Lord of Shadows by Cassandra Clare
"When am I not hungry?" She went over to the table and rooted in her bag for her phone. Several texts from Cristina. Most were about how Cristina was FINE and Emma had NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT and she should STOP TEXTING BECAUSE MAGNUS WAS GOING TO FIX THE BINDING SPELL. Emma sent her a worry face and scrolled down.
"Any word on piskie-catching techniques?" Julian asked.
"Not yet."
Julian didn't say anything. Emma stripped down to her boy shorts and tank top. She saw Julian glance away from her, though it wasn't anything he'd never seen before--her clothes covered more than a bikini. She grabbed up her towel and soap. "I'm going to shower."
Maybe she was imagining his reaction. He just nodded and went over to the kitchen, firing up the stove. "No pancakes," he said. "They don't have the right stuff to make them."
"Surprise me," Emma said, and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, scrubbed clean, her hair tied into two damp braids that dripped onto her T-shirt, Julian had set the table with breakfast--toast, eggs, hot chocolate for her and coffee for him. She slid gratefully onto a chair.
"You smell like eucalyptus," he said, handing her a fork.
"There's eucalyptus shower gel in the bathroom." Emma took a bite of eggs. "Malcolm's, I guess." She paused. "I've never really thought of serial killers as having shower gel."
"No one likes a filthy warlock," said Julian.
Emma winked. "Some might disagree."
"No comment," Julian said, spreading peanut butter and Nutella on his toast. "We got a reply to our question." He held up her phone. "Instructions on how to catch piskies. From Mark, but probably really from Kieran. So first, breakfast, and afterward--piskie hunting."
"I am so ready to hunt down those tiny adorable creatures and give them what for," said Emma. "SO READY."
"Emma . . ."
"I may even tie bows on their heads."
"We have to interrogate them."
"Can I get a selfie with one of them first?"
"Eat your toast, Emma."
*
Everything sucked, Dru thought. She was lying under the desk in the parlor, arms crossed behind her head. A few feet above her she could see where a message, blurred over time and the years, had been scratched into the wood.
It was quiet in the room, only the clock ticking. The quiet was both a reminder of how lonely she was, and a relief. No one was telling her to go take care of Tavvy, or asking her if she'd play demons and Shadowhunters for the millionth time. No one was demanding she deliver messages or ferry papers back and forth in the library. No one was talking over her, and not listening.
No one was telling her she was too young. In Dru's opinion, age was a matter of maturity, not years, and she was plenty mature. She'd been eight years old when she'd defended her little brother's crib with a sword. She'd been eight when she'd seen Julian kill the creature that wore her father's face, when she'd run through the capital city of Idris as it fell apart in flames and blood.
And she'd stayed calm only a few days ago when Livvy had come to tell her that Uncle Arthur had never run the Institute; it had always been Julian. She'd been very matter-of-fact about it, as if it were no big deal, and she'd glossed over the fact that Diana hadn't even bothered to invite Dru to the meeting where she'd apparently broken this news. As far as Livvy was concerned, it seemed, the news was useful primarily for guilting Dru into further babysitting.
It wasn't so much that she hated looking after Tavvy. She didn't. It was more that she felt she deserved some credit when she made an effort. Not to mention, she'd put up with Great-Aunt Marjorie calling her fat for two months over the summer, and she hadn't murdered her, which in Dru's opinion was an epic sign of maturity and self-restraint.
She glanced down at her own round body and sighed. She had never been thin. Most Shadowhunters were--working out for fourteen hours a day tended to have that effect--but she had always been curved and rounded no matter what she did. She was strong and muscular, her body was fit and capable, but she'd always have the hips, breasts, and softness that she did. She was resigned to it. Unfortunately, the Great-Aunt Marjories of the world weren't.
There was a clunk. Something in the room had fallen. Dru froze. Was someone else in here with her? She heard a soft voice swearing--not in English, but in Spanish. It couldn't be Cristina, though. Cristina never swore, and besides, the voice was masculine.
