Lady Midnight
Page 114
Mark’s gaze scanned over the others—Emma, then Cristina—and lit on Diego. Diego looked puzzled at the intensity of his gaze. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Diego,” said Emma. “Diego Rocio Rosales.”
“Perfect Diego?” said Mark, sounding incredulous.
Diego looked even more puzzled. Before he could say anything, Cristina dropped to the ground, clutching at her leg. “I need,” she said, a little breathlessly, “another iratze—”
Diego lifted her up into his arms and ran up the stairs, ignoring her protests that she could walk. “I must get her inside,” he said, pushing past Julian and then Mark. “You have an infirmary?”
“Of course,” Julian said. “Second floor—”
“Cristina!” Emma called, running up the stairs after them, but they had already disappeared inside.
“She’ll be fine,” Malcolm said. “Better not to chase after them and frighten the kids.”
“How are the kids?” Emma asked anxiously. “Ty, Dru—”
“They’re all fine,” Mark said. “I was looking after them.”
“And Arthur?”
“Didn’t even seem to notice anything was happening,” said Mark with a quizzical look. “It was odd—”
Emma turned to Julian. “It is odd,” she said. “Julian, what did Belinda mean? When she said she knew who really ran the Institute?”
Julian shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Malcolm exhaled an exasperated breath. “Jules,” he said. “Tell her.”
Julian looked exhausted—more than exhausted. Emma had read somewhere that people drowned when they became too tired to keep themselves afloat any longer. They gave up and let the sea take them. Julian looked that tired now. “Malcolm, don’t,” he whispered.
“Can you even remember all the lies you’ve told?” Malcolm asked, and there was none of his usual insouciance in his look. His eyes were hard as amethyst. “You didn’t tell me about your brother’s return—”
“Oh—Mark!” Emma exclaimed, realizing suddenly that of course Malcolm hadn’t known before tonight that he was in the Institute. Quickly, she put her hand over her mouth. Mark raised an eyebrow at her. He seemed remarkably calm.
“You concealed it,” Malcolm went on, “knowing that I would realize it meant faerie involvement in these murders, and that I would know I might be breaking the Cold Peace by helping you.”
“You couldn’t break it if you didn’t know,” Julian said. “I was protecting you, too.”
“Maybe,” said Malcolm. “But I’ve had enough. Tell them the truth. Or that will be the end of my help.”
Julian nodded. “I’ll tell Emma and Mark,” he said. “It’s not fair on the others.”
“Your uncle would probably be able to tell you who said this,” Malcolm said. “‘Do nothing secretly; for Time sees and hears all things, and discloses all.’”
“I can tell you who said it.” Julian’s eyes burned with a low fire. “Sophocles.”
“Clever boy,” said Malcolm. There was affection in his voice, but weariness, too.
He turned and marched down the steps. He paused when he reached the bottom, staring off past Emma, his eyes too dark for her to read. He seemed to be seeing something in the distance she couldn’t, either something too far in the future to imagine or too far in the past to remember.
“You’ll help us, still?” Julian called after him. “Malcolm, you won’t . . .” He trailed off; Malcolm had vanished into the shadows of the night. “Abandon us?” he said, speaking as if he knew no one was listening.
Julian was still leaning against the pillar as if it was the only thing holding him up, and Emma couldn’t keep her mind from flashing to the pillars in the Hall of Accords, to Julian when he was twelve, crumpled against one and sobbing into his hands.
He’d cried since then, but not often. There wasn’t much, she supposed, that measured up to having killed your father.
The seraph blade in his hand had burned out. He flung it aside just as Emma came close to him. She slid her hand into his now-empty one. There was no passion in the gesture, nothing that recalled that night on the beach. Only the absolute solidity of the friendship they had shared for more than a decade.
He looked over at her then, and she saw the gratitude in his eyes. For a moment there was nothing in the world but the two of them, breathing, his fingertip dancing across her bare wrist. T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U.
“Malcolm said there was something you needed to tell us,” said Mark. “You seemed to agree. What is it? If we keep the kids waiting much longer, they’ll riot.”
Julian nodded, straightening up, drawing away from the pillar. He was the calm older brother again, the good soldier, the boy with a plan.
