Queen of Air and Darkness Page 19

  “I’m still not saying it. I’m never going to say it,” said Kit.

  “What is it?” Ty demanded.

  “Just let us in,” said Kit. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  Hale barked a laugh. “You don’t want trouble? You two? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know what kind of mayhem you caused in London? You wrecked property, attacked vendors, and you”—he pointed at Ty—“destroyed a great deal of fey stock. I hate you both. Go away.”

  “Hear me out,” Kit said. “Remember when that faerie burned half the Market down and was welcomed back the next year because she had a bumper crop of hen’s teeth? Remember the werewolf and the llama and how that turned out? And he wasn’t banned, because he had a line on a supply of yin fen.”

  “What’s your point?” said Hale. He sighed. “God, I wish I had a cigar. Had to quit.”

  “The spirit of the Market is simple,” said Kit. “Everything’s okay as long as you make a profit. Right?”

  “Sure,” said Hale. “And that’s why we tolerated Johnny Rook. We tolerated you because the Shadowhunters hadn’t found you yet. But now they have and it’s a hop, skip, and a jump until you find out who you really are—”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ty. The wind had picked up and was blowing his dark hair like streamers.

  “Nothing for free,” Hale said, with the annoyance of a man who’d said too much, and who also wanted a cigar and couldn’t have one. “Besides, your money is no good here, Rook.” He waved a hand in Ty’s direction. “I might be able to get something in exchange for your skinny friend in the right circles, but not enough.”

  “Theoretically, how much?” asked Ty with interest.

  Hale looked grim. “Not as good a price as I could get for Emma Carstairs—even more for just her head.”

  Ty blanched. Kit felt it, Ty’s recollection that the Market was, in fact, truly dangerous. That it was all truly dangerous.

  Kit felt the situation was getting away from him. “No heads. Look, my father didn’t trust anyone, Mr. Hale. You know that. He hid his most precious items all over Los Angeles, buried in places he thought no one would ever find them.”

  “I’m listening,” said Hale.

  Kit knew this was the risky part. “One is right here in the Shadow Market. A ruby-encrusted copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic.”

  The phouka whistled, long and low.

  “Not only will I give it to you, I’ll give it to you for free,” said Kit. “All you have to do is let us back into the Shadow Market. Free trade.”

  Hale shook his head in regret. “Now I really wish I had a cigar, so I could celebrate,” he said. “I already found that, you stupid brat. We dug up your dad’s stall after the Mantids killed him.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The moonlight seemed to bounce off his white, scaled skin. “You’re out of your depth, kids. Get out of Downworld before someone kills you. That person could even be me.”

  A forked tongue shot from between his teeth and licked his lips. Kit started back, revolted, as Hale melted into the Market and was swallowed up by the crowds.

  Kit couldn’t look at Ty. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, shock and shame warring for an equal chance to turn his stomach. “I . . . ,” he began.

  “You should have just given the password,” said the phouka.

  Out of patience, Kit slowly raised his middle finger. “Here’s the password.”

  Ty muffled a laugh and grabbed Kit’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  “I am proud to announce,” said Horace Dearborn, “that the proposed Downworld Registry is ready to become a reality.”

  The sound that went through the rows of Nephilim seated in the Council Hall was hard to decipher. To Diana it sounded like the roar of an animal driving another hungry beast away from its prey.

  Horace stood with his hands folded behind his back, a toneless smirk on his face. At his left stood Zara, in full Centurion regalia, her hair braided in a crown around her head. At his right was Manuel, his expression carefully blank, his eyes dancing with malice. They looked like a horrible mockery of a family portrait.

  “All Institutes will have a short amount of time to register their local Downworlders,” said Horace. “The heads of Institutes must meet a quota of registrations, based on our knowledge of local Downworld populations, in the first weeks this Law takes effect.”

  Diana sat, letting the words wash over her in waves of horror. She couldn’t help but look at Jia, who occupied a tall wooden seat at the edge of the dais. Her face was a strained mask. Diana couldn’t help but wonder if this was more extreme even than what Jia had feared Horace might propose.