Diego? Her crush-harboring heart skipped a beat, and she popped up from behind the desk.
A yelp of shock burst from her. The other person in the room also yelped, and sat down hard on the arm of the chair.
It wasn't Diego. It was a Shadowhunter boy about Julian's age, tall and rangy, with a shock of black hair that contrasted with his brown skin. He was covered in Marks, and not just Marks but tattoos, too--words ran up and down his forearms and snaked across his collarbone.
"What--what's going on?" Dru demanded, brushing dust bunnies out of her hair. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She thought about screaming. Any Shadowhunter could come into any Institute, of course, but usually they at least rang the bell.
The boy looked alarmed. He held up a hand as if to forestall her, and she saw the gleam of the ring on his finger, carved with a pattern of roses. "I--" he began.
"Oh, you're Jaime," she said, relief going through her in a whoosh. "Diego's brother, Jaime."
The boy's face clouded. "You know my brother?"
He had a slight accent, more noticeable than Diego's or Cristina's. It lent a richness to the texture of his voice.
"Sort of," Dru said, and cleared her throat. "I live in the Los Angeles Institute."
"One of the Blackthorns?"
"I'm Drusilla." She stuck out her hand. "Drusilla Blackthorn. Call me Dru."
He gave a dry sort of chuckle and shook her hand. His was warm. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."
Dru felt herself blush. Jaime wasn't as perfectly handsome as Perfect Diego--his nose was a little too big, his mouth too wide and mobile--but his eyes were a brilliant sparkling brown, his lashes wickedly long and black. And there was something about him, a sort of energy that Diego didn't have, handsome as he was.
"Cristina must have told you terrible things about me," he said.
She shook her head, drawing her hand back. "She hasn't said much about you to me at all."
Cristina wouldn't have, Dru thought. She wouldn't think of Dru as old enough to confide in, to share her secrets with. Dru only knew what the other girls had dropped in casual conversation.
Not that she'd admit that to Jaime.
"That's very disappointing," he said. "If I were her, I wouldn't be able to stop talking about me." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Do you want to sit down?"
Feeling slightly flustered, Dru sat beside him.
"I'm going to confide in you," he said. It seemed like an announcement, as if he'd made up his mind on the spot and felt it was important to publicize as soon as possible.
"Really?" Dru wasn't sure anyone had ever confided in her before. Most of her siblings considered her too young, and Tavvy had no secrets.
"I came here to see Cristina, but she can't know I'm here quite yet. I need to communicate with my brother first."
"Is Diego all right?" Dru said. "The last time I saw him--I mean, I heard he was all right after the fight with Malcolm, but I haven't seen him or heard from him, and he and Cristina--"
She clammed up.
He laughed softly. "It's all right, I know. Ellos terminaron."
"They broke up," she translated. "Yes."
He looked surprised. "You speak Spanish?"
"I'm learning it. I'd like to go to the Mexico City Institute for my travel year, or maybe to Argentina to help rebuild."
She saw his long eyelashes sweep down as he winked. "Not eighteen yet, then?" he said. "It's all right. Neither am I."
Not even close. But Drusilla just smiled nervously. "What were you going to confide?"
&n
"You haven't committed a crime or something, have you?"
He didn't laugh. "If I said no, but I might know who did, would you believe me?"
He was watching her intently. She probably shouldn't help him, she thought. After all, she didn't know him, and from the few things Diego had said about him, it had been clear he thought Jaime was trouble.
On the other hand, here was someone willing to trust her, to put their plans and safety in her hands rather than shutting her out because she was too young, or because she should be looking after Tavvy.
She exhaled and met Jaime's eyes. "All right," she said. "How were you planning on not being seen until you can talk to Cristina?"
His smile was blinding. She wondered how she'd ever thought he wasn't as good-looking as Diego.
"That's where you can help me," he said.
*
Having climbed up the side of the cottage and onto the roof, Emma reached out to help Julian up after her. He declined the hand, though, flipping himself easily up onto the shingled surface.