“I’ll go tell them what’s going on. You two, wait for me in the dining room,” he said. “Malcolm was right. We need to talk.”
Los Angeles, 2008
Julian would always remember the day his uncle Arthur first arrived at the Los Angeles Institute.
It was only the third time he’d ever been there, even though his brother, Andrew, Julian’s father, had headed up the biggest Institute on the West Coast for almost fifteen years. Relations had been strained between Andrew and the rest of the Blackthorns ever since a faerie woman had arrived on his doorstep carrying two tiny sleeping children, declared them to be Andrew’s son and daughter with the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie Court, and deposited them there to be taken into his care.
Even the fact that his wife had adopted them quickly, adored them, and treated them just as she treated her other children with Andrew hadn’t entirely repaired the breach. Julian always thought there was more to it than his father was admitting. Arthur seemed to think so too, but neither of them spoke of what they knew, and now that Andrew was dead, Julian suspected the story had died with him.
Julian stood at the top of the Institute steps, watching his uncle get out of the car Diana had picked him up in from the airport. Arthur could have Portaled, but he’d chosen to travel like a mundane. He looked crumpled and travel worn as he headed up the steps, Diana behind him. Julian could see that her mouth was set in a hard line, and wondered if Arthur had done something to annoy her. He hoped not; Diana had been at the Los Angeles Institute for only a month and already Julian liked her enormously. It would be better for everyone if she and Arthur got along.
Arthur entered the Institute foyer, blinking as his sun-dazzled eyes adjusted to the dimness inside. The other Blackthorns were there, dressed in their best clothes—Dru was wearing velvet, and Tiberius had a tie knotted around his throat. Livvy held Tavvy in her arms, beaming hopefully. Emma stood warily at the foot of the steps, clearly very aware of her status as part of the family, but still not one of them.
She’d had her braids pinned up, loops of pale hair swinging like coiled rope on either side of her head. Julian still remembered that.
Diana made the introductions. Julian shook hands with his uncle, who, up close, still didn’t look much like Julian’s father. Maybe that was a good thing. Julian’s last memory of his father was not a pleasant one.
“That’s Diego,” said Emma. “Diego Rocio Rosales.”
“Perfect Diego?” said Mark, sounding incredulous.
Diego looked even more puzzled. Before he could say anything, Cristina dropped to the ground, clutching at her leg. “I need,” she said, a little breathlessly, “another iratze—”
Diego lifted her up into his arms and ran up the stairs, ignoring her protests that she could walk. “I must get her inside,” he said, pushing past Julian and then Mark. “You have an infirmary?”
“Of course,” Julian said. “Second floor—”
“Cristina!” Emma called, running up the stairs after them, but they had already disappeared inside.
“She’ll be fine,” Malcolm said. “Better not to chase after them and frighten the kids.”
“How are the kids?” Emma asked anxiously. “Ty, Dru—”
“They’re all fine,” Mark said. “I was looking after them.”
“And Arthur?”
“Didn’t even seem to notice anything was happening,” said Mark with a quizzical look. “It was odd—”
Emma turned to Julian. “It is odd,” she said. “Julian, what did Belinda mean? When she said she knew who really ran the Institute?”
Julian shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Malcolm exhaled an exasperated breath. “Jules,” he said. “Tell her.”
Julian looked exhausted—more than exhausted. Emma had read somewhere that people drowned when they became too tired to keep themselves afloat any longer. They gave up and let the sea take them. Julian looked that tired now. “Malcolm, don’t,” he whispered.
“Can you even remember all the lies you’ve told?” Malcolm asked, and there was none of his usual insouciance in his look. His eyes were hard as amethyst. “You didn’t tell me about your brother’s return—”
“Oh—Mark!” Emma exclaimed, realizing suddenly that of course Malcolm hadn’t known before tonight that he was in the Institute. Quickly, she put her hand over her mouth. Mark raised an eyebrow at her. He seemed remarkably calm.
“You concealed it,” Malcolm went on, “knowing that I would realize it meant faerie involvement in these murders, and that I would know I might be breaking the Cold Peace by helping you.”