  “And if Downworlders refuse?” called someone from the audience.

  “Then they will have their protections under the Accords stripped from them,” Zara said, and Diana went cold all over. No Accords protection meant a Shadowhunter could kill a Downworlder in the street for no reason, and there would be no consequences. “We understand this will be a great burden of work on Institutes, but it is important that everyone cooperate, for the good of all Shadowhunters.”

  “Each Downworlder registered will be given a number,” said Horace. “If a Downworlder is stopped by a Shadowhunter for any reason, anywhere, they can be asked for this number.”

  The noise in the room was decidedly more worried now.

  “Think of it as a sort of identification card,” said Manuel. “Safety and accountability are two of our chief concerns.”

  “I want to hear from the Consul!” shouted Carmen Delgado Mendoza, head of the Mexico City Institute, from the audience. She was Cristina’s mother, and looked more than a little bit like her daughter.

  Horace looked annoyed; technically, as the one proposing a new Law, he had the floor and could speak for a certain number of minutes uninterrupted. Diana felt that he had already been speaking for several years.

  He gestured ungraciously toward Jia, who gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “It is my opinion that this Law is not a good idea,” she said. “Downworlders will resist what they will see to be a major overreach on the part of the Nephilim. It establishes an atmosphere of mistrust.”

  “That’s because we don’t trust them,” said Manuel. There was a gale of laughter from the back of the room.

  Diana could stand it no longer. She rose to her feet. “I have a question for the Inquisitor!”

  Horace looked at her with hooded eyes. “We will take questions and comments later, Diana.”

  Diana didn’t like the emphasis he put on her name. As if he found it distasteful. Probably Zara had told her father a pack of lies about Diana; Diana had once humiliated Zara in front of her fellow Centurions. Narcissists like Zara didn’t forget insults.

  “Let her speak,” said Jia. “Everyone on the Council has a voice.”

  Intensely aware of the eyes on her, Diana said, “This may seem like a small action, but it’s not going to seem small to Downworlders. It will have repercussions. Even if the Registry is temporary, there will always be reasons to continue it. It is far harder to dismantle this sort of structure than it is to build it. We could face a situation where Downworlders insist that Shadowhunters also be registered, for parity. Are you prepared to have Nephilim carry their papers everywhere with them?”

  This had the desired effect. The Council burst into angry buzzing. “No! Never!” Dearborn snapped.

  “Then this effectively creates an underclass of Downworlders,” said Diana. “We will have rights that they don’t. Think about that.”

  “And why are you so bothered by that idea, Diana Wrayburn?” said Manuel in his soft, charming voice. His eyes glittered like marbles. “Is there a Downworlder, perhaps dear to you, that you worry will be affected?”

  “Many Shadowhunters have Downworlders that are dear to them,” said Diana evenly. “You cannot cleanly sever us from a group of human beings who h
ave more in common with us than mundanes do.”

  Diana knew the answer to that: We’re not afraid of mundanes. It’s Downworlders we fear, and we seek to control what we fear. But it was unlikely Horace had that kind of self-awareness. He glared at her with open loathing as she took her seat.

  “This is clearly a complex issue,” said Jia, rising to her feet. “I suggest we stay this vote for a week until the Council has had time to come to terms with all its ramifications.”

  Horace transferred his glare to her, but said nothing. The Council was now a hum of relief, and even Horace Dearborn knew better than to fly directly in the face of popular opinion during a vote. He stayed on the dais as the meeting was dismissed, his supporters flocking around him in a thick crowd.

  Feeling inexpressibly weary, Diana made for one of the exits. She felt as if she had been called to witness a bloody execution only to see the victim spared for a week. Relief mixed with fear of what the future would bring.

  “Diana!” said a light, accented voice behind her. Diana turned to see one of the women from the Barcelona Institute—Trini Castel—approach her. She put a birdlike hand on Diana’s arm.