The roof of Malcolm's cottage was tilted at a slight grade, overhanging the front and back of the house. Emma walked down to the edge of the roof where it protruded over the front door.
From here, the trap was visible. Mark had told them what bait was best: Piskies loved milk and bread and honey. They also loved dead mice, but Emma was unwilling to go that far. She liked mice, despite Church's deep-seated antagonism toward them.
"And now we wait," Julian said, sitting down on the edge of the roof. The bowls of milk and honey and the plate of bread were out, shining temptingly on top of a pile of leaves near the path to the door.
Emma sat down beside Jules. The sky was cloudless blue, stretching away to where it met the darker sea on the horizon. Slow mackerel boats traced white patterns on the sea's surface, and the dull booming roar of the waves was a soft counterpoint to the warm wind.
She couldn't help but be reminded of all the times she and Jules had sat on the roof of the Institute, talking and looking at the ocean. An entirely different shore, perhaps, but all seas were connected.
"I'm sure there's some kind of law about not trapping piskies without permission from the Clave," said Emma.
"Lex malla, lex nulla," said Julian with a regretful wave of his hand. It was the Blackthorn family motto: A bad law is no law.
"I wonder what other family mottoes are," Emma mused. "Do you know any?"
"The Lightwood family motto is 'We mean well.' "
"Very funny."
Julian looked over at her. "No, really, it actually is."
"Seriously? So what's the Herondale family motto? 'Chiseled but angsty'?"
He shrugged. 'If you don't know what your last name is, it's probably Herondale'?"
Emma burst out laughing. "What about Carstairs?" she asked, tapping Cortana. " 'We have a sword'? 'Blunt instruments are for losers'?"
"Morgenstern," offered Julian. " 'When in doubt, start a war'?"
"How about 'Has even one of us ever been any good, like ever, seriously'?"
"Seems long," said Julian. "And kind of on the nose."
They were both giggling almost too hard to talk. Emma bent forward--and gave a gasp, which combined with the giggle into a sort of cough. She slapped her hand over her mouth. "Piskies!" she whispered through her fingers, and pointed.
Julian moved soundlessly to the edge of the roof, Emma beside him. Standing near their trap were a group of scrawny, pallid figures dressed in rags. They had near-translucent skin, pale hair like straw, and bare feet. Huge black pupilless eyes stared from faces as delicate as china.
They looked exactly like the drawings on the wall of the inn where they'd eaten the day before. She hadn't seen a single one in Faerie--indeed, it seemed true that they had been exiled to the mundane world.
Without a word, they fell on the dishes of bread, milk, and honey--and the ground gave way under them. The frail construction of branches and leaves Emma had laid over the mouth of the pit Julian had dug fell away, and the piskies tumbled into their trap.
*
Gwyn made no attempt at small talk as his horse soared through the air over Alicante and then the woods of Brocelind Forest. Diana was grateful for it. With the wind in her hair, cool and soft, and the forest spread out below her in deep green shadow, she felt freer than she had in what seemed like a long time. Talking would have been a distraction.
Dawn gave way to daylight as she watched the world rushing by under her: the sudden flash of water, the graceful shapes of fir trees and white pine. When Gwyn pointed the horse's head downward, and it began to descend, she felt a pang of disappointment and a sudden flash of kinship with Mark. No wonder he had missed the Hunt; no wonder that even when he was back with his family, he had yearned for the sky.
They landed in a small clearing between linden trees. Gwyn slid from the horse's back and offered Diana his hand to clamber down to the ground: The thick green moss was soft on her bare feet. She wandered among the white flowers and admired the blue sky while he spread out a linen cloth and food unpacked from his saddlebag.
She couldn't quite hold back the urge to laugh--here she was, Diana Wrayburn, of the law-abiding and respectable Wrayburn family, about to have a picnic with the leader of the Wild Hunt.
"Come," he said, when he was done and seated on the ground. His horse had wandered off to crop grass at the edge of the clearing. "You must be hungry."
To Diana's surprise, she found she was--and hungrier when she tasted the food: delicious fruit, cured meat, thick bread and honey, and glasses of wine that tasted the way rubies looked.