“You couldn’t break it if you didn’t know,” Julian said. “I was protecting you, too.”
“Maybe,” said Malcolm. “But I’ve had enough. Tell them the truth. Or that will be the end of my help.”
Julian nodded. “I’ll tell Emma and Mark,” he said. “It’s not fair on the others.”
“Your uncle would probably be able to tell you who said this,” Malcolm said. “‘Do nothing secretly; for Time sees and hears all things, and discloses all.’”
“I can tell you who said it.” Julian’s eyes burned with a low fire. “Sophocles.”
“Clever boy,” said Malcolm. There was affection in his voice, but weariness, too.
He turned and marched down the steps. He paused when he reached the bottom, staring off past Emma, his eyes too dark for her to read. He seemed to be seeing something in the distance she couldn’t, either something too far in the future to imagine or too far in the past to remember.
“You’ll help us, still?” Julian called after him. “Malcolm, you won’t . . .” He trailed off; Malcolm had vanished into the shadows of the night. “Abandon us?” he said, speaking as if he knew no one was listening.
Julian was still leaning against the pillar as if it was the only thing holding him up, and Emma couldn’t keep her mind from flashing to the pillars in the Hall of Accords, to Julian when he was twelve, crumpled against one and sobbing into his hands.
He’d cried since then, but not often. There wasn’t much, she supposed, that measured up to having killed your father.
The seraph blade in his hand had burned out. He flung it aside just as Emma came close to him. She slid her hand into his now-empty one. There was no passion in the gesture, nothing that recalled that night on the beach. Only the absolute solidity of the friendship they had shared for more than a decade.
He looked over at her then, and she saw the gratitude in his eyes. For a moment there was nothing in the world but the two of them, breathing, his fingertip dancing across her bare wrist. T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U.
“Malcolm said there was something you needed to tell us,” said Mark. “You seemed to agree. What is it? If we keep the kids waiting much longer, they’ll riot.”
Julian nodded, straightening up, drawing away from the pillar. He was the calm older brother again, the good soldier, the boy with a plan.
“I’ll go tell them what’s going on. You two, wait for me in the dining room,” he said. “Malcolm was right. We need to talk.”
Los Angeles, 2008
Julian would always remember the day his uncle Arthur first arrived at the Los Angeles Institute.
It was only the third time he’d ever been there, even though his brother, Andrew, Julian’s father, had headed up the biggest Institute on the West Coast for almost fifteen years. Relations had been strained between Andrew and the rest of the Blackthorns ever since a faerie woman had arrived on his doorstep carrying two tiny sleeping children, declared them to be Andrew’s son and daughter with the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie Court, and deposited them there to be taken into his care.
Even the fact that his wife had adopted them quickly, adored them, and treated them just as she treated her other children with Andrew hadn’t entirely repaired the breach. Julian always thought there was more to it than his father was admitting. Arthur seemed to think so too, but neither of them spoke of what they knew, and now that Andrew was dead, Julian suspected the story had died with him.
Julian stood at the top of the Institute steps, watching his uncle get out of the car Diana had picked him up in from the airport. Arthur could have Portaled, but he’d chosen to travel like a mundane. He looked crumpled and travel worn as he headed up the steps, Diana behind him. Julian could see that her mouth was set in a hard line, and wondered if Arthur had done something to annoy her. He hoped not; Diana had been at the Los Angeles Institute for only a month and already Julian liked her enormously. It would be better for everyone if she and Arthur got along.
Arthur entered the Institute foyer, blinking as his sun-dazzled eyes adjusted to the dimness inside. The other Blackthorns were there, dressed in their best clothes—Dru was wearing velvet, and Tiberius had a tie knotted around his throat. Livvy held Tavvy in her arms, beaming hopefully. Emma stood warily at the foot of the steps, clearly very aware of her status as part of the family, but still not one of them.
She’d had her braids pinned up, loops of pale hair swinging like coiled rope on either side of her head. Julian still remembered that.
Diana made the introductions. Julian shook hands with his uncle, who, up close, still didn’t look much like Julian’s father. Maybe that was a good thing. Julian’s last memory of his father was not a pleasant one.
