Lady Midnight
Page 126
Julian inclined his head. “I’m sure.”
“Let him take the whipping,” Kieran said. “He wants it. Let him have it.”
After that, things happened very quickly. Mark threw himself at Kieran, his expression murderous. He was shouting as he dug his fingers into the front of Kieran’s shirt. Emma moved forward and was knocked back by Gwyn, who moved to pull Kieran and Mark apart, pushing Mark brutally aside.
“Bastard,” Mark said. His mouth was bleeding. He spit at Kieran’s feet. “You arrogant—”
“Enough, Mark,” snapped Gwyn. “Kieran is a prince of the Unseelie Court.”
“He is my enemy,” said Mark. “Now and forevermore, my enemy.” He raised a hand as if to strike Kieran; Kieran didn’t move, just looked at him with shattered eyes. Mark lowered his hand and turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Kieran any longer. “Jules,” he said instead. “Julian, please, don’t do this. Let me.”
Julian gave his brother a slow, sweet smile. In that smile was all the love and wonder of the little boy who’d lost his brother and against all odds, gotten him back. “It can’t be you, Mark—”
“Take him,” Iarlath said to Gwyn, and Gwyn, reluctance written all over his face, stepped forward and caught hold of Mark, pulling him away from Julian. Mark struggled, but Gwyn was a massive man with enormous arms. He held tightly to Mark, his expression impassive, as Julian reached down and pulled off his jacket, and then his shirt.
In the bright daylight his skin, lightly tanned but paler over his back and chest, looked vulnerable and exposed. His hair was ruffled all over from the collar of the shirt, and as he dropped it on the ground he looked at Emma.
His look broke through the icy vise of shock that gripped her. “Julian.” Her voice shook. “You can’t do this.” She moved forward and found Iarlath blocking her way.
“Stay,” Iarlath hissed. He stepped away from Emma, who went to go after him and found her legs pinned in place. She couldn’t move. The buzz of enchantment prickled along her legs and spine, holding her as firmly in place as a bear trap. She tried to wrench herself forward and had to bite back a shriek of pain as the faerie magic clamped and tore at her skin.
Julian took a step forward and put his hands against the tree, bending his head. The long line of his spine was incongruously beautiful to Emma. It looked like the arch of a wave, just before it crashed. White scars and black Marks patterned his back like a child’s illustration drawn in skin and blood.
“Let me go!” Mark shouted, twisting in Gwyn’s grasp.
It was like a nightmare, Emma thought, one of those dreams where you were running and running and never getting anywhere, except now it was real. She was struggling to move her arms and legs against the invisible force that kept her pinned like a butterfly to a board.
Iarlath strode toward Julian. Something flashed in his hand, something long and thin and silver. As it flicked forward, tasting the air, Emma saw he was clutching the black handle of a silver whip. He drew his arm back.
“Foolish Shadowhunters,” he said. “Too naive to even know who you can trust.”
The whip came down. Emma saw it bite into Julian’s skin, saw the blood, saw him arch back, his body bowing.
Pain exploded inside her. It was as if a bar of fire had been laid across her back. She flinched, tasting blood inside her mouth.
“Stop it!” Mark yelled. “Can’t you see you’re hurting them both? That’s not the punishment! Let me go, I don’t have a parabatai, let me go, whip me instead—”
His words ran together inside Emma’s head. Pain was still throbbing through her body.
Gwyn, Iarlath, and Kieran were looking from her to Julian. There was a long, bloody welt along Julian’s back, and he was clutching the trunk of the tree. Sweat darkened his hairline.
Emma’s heart cracked. If what she had felt had been agony, what had he felt? Twice, four times as much?
“Send her away,” she heard Iarlath say irritably. “This wailing is ridiculous.”
“This is not hysterics, Iarlath,” said Kieran. “It’s because she’s his parabatai. His warrior partner—they’re bonded—”
“By the Lady, such fuss,” Iarlath hissed, and brought the whip down again.
This time Julian made noise. A choked sound, barely audible. He slid to his knees, still clutching at the tree. Pain lanced through Emma again, but now she was braced, prepared. She screamed—not just any scream, but an echoing sound of horror and betrayal, a shriek of rage and pain and fury.
Gwyn threw his arm out toward Iarlath, but he was looking at Emma. “Stop,” he said.
Emma felt the weight of his gaze, and then a lightness as the enchantment that had pinned her in place snapped asunder.
She dashed toward Julian and dropped down beside him, yanking her stele from her belt. She could hear Iarlath protest, and Gwyn telling him gruffly to leave it be. She paid no attention. All she could see was Julian—Julian on his knees, his arms around the trunk of the tree, his forehead pressed to it. Blood ran down his naked back. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as she reached for him, as if he were bracing himself for a third blow.