Maybe it was the wine, but she found that Gwyn, despite his quiet nature, was easy to talk to. He asked her about herself, though not her past; her passions instead, her interests and her dreams. She found herself telling him of her love for teaching, how she wished to teach at the Academy someday. He asked her about the Blackthorns, and how Mark was settling in, and nodded gravely at her answers.
He was not beautiful in the manner of many faeries, but she found his face more pleasing for it. His hair was thick and brown, his hands wide and capable and strong. There were scars on his skin--at his neck and chest, and on the backs of his palms--but that made her think of her own scars and Shadowhunting. It was comforting in its familiarity.
"Why are there no women in the Wild Hunt?" she asked. It was something she had always wondered.
"Women are too savage," he said with a grin. "We reap the dead. It was discovered that when Rhiannon's Ladies ran with the Hunt, they were unwilling to wait until the dead were dead."
Diana laughed. "Rhiannon. The name is familiar."
"The women left the hunt and became Adar Rhiannon. The Birds of Rhiannon. Some call them 'Valkyrie.' "
She smiled at him sadly. "Faerie can be so lovely," she said. "And yet also terrible."
"You are thinking of Mark?"
"Mark loves his family," she said. "And they are happy to have him back. But he does miss the Hunt. Which is hard to understand sometimes. When he came to us, he was so scarred, in body and mind."
"Many Shadowhunters are scarred," he said. "That does not mean they no longer wish to be Shadowhunters."
"I'm not sure it's the same."
"I am not sure it is so different." He leaned back against a large gray boulder. "Mark was a fine Hunter, but his heart was not in it. It is not the Hunt he misses, but the freedom and the open sky, and perhaps Kieran."
"You knew they had fought," said Diana. "But when you came to us, you were so sure Mark would save him."
"Shadowhunters desire to save everyone. And more so when there is love."
"You think Mark still loves Kieran?"
"I think you cannot root out love entirely. I think where there has been love, there will always be embers, as the remains of a bonfire outlast the flame."
&nbs
Gwyn sat forward. His eyes, blue and black, were grave on hers. "Have you ever loved?"
She shook her head. She could feel the shaking all through her nerves--the anticipation, and the fear. "Not like that." She should tell him why, she thought. But the words didn't come.
"That is a shame," he said. "I think to be loved by you would be a tremendous honor."
"You barely know me at all," Diana said. I shouldn't be affected by his words. I shouldn't want this. But she did, in a way she had tried to bury long ago.
"I saw who you are in your eyes the night I came to the Institute," said Gwyn. "Your bravery."
"Bravery," echoed Diana. "The kind that kills demons, yes. Yet there are many kinds of bravery."
His deep eyes flashed. "Diana--"
But she was on her feet, walking to the edge of the glade, more for the relief of movement than anything else. Gwyn's horse whinnied as she neared it, backing away.
"Be careful," Gwyn said. He had risen, but was not following her. "My Wild Hunt horses can be uneasy around women. They have little experience with them."
Diana paused for a moment, then stepped around the horse, giving it a wide berth. As she neared the edge of the wood, she caught a flash of something pale out of the corner of her eye.
She moved closer, realizing suddenly how vulnerable she was, here in the open without her weapons, wearing only pajamas. How had she agreed to this? What had Gwyn said to convince her?
I saw who you are.
She pushed the words to the back of her mind, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the slender trunk of a linden. Her eyes saw before her mind could process: a bizarre sight, a circle of blasted nothingness in the center of Brocelind. Land like ash, trees burned to stumps, as if acid had charred away everything living.
"By the Angel," she whispered.
"It is blight." Gwyn spoke from behind her, his big shoulders taut with tension, his jaw set. "I have seen this before only in Faerie. It is the mark of a great dark magic."
There were burned places, white as ash, like the surface of the moon.
Diana gripped the tree trunk harder. "Take me back," she said. "I need to return to Alicante."
21
THE EYE UNCLOSED