries? About Mark?"
"Because he was a murderer." Diego spoke through his teeth. "Whatever else you think of me, Emma, I am not a senseless bigot. I do not believe Downworlders are lesser, to be registered or to be tortured--"
"But you admit Zara does," said Emma.
"I have never told her anything," he said.
"Maybe you can understand why I'm wondering how you could prefer her to Cristina," Emma said.
Diego tensed--and shouted. Emma had forgotten how fast he could move, despite his bulk: He leaped back, cursing and kicking out with his left foot. Muttering in pain, he kicked off his shoe. Columns of ants marched over his ankle, scurrying up his leg.
"Oh, dear," said Emma. "You must have stood on a red-ant hill. You know, accidentally."
Diego slapped the ants away, still cursing. He'd kicked away part of the top of the mound of dirt, and ants were pouring out of it.
Emma stepped back. "Don't worry," she said. "They're not poisonous."
"You tricked me into standing on an anthill?" He had shoved his foot back into his shoe, but Emma knew he'd have itchy bites for a few days unless he used an iratze.
"Cristina made me promise not to touch you, so I had to get creative," Emma said. "You shouldn't have lied to my best friend. Desgraciado mentiroso."
He stared at her.
Emma sighed. "I hope that meant what I think it meant. I'd hate to have just called you a rusty bucket or something."
"No," he said. To her surprise, he sounded wearily amused. "It meant what you thought it meant."
"Good." She stalked back toward the house. She was almost out of earshot when he called after her. She turned and saw him standing where she'd left him, apparently heedless of the ants or the hot sun beating down on his shoulders.
"Believe me, Emma," he said, loudly enough for her to hear him, "no one hates me more than I hate myself right now."
"Do you really think so?" she asked. Emma didn't shout, but she knew the words carried. He looked at her for a long moment, silently, before she walked away.
*
The day stayed hot until the late afternoon, when a storm rolled in over the ocean. The Centurions had left before noon, and Emma couldn't help but stare out the windows anxiously as the sun set behind a mass of black and gray clouds on the horizon, shot through with heat lightning.
"Do you think they'll be okay?" Dru asked, her hands worrying the hilt of her throwing knife. "Aren't they out in a boat? It looks like a bad storm."
"We don't know what they're doing," Emma said. She almost added that thanks to the Centurions' snobbish desire to conceal their activities from the Institute's Shadowhunters, it would be very difficult to rescue them if something dangerous did happen, but she saw the look on Dru's face and didn't. Dru had practically hero-worshipped Diego--despite everything, she was probably still fond of him.
Emma felt briefly guilty about the ants.
"They'll be fine," said Cristina reassuringly. "Centurions are very careful."
Livvy called Dru over to fence with her, and Dru trailed off toward where Ty, Kit, and Livvy stood together on a training mat. Somehow Kit had been convinced to don training gear. He looked like a mini Jace, Emma thought with amusement, with his blond curls and angular cheekbones.
Behind them, Diana was showing Mark a training stance. Emma blinked--Julian had been there, a moment ago. She was sure of it.
"He went to check on your uncle," Cristina said. "Something about him not liking storms."
"No, it's Tavvy who doesn't like . . ." Emma's voice trailed off. Tavvy was sitting in the corner of the training room, reading a book. She remembered all the times Julian had disappeared during storms, claiming Tavvy was frightened of them.
She slid Cortana into its sheath. "I'll be back."
Cristina watched her go with troubled eyes. No one else seemed to notice as she slipped out the training room door and down the hallway. The massive windows spaced along the corridor let in a peculiar gray light, hazed with pinpoints of silver.
She reached the door to the attic and ran up the stairs; though she didn't bother to conceal the sound of her footfalls, neither Arthur nor Julian seemed to have noticed her when she entered the main attic room.
The windows were tightly c
losed and sealed with paper, all except one, over the desk at which Arthur sat. The paper had been torn away from it, showing clouds racing across the sky, colliding and untangling like thick rounds of gray and black yarn.
Trays of uneaten food were scattered on Arthur's several desks. The room smelled like rot and mildew. Emma swallowed, wondering if she'd made a mistake in coming.
Arthur was slumped in his desk chair, lank hair falling over his eyes. "I want them to go," he was saying. "I don't like having them here."