Jules, she thought, and as if he heard her, he half-turned his face. He had bitten through his lower lip. Blood dripped off his chin. He looked at her blindly, like a man staring at a mirage.
“Em?” he gasped.
“Shush,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek, her fingers in his hair. He was wet with blood and sweat, his pupils blown wide open. She could see herself in them, see her pale, strained face.
She laid her stele against his skin. “I need to heal him,” she said. “Let me heal him.”
“This is ridiculous,” Iarlath protested. “The boy should take the whipping—”
“Leave it, Iarlath,” said Gwyn. His arms were tight around Mark.
Iarlath subsided, muttering—Mark was struggling and gasping—the stele was cold in Emma’s hand—colder still as she brought it down against Julian’s skin—
She drew the rune.
“Sleep, my love,” she whispered, so low that only Julian could hear her. For a moment his eyes fluttered wide, clear and astonished. Then they shut, and he slumped to the ground.
“Emma!” Mark’s voice was a shout. “What have you done?”
Emma rose to her feet, turning to see Iarlath’s face, blazing with rage. Gwyn, though—she thought she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes.
“I knocked him out,” she said. “He’s unconscious. Nothing you can do will wake him.”
Iarlath’s lip curled. “You think to deprive us of our punishment by depriving him of his ability to feel it? Are you such a fool?” He turned toward Gwyn. “Bring Mark forward,” he snarled. “We will whip him instead, and then we will have whipped two Blackthorns.”
“No!” Kieran cried. “No! I forbid it—I cannot bear it—”
“No one cares what you can bear, princeling, least of all I,” said Iarlath. His smile was twisted. “Yes, we will whip both brothers,” he said. “Mark will not escape. And I doubt your parabatai will soon forgive you for it,” he added, turning back to Emma.
“Let him take the whipping,” Kieran said. “He wants it. Let him have it.”
After that, things happened very quickly. Mark threw himself at Kieran, his expression murderous. He was shouting as he dug his fingers into the front of Kieran’s shirt. Emma moved forward and was knocked back by Gwyn, who moved to pull Kieran and Mark apart, pushing Mark brutally aside.
“Bastard,” Mark said. His mouth was bleeding. He spit at Kieran’s feet. “You arrogant—”
“Enough, Mark,” snapped Gwyn. “Kieran is a prince of the Unseelie Court.”
“He is my enemy,” said Mark. “Now and forevermore, my enemy.” He raised a hand as if to strike Kieran; Kieran didn’t move, just looked at him with shattered eyes. Mark lowered his hand and turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Kieran any longer. “Jules,” he said instead. “Julian, please, don’t do this. Let me.”
Julian gave his brother a slow, sweet smile. In that smile was all the love and wonder of the little boy who’d lost his brother and against all odds, gotten him back. “It can’t be you, Mark—”
“Take him,” Iarlath said to Gwyn, and Gwyn, reluctance written all over his face, stepped forward and caught hold of Mark, pulling him away from Julian. Mark struggled, but Gwyn was a massive man with enormous arms. He held tightly to Mark, his expression impassive, as Julian reached down and pulled off his jacket, and then his shirt.
In the bright daylight his skin, lightly tanned but paler over his back and chest, looked vulnerable and exposed. His hair was ruffled all over from the collar of the shirt, and as he dropped it on the ground he looked at Emma.
His look broke through the icy vise of shock that gripped her. “Julian.” Her voice shook. “You can’t do this.” She moved forward and found Iarlath blocking her way.
“Stay,” Iarlath hissed. He stepped away from Emma, who went to go after him and found her legs pinned in place. She couldn’t move. The buzz of enchantment prickled along her legs and spine, holding her as firmly in place as a bear trap. She tried to wrench herself forward and had to bite back a shriek of pain as the faerie magic clamped and tore at her skin.
Julian took a step forward and put his hands against the tree, bending his head. The long line of his spine was incongruously beautiful to Emma. It looked like the arch of a wave, just before it crashed. White scars and black Marks patterned his back like a child’s illustration drawn in skin and blood.
“Let me go!” Mark shouted, twisting in Gwyn’s grasp.
It was like a nightmare, Emma thought, one of those dreams where you were running and running and never getting anywhere, except now it was real. She was struggling to move her arms and legs against the invisible force that kept her pinned like a butterfly to a board.
Iarlath strode toward Julian. Something flashed in his hand, something long and thin and silver. As it flicked forward, tasting the air, Emma saw he was clutching the black handle of a silver whip. He drew his arm back.
“Foolish Shadowhunters,” he said. “Too naive to even know who you can trust.”
The whip came down. Emma saw it bite into Julian’s skin, saw the blood, saw him arch back, his body bowing.
Pain exploded inside her. It was as if a bar of fire had been laid across her back. She flinched, tasting blood inside her mouth.
“Stop it!” Mark