  “I was inspired by what you said, Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “You are correct that rights—anyone’s rights—are not to be discarded lightly.”

  “Thank you,” said Diana, more than a little surprised. Trini Castel gave her a quick smile and scurried away, leaving Diana with a clear view of the dais.

  Zara stood at its edge, her gaze fixed on Diana. In the pale light filtering through the window, the naked hatred on her face—far more than anyone might feel over a past insult—was clear as day. Shuddering, Diana turned and hurried from the Hall.

  * * *

  Catarina’s suspicious confluence of ley lines turned out to be in a small desert park near the Antelope Valley Freeway, famous for its massive sandstone formations. Both Helen and Aline seemed faintly surprised that Mark and Cristina were planning to go out on patrol, but they hadn’t done anything to stop them, as if they reluctantly acknowledged that patrolling was a normal part of Shadowhunter life, and the sooner everyone got back to normal life, the better.

  The drive from Malibu—they’d taken Diana’s truck, which had been left in the parking lot of the Institute—reminded Cristina of long ambling road trips she’d taken with Emma. Windows down in the truck, music playing low on the speakers, beach turning to highway turning to desert as the sun went down in a haze of fire. Mark had his long legs up on the dashboard and would sometimes turn his head to look at her as they rolled along in silence; the weight of his gaze felt like skin against her skin. Like a touch.

  The Vasquez Rocks park closed at sunset, and the dirt parking lot was empty when Cristina cruised the truck into it and turned off the engine. They collected their weapons from the bed of the truck, snapping on wrist protectors and buckling weapons belts. Cristina strapped a longsword and her trusted balisong to her belt, while Mark found a runed black whip and cracked it a few times. He wore a look of pleasure on his face as it snaked across the darkening sky.

  They had runed themselves before they left. Cristina could see Mark’s Night Vision rune gleaming black against his throat as they passed under the lights of the ranger station and crossed onto a dirt path that wound through scrub among rocks that twisted and folded like envelopes.

  Cristina breathed deeply. Of all the things she loved about California, she loved the scent of the desert the most: clear air mixed with juniper, manzanita, and sage. The sky opened above them like a secret told, scattered with a million stars.

  They passed a wooden sign for a trail just as a massive rock formation rose ahead of them, nearly blocking out the moon. “The ley line confluence,” Mark said, pointing.

  Cristina didn’t ask him how he knew; faeries had a sense for such things. They moved closer to the rocks, which rose above them in tilted slabs, like the remains of a spaceship that had crashed into the sand. Cristina’s boots crunched on the sand, the sound loud in her ears thanks to her Audio rune.

  A sharp, insect-like sound buzzed behind her. She turned. Mark was frowning at the Sensor in his hand. “It’s making a buzzing noise, but not one I’ve heard before,” he said.

  Cristina turned around slowly. The desert stretched around her, a carpet of black and brown and dim gold. The sky was dark velvet. “I don’t see anything.”

  “We should wait here,” said Mark. “See if it happens again.”

  Cristina was in no mood to hang around under the romantic moon with Mark. “I think we should keep moving.”

  “Cristina,” Mark said. “You seem wroth with me.”

  Cristina rolled her eyes. “Nothing gets by you, Mark Blackthorn.”

  Mark lowered the Sensor. “Last night—It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I did want to—”

  Cristina blushed furiously. “It’s not that, Mark,” she said. “You can want to or not want to. It’s your business. It was that you lied.”

  “Humans lie,” he said, his bicolored eyes suddenly blazing. “Mortals lie to each other every day, especially in matters of love. Is it that my lie wasn’t good enough? Should I be more practiced?”

  “No!” She whirled on him. “I like that you don’t lie, Mark. It is why I was so—Mark, can’t you understand? I didn’t expect you to lie to me.”

  “You saw me lie to Kieran,” he said.

  “Yes, but that was to save lives,” she said. “Unless you’re telling me that you not wanting to have sex with me has something to do with saving lives, which I find hard to believe—”

  “I did want to!” Mark exploded. “One thing you must understand—I did want to be with you in that way, and all ways, and that is not a lie.”