"I know." Julian spoke with a gentleness that surprised Emma. How could he not be angry? She was angry--angry about everything that had conspired to force Julian to grow up years too fast. That had deprived him of a childhood. How could he look at Arthur and not think of that? "I want them to go too, but there's nothing I can do to send them away. We have to be patient."
"I need my medicine," Arthur whispered. "Where is Malcolm?"
Emma winced at the look on Julian's face--and Arthur seemed suddenly to notice her. He raised his eyes, their gaze fixing on her--no, not on her. On her sword.
"Cortana," he said. "Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, 'Mercy is better than revenge.' "
Emma looked at Julian. It was shadowy in the attic, but she could see his hands clenched at his sides. Was he angry at her for following him?
"But Cortana has never been broken," she said.
"It's only a story," Julian said.
"There is truth in stories," said Arthur. "There is truth in one of your paintings, boy, or in a sunset or a couplet from Homer. Fiction is truth, even if it is not fact. If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your brain will live, but your heart will die."
"I understand, Uncle." Julian sounded tired. "I'll be back later. Please eat something. All right?"
Arthur lowered his face into his hands, shaking his head. Julian began to move across the room to the stairs; halfway there, he caught Emma's wrist, drawing her after him.
He exerted no real force, but she followed him anyway, shocked into compliance simply by the physical sensation of his hand on her wrist. He only touched her to apply runes these days--she missed those friendly touches she was used to from the years of their friendship: a hand brushing her arm, a tap on her shoulder. Their secret way of communicating: fingers drawings words and letters on each other's skin, silent and invisible to everyone else.
It seemed like forever. And now sparks were racing up her arm from that one point of contact, making her body feel hot, stinging, and confused. His fingers looped her wrist as they went out the front door.
When it closed behind them, he let go, turning to face her. The air felt heavy and dense, pressing against Emma's skin. Mist obscured the highway. She could see the heaving surfaces of gray waves slapping against the shore; from here, each looked as big as a humpbacked whale. She could see the moon, struggling to show itself between clouds.
Julian was breathing hard, as if he'd been running flat out for miles. The dampness of the air stuck his shirt to his chest as he leaned back against the wall of the Institute. "Why did you come to the attic?" he said.
"I'm sorry." She spoke stiffly. She hated being stiff around Jules. They'd rarely had a fight that didn't end in a casual apology or joking. I had this feeling, that you needed me, and I couldn't not come. "I understand if you're angry--"
"I'm not angry." Lightning sizzled out over the water, briefly whitening the sky. "That's the hell of it, I can't be angry, can I? Mark doesn't know a thing about you and me, he isn't trying to hurt me, none of it's his fault. And you, you did the right thing. I can't hate you for that." He pushed off from the wall, took a restless few paces. The energy of the pent-up storm seemed to crackle off his skin. "But I can't stand it. What do I do, Emma?" He raked his hands through his hair; the humidity was making it curl into ringlets that clung to his fingers. "We can't live like this."
"I know," she said. "I'll go away. It's only a few months. I'll be eighteen. We'll take our travel years away from each other. We'll forget."
"Will we?" His mouth twisted into an impossible smile.
"We have to." Emma had begun to shiver; it was cold, the clouds above them roiling like the smoke of a scorched sky.
"I should never have touched you," he said. He'd drawn closer to her, or maybe she'd moved closer to him, wanting to take his hands, the way she always had. "I never thought what we had could break so easily."
"It's not broken," she whispered. "We made a mistake--but being together wasn't the mistake."
"Most people get to make mistakes, Emma. It doesn't have to ruin their whole lives."
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him. Still feel him, inches away from her, the heat of his body, the scent of cloves that clung to his clothes and hair. It was making her insane, making her knees shake as if she'd just staggered off a roller coaster. "Our lives aren't ruined."
His arms went around her. She thought for a moment of resisting, but she was so tired--so tired of fighting what she wanted. She hadn't thought she'd ever get this, Jules in her arms again, all lean muscle and taut tension, strong painter's hands smoothing down her back, his fingers tracing letters, words, on her skin.
I A-M R-U-I-N-E-D.
She opened her eyes, appalled. His face was so close it was almost a blur of light and shadow. "Emma," he said, his arms leashing her, pulling her closer.
