Queen of Air and Darkness Page 8

  Kit vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched with sadness.

  “Livvy’s necklace,” he said. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would . . .”

  “Cry?” Ty didn’t look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. “Everybody is supposed to be sad. But that’s because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don’t. I don’t accept it.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to get her back,” said Ty.

  Kit sat down heavily on the windowsill. “How are you going to do that?”

  Ty let go of the necklace and took his phone out of his pocket. “These were on Julian’s phone,” he said. “He took them when he was in the library with Annabel. They’re photos of the pages of the Black Volume of the Dead.”

  “When did you get these?” Kit knew texting didn’t work in Idris. “Does Julian know you have them?”

  “I set up his phone so it would back up to mine. I guess he didn’t realize. Then when I saw these in London, I—” Ty gave Kit a worried frown. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Will you come and sit down next to me so you can see them?”

  Kit wanted to say no; he couldn’t say it. He wanted this not to be happening, but it was. When he sat down next to Ty on the bed, the mattress sagged, and he knocked against Ty’s elbow accidentally. Ty’s skin felt hot against his even through his T-shirt, as if the other boy had a fever.

  It never crossed his mind that Ty was lying or wrong, and he didn’t seem to be either. After fifteen years with Johnny Rook, Kit was pretty familiar with what bad spell books were like, and this one looked decidedly evil. Spells in cramped handwriting littered the pages, along with creepy sketches of corpses crawling out of the grave, screaming faces, and charred skeletons.

  Ty wasn’t looking at the photos like they were creepy, though; he was looking at them like they were the Holy Grail. “This is the most powerful spell book for bringing back the dead that’s ever existed,” he said. “That’s why it didn’t matter if they burned Livvy’s body. With spells like these, she can be brought back whole no matter what happened to her, no matter how long—” He broke off with a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to wait. I want to start as soon as we get back to Los Angeles.”

  “Didn’t Malcolm kill a lot of people to bring Annabel back?” said Kit.

  “Correlation, not causation, Watson,” said Ty. “The simplest way to do necromancy is with death energy. Life for death, basically. But there are other sources of energy. I would never kill anyone.” He made a face that was probably supposed to be scornful but was actually just cute.

  “I don’t think Livvy would want you to do necromancy,” Kit said.

  Ty put his phone away. “I don’t think Livvy would want to be dead.”

  Kit felt the words like a punch to the chest, but before he could reply, there was a commotion downstairs. He and Ty ran to the top of the stairwell, Ty in his stocking feet, and looked down into the kitchen.

  Zara Dearborn’s Spanish friend Manuel was there, wearing the uniform of a Gard officer and a smirk. Kit leaned forward more to see who he was talking to. He caught sight of Julian leaning against the kitchen table, his face expressionless. The others were ranged around the kitchen—Emma looked furious, and Cristina had her hand on the other girl’s arm as if to hold her back.

  “Really?” Helen said furiously. “You couldn’t wait until the day after our sister’s funeral to drag Emma and Jules to the Gard?”

  Manuel shrugged, clearly indifferent. “It has to be now,” he said. “The Consul insists.”

  “What’s going on?” Aline said. “You’re talking about my mother, Manuel. She wouldn’t just demand to see them without a good reason.”

  “It’s about the Mortal Sword,” Manuel said. “Is that a good enough reason for all of you?”

  Ty tugged on Kit’s arm, pulling him away from the stairs. They moved down the upstairs hallway, the voices in the kitchen receding but still urgent.

  “Do you think they’ll go?” Kit said.

  “Emma and Jules? They have to. The Consul’s asking,” said Ty. “But it’s her, not the Inquisitor, so it’ll be all right.” He leaned in toward Kit, whose back was against the wall; he smelled like a campfire. “I can do this without you. Bring back Livvy, I mean,” he said. “But I don’t want to. Sherlock doesn’t do things without Watson.”

  “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No.” Ty had pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands and was worrying at the fabric with his fingers. “I know it has to be a secret. People wouldn’t like it, but when Livvy comes back, they’ll be happy and they won’t care.”