  Cristina sank down on a low rock. Her heart was pounding. And she’d just said the word “sex,” which horribly embarrassed her. “Then I don’t understand why you did it,” she said in a small voice. “Were you trying to spare someone? Kieran?”

  “I was trying to spare you,” he said, his voice dark and hard, like late-winter ice.

  “Spare me what?”

  “You know who you are!” he cried, startling her. She looked up at him, not understanding—it was not as if she were a stranger, to him or to anyone. What did he mean? “Kieran called you a princess of the Nephilim, and rightly,” he said. The moon was out fully, and the silver-white light illuminated his hair like a halo. It illuminated his eyes, too—wide and gold and blue and full of pain. “You are one of the best examples of our people I have ever known—shining, righteous, virtuous. You are all the good things I can think of, and all the things I would like to be and know I never can. I do not want you to do anything that later you would regret. I do not want you to later realize how far down from your standards you reached, when you reached for me.”

  “Mark!” She bolted up from the rock and went over to him. She heard a thump as something hit the ground, and threw her arms around Mark, hugging him tightly.

  For a moment he held himself stiff and frozen. Then he softened against her, his arms encircling her body, his lips brushing her cheek, the soft curls of her hair that had escaped from her braid.

  “Cristina,” he whispered.

  She drew back enough to touch his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his cheekbones. His skin had that impossible faerie smoothness that came from never having needed the touch of a razor. “Mark Blackthorn,” she said, and shivered deep in her bones at the look in his eyes. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you. You are so many things I never thought to want, but I do want them. I want all things with you.”

  His arms tightened around her; he gathered her to him as if he were gathering an armful of flowers. His lips skated along her cheek, her jawline; at last their mouths met, burning hot in the cold air, and Cristina gave a little gasp at the desire that shot through her, sharp as an arrowhead.

  He tasted like honey and faerie wine. They staggered backward, fetching up against a rock pile. Mark’s hands were on he
r gear jacket; he was undoing it, sliding his hands inside, under her shirt, as if desperate for the touch of her skin. He murmured words like “beautiful” and “perfect” and she smiled and swiped her tongue slowly across his bottom lip, making him gasp as if she had stabbed him. He groaned helplessly and pulled her tighter.

  The Sensor buzzed, loud and long.

  They sprang apart, gasping. Cristina zipped her jacket with shaking hands as Mark bent awkwardly to seize the Sensor. It buzzed again and they both whirled, staring.

  “No mames,” she whispered. The buzzer made another, insistent noise, and something hit her hard from the side.

  It was Mark. He’d knocked her to the ground; they both rolled sideways over the bumpy, pitted earth as something massive and shadowy rose above them. Black wings spread like ragged shadows. Cristina shoved herself up on her elbow, yanked a runed dagger from her belt, and flung it.

  There was a cawing scream. Witchlight lit the sky; Mark was on his knees, a rune-stone in his hand. Above them a massive white-faced demon trailing feathers like a shadowy cloak of rags flapped its wings; the hilt of Cristina’s dagger protruded from its chest. Its outline was already beginning to blur as it screeched again, clawing at the hilt with a taloned claw, before folding up like paper and vanishing.

  “Harpyia demon,” said Mark, leaping to his feet. He reached down to help Cristina up after him. “Probably hiding in the rocks. That’s why the Sensor didn’t pick it up well.”

  “We should go.” Cristina glanced around. “Judging by the Sensor, there are more.”

  They began to jog toward the dirt trail, Cristina glancing back over her shoulder to see if anything was following them.

  “I just want to make it clear that I did not engineer the interruption of the Harpyia demon,” Mark said, “and was indeed eager to continue with our sexual congress.”

  Cristina sighed. “Good to know.” She cut sideways through some low sagebrush. In the far distance, she could see the metal gleam of the parked truck.

  Mark’s footsteps slowed. “Cristina. Look.”