And then he was kissing her; they were kissing each other. He drew her against him; he fit her body to his, curves and hollows, muscles and softness. His mouth was open over hers, his tongue running gently along the seam of her lips.
Thunder exploded around them, lightning shattering against the mountains, blazing a path of dry heat across the inside of Emma's eyelids.
She opened her mouth under his, pressed up against him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He tasted like fire, like spice. He ran his hands down her sides, over her hips. Drew her more firmly against him. He was making a low sound in his throat, a sort of anguished wanting sound.
It felt like forever. It felt like no time at all. His hands molded the shape of her shoulder blades, the curve of her body beneath her rib cage, thumbs arching over the crests of her hips. He lifted her up and against him as if they could fit into each other's empty spaces, as words spilled from his mouth: frantic, hurried,
"Emma--I need you, always, always think about you, I was wishing you were with me in that goddamned attic and then I turned around and you were there, like you heard me, like you're always there when I need you . . . ."
Lightning forked again, illuminating the world: Emma could see her hands on Julian's shirt hem--what the hell was she thinking, was she planning for them both to strip down on the Institute's front porch? Reality reasserted itself; she pushed away, her heart slamming against her chest.
"Em?" He looked at her, dazed, his eyes sleepy and hot and wanting. It made her swallow hard. But his words echoed in her head: He'd wanted her, and she'd come as if she'd heard him call--she'd felt that wanting, known it, not been able to stop herself.
All these weeks of insisting to herself that the parabatai bond was weakening, and now he was telling her they'd just practically read each other's minds.
"Mark," she said, and it was just one word but it was the word, the most brutal reminder of their situation. The sleepy look left his eyes; he whitened, aghast. He raised a hand as if he meant to say something--explain, apologize--and the sky seemed to rip down the middle.
They both turned to stare as the clouds directly above them parted. A shadow grew in the air, darkening as it neared them: the figure of a man, massive and bound in armor, bareback on a red-eyed, foaming brindled horse--black and gray, like the storm clouds overhead.
Julian moved as if to thrust Emma behind him, but she wouldn't budge. She simply stared as the horse came to a neighing, pawing
stop at the foot of the Institute steps. The man looked up at them.
His eyes, like Mark's, were two different colors, in his case blue and black. His face was terrifyingly familiar. It was Gwyn ap Nudd, the lord and leader of the Wild Hunt. And he did not look pleased.
7
SEAS WITHOUT A SHORE
Before Julian or Emma could speak, the front door of the Institute slammed open. Diana was there, with Mark just behind her, still in his training clothes. Diana, in a white suit, looked as beautiful and formidable as always.
Gwyn's towering brindled horse reared as Mark approached the top of the steps. Catching sight of Emma and Jules as they strode toward him, Mark looked more than a little surprised. Emma's cheeks felt as if they must be burning, though when she looked at Julian, he seemed unruffled, cool as always.
They joined Mark just as Diana swept to the top of the steps. The four Shadowhunters stared down at the Hunter--his horse's eyes were blood-red, and so was the armor that Gwyn wore: tough crimson leather, torn here and there by claw marks and the rips made by weapons.
"Because of the Cold Peace, I cannot bid you welcome," Diana said. "Why are you here, Gwyn Hunter?"
Gwyn's ancient gaze glided up and down Diana; there was no malice in it or arrogance, only the faerie appreciation for something beautiful. "Lovely lady," he said, "I do not think we have met."
Diana looked momentarily nonplussed. "Diana Wrayburn. I'm the tutor here."
"Those who teach are honored in the Land Under the Hill," said Gwyn. Under his arm he carried a massive helmet decorated with a stag's antlers. His hunting horn lay across the pommel of his saddle.
Emma boggled. Was Gwyn hitting on Diana? She didn't know faeries did that, exactly. She heard Mark make an exasperated noise.
"Gwyn," he said, "I give you fair greetings. My heart is gladdened to see you."
Emma couldn't help wondering if any of that was true. She knew Mark had complicated feelings for Gwyn. He'd spoken of them sometimes, during the nights in her room, head on his hand. She had a clearer picture of the Wild Hunt now than she'd ever had before, of its delights and horrors, of the strange path Mark had been forced to make for himself between the stars.
"I would that I could say the same," said Gwyn. "I bring dark news from the Unseelie Court. Kieran of your heart--"