  “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Kit said, feeling dazed.

  “Yes.” Ty wasn’t looking directly at Kit—he never did—but his eyes lit up hopefully; in the dim light of the hallway, the gray in them was so pale it looked like tears. Kit thought of Ty sleeping, how he’d slept the whole day of Livvy’s death and into the night, and the way Kit had watched him sleep in terror of what would happen when he awoke.

  Everyone had been terrified. Ty would fall apart, they’d thought. Kit remembered Julian standing over Ty as he slept, one hand stroking his brother’s hair, and he’d been praying—Kit didn’t even know Shadowhunters prayed, but Julian definitely had been. Ty would crumble in a world without his sister, they’d all thought; he’d fall away to ashes just like Livvy’s body.

  And now he was asking Kit for this, saying he didn’t want to do it without him, and what if Kit said no and Ty crumbled from the pressure of trying to do it alone? What if Kit took away his last hope and he fell apart because of it?

  “You need me?” Kit asked slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” Kit said, knowing already that he was making a huge mistake, “I’ll help you.”

  * * *

  It was cold in the Scholomance, even during the summer. The school had been carved into a mountainside, with long windows running all along the cliff face. They provided light, as did the witchlight chandeliers in nearly every room, but no warmth. The chill of the lake below, deep and black in the moonlight, seemed to have seeped into the stone of the walls and floor and to radiate outward, which was why, even in early September, Diego Rocio Rosales was wearing a thick sweater and coat over his jeans.

  Dusty witchlight sconces cast his shadow long and thin in front of him as he hurried down the hallway toward the library. In his opinion, the Scholomance was direly in need of an update. The one time his brother Jaime had ever visited the school, he’d said it looked as if it had been decorated by Dracula. This was unfortunately true. Everywhere there were iron chandeliers (which made Kieran sneeze), bronze dragon-shaped sconces holding ancient witchlight stones, and cavernous stone fireplaces with huge carved angels standing forbiddingly on either side. Communal meals were taken at a long table that could have accommodated the population of Belgium, though at the moment there were less than twenty people in residence at the school. Most of the teachers and students were either at home or in Idris.

  Which made it much easier for Diego to hide a faerie prince on the premises. He’d been nervous about the idea of concealing Kieran at the Scholomance—he wasn’t a good liar at the best of times, and the effort of maintaining a “relationship” with Zara had worn him down already. But Cristina had asked him to hide Kieran, and he would have done anything for Cristina.

  He’d reached the end of the corridor, where the door to the library was. Long ago the word “Biblioteca” had adorned the door in gold lettering. Now only the outlines of the letters remained, and the hinges squeaked like distressed mice when Diego shoved the door open.

  The first time he’d been shown the library, he’d thought it was a prank. A massive room, it was on the top floor of the Scholomance, where the roof was
made of thick glass and light filtered down through it. During the time that the school had been deserted, massive trees had taken root in the dirt beneath the floor: Kieran had commented that they seemed to have the strength of faerie oaks. No one had had the time or money to remove them. They remained, surrounded by the dust of broken stone; their roots had cracked the floor and snaked among the chairs and shelves. Branches spread out wide above, forming a canopy over the bookshelves, dusting the seats and floors with fallen leaves.

  Sometimes Diego wondered if Kieran liked it in here because it reminded him of a forest. He certainly spent most of his time in a window seat, somewhat grimly reading everything in the section on faeries. He had made a pile of books he considered accurate. The pile was small.

  He glanced over as Diego came in. His hair was blue-black, the color of the lake outside the window. He had put two books into his accurate pile and was reading a third: Mating Habits of the Unseelie.

  “I do not know anyone in Faerie who has married a goat,” he said irritably. “In either the Seelie or the Unseelie Court.”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Diego said. He pulled a chair over and sat down facing Kieran. He could see them both reflected in the window. Kieran’s bony wrists stuck out below the sleeves of his borrowed uniform. Diego’s clothes had all been too big for him, so Rayan Maduabuchi had offered to lend Kieran some—he didn’t seem bothered that Diego was hiding a faerie in his room, but nothing much ruffled the surface of Rayan’s calm. Divya, on the other hand, Diego’s other best friend at the school, leaped nervously into the air every time anyone mentioned they were going to the library, despite Kieran’s uncanny ability to hide himself.

  Divya and Rayan were the only people Diego had told about Kieran, mostly because they were the only people currently at the Scholomance that he trusted. There was only one professor in residence—Professor Gladstone, who was currently in Idris for the Inquisitor’s funeral. Besides, while there’d been a time that Diego would have trusted a professor without a second thought, that time was past.

  “Have you heard anything from Idris?” said Kieran, looking down at his book.

  “You mean Mark,” said Diego, “and I haven’t heard anything from him. I am not his favorite person.”

  Kieran glanced up. “Are you anyone’s?” Somehow he managed to ask it as if it weren’t an insulting question, but something he merely wished to know.

  Diego, who sometimes wondered the same thing himself, didn’t answer.

  “I thought you might have heard from Cristina.” Kieran closed the book, marking his place with his finger. “About whether she is all right, and Mark—I thought the funerals were today.”

  “They were,” Diego said. He also thought he might have heard from Cristina; he knew she’d been fond of Livia Blackthorn. “But funerals for us are very busy times. There is a great deal of ceremony, and a lot of people who visit and express condolences. She might not have much time.”

  Kieran looked pained. “That seems as if it would be annoying. In Faerie we know to leave those who are grieving to themselves.”

  “It’s annoying, but also not,” Diego said. He thought of the death of his grandfather, how the house had been full of velas, candles that burned with a beautiful light. How visitors had come and brought gifts of food, and they had eaten and drunk together and remembered his abuelo. Everywhere there had been marigolds and the cinnamon smell of atole and the sound of laughter.

  It seemed cold to him, and lonely, to grieve by yourself. But faeries were different.

  Kieran’s eyes sharpened, as if he had seen something revealing in Diego’s expression. “Is there a plan for me?” he asked. “Where am I to be sent, when my time hiding here is over?”

  “I had thought you might want to return to Los Angeles,” said Diego, surprised.

  Kieran shook his head. Locks of his hair had turned white; his hair color seemed to change with his mood. “No. I will not go back to where Mark is.”

  Diego was silent—he hadn’t really had a plan. Cristina had asked him to hide Kieran but had never said for how long. He had wanted to do this for her because he knew he owed her; he had thought of Zara—had remembered the hurt on Cristina’s face when she’d first met Zara.

  It had been his fault. He hadn’t told her about Zara because he’d been desperately hoping something would happen that would get him out of the engagement before it was necessary. It was the Dearborns who had insisted on the marriage contract. They had threatened to expose the Rocio Rosales family’s secrets if Diego didn’t do something to prove to them that he was truthful when he said he didn’t know where his brother was and didn’t know where the artifact was that Jaime had taken.

  There had never been a question of him loving Zara, nor of her loving him. She seemed to feel it was a feather in her cap to be engaged to the son of an important family, but there was no passion in her except passion for the horrible causes her father espoused.

  Kieran’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  That was a bright light, like a will-o’-the-wisp, over Diego’s shoulder. A fire-message. He caught it out of the air and the paper unrolled in his hand: He recognized the handwriting immediately. “Cristina,” he said. “It’s a message from Cristina.”

  Kieran sat up so fast the book tumbled out of his lap to the floor. “Cristina? What does she say? Is she all right?”

  Odd, Diego thought; he would have imagined Kieran would have asked if Mark was all right. But the thought flew from his mind almost immediately, scrawled over by the words he was reading.

  Feeling as if he had been kicked in the gut, Diego handed the message over to Kieran and watched the other boy turn ashen as he read that Horace Dearborn had been made the new Inquisitor.

  “This is a slap in the Blackthorns’ face,” said Kieran, his hand shaking. “They will be heartbroken, as will Cristina. And he is a dangerous man. A deadly man.” He looked up at Diego, his eyes night black and storm gray. “What can we do?”

  “It is clear I know nothing of people,” Diego said, thinking of Zara, of Jaime, of all the lies he had told and how none of them had accomplished what he had wanted, but had only made everything worse. “No one should ask me how to solve anything.”

  As Kieran looked at him, astonished, he dropped his face into his hands.

  * * *

  “I know these words must seem empty at this point,” said Jia, “but I’m so sorry about Livia.”

  “You’re right,” Julian said. “They do.”

  It was as if grief had plunged Julian into a bath of ice, Emma thought. Everything about him was cold—his eyes, his expression, the tone of his voice. She tried to remember the boy who’d clung to her with such passion the night before, but it felt a million miles away.

  It was late afternoon, and the demon towers were strung across the skyline of Alicante like a row of jagged diamonds. Emma looked around, remembering the last time she’d been in this room—she’d been twelve, and she’d been so impressed at how plush it was, with thick rugs underfoot and a desk of gleaming mahogany. She, Julian, and Diana were all seated in wingback armchairs before Jia’s desk. Diana looked furious. Julian just looked blank.

  “These kids are tired and grief-stricken,” Diana said. “I respect your judgment, Jia, but does this have to be now?”

  “It does,” she said, “because Horace Dearborn wants to interrogate Helen and Mark, and any other Downworlders or part Downworlders in Alicante. Magnus and Alec are already packing their things to Portal out tonight. Evelyn Highsmith returned to the London Institute, so they can go home to New York.” Jia pressed her fingers against her forehead. “I would have thought you would have wanted Helen and Mark to leave as well.”

  “He wants to what?” Emma sat up straight, indignant. “You can’t let him.”

  “I don’t have a choice. He was elected by a majority vote.” Jia frowned. “Interrogating people is what the Inquisitor does—the decision is at his discretion.”


  “Horace Dearborn has no discretion,” said Diana.

  “Which is why I’m giving you advance notice,” said Jia. “I suggest that Helen and Mark—and Aline, since she won’t leave Helen—be Portaled to Los Angeles tonight.”

  There was a moment of silence. “You’re offering to send Helen to Los Angeles?” said Julian finally. “Not Wrangel Island?”

  “I’m suggesting Helen and Aline temporarily run the Los Angeles Institute,” said Jia, and Emma actually felt her mouth fall open. “As the Consul, that is within my power, and I believe I can make it happen now, while Dearborn is distracted.”

  “So you’re saying we should all Portal back?” Emma said. “And Helen and Aline can come with us? That’s great, that’s—”

  “She doesn’t mean all of us,” said Julian. His hands were both bandaged. He’d gotten most of the splinters out himself, with the tip of a sharp knife, and there was blood on the bandages. He didn’t seem to have felt it—Emma had felt the pain herself, watching his skin split under the blade, but he had never wavered. “She means Diana, you, and I are going to stay here, in Idris.”

  “You’ve always been clever, Julian,” said Jia, although not as if she admired the quality all that much.

  “If Helen and Mark aren’t here, he’ll interrogate us,” said Julian. “Isn’t that true?”

  “No,” Diana said sharply. “They’re children.”

  “Yes,” said Jia. “And one of them broke the Mortal Sword. The Inquisitor, like everyone else, is desperate to know how. Cortana is a legendary sword, but still just a sword. It should not have been able to shatter Maellartach.”

  “He can ask me, but I don’t know why it was broken,” Emma said. “I swung at Annabel because she was trying to kill me. It was self-defense—”

  “People are terrified. And fear isn’t logical,” said Jia. “Thank the Angel that the Cup and Mirror are unaffected.” She sighed. “This was the worst possible time for the Mortal Sword to be broken, at a time of serious instability and on the eve of a possible war with faeries. And after the Unseelie King snatched Annabel from the Council Hall—don’t you understand how aware the Clave is that you brought her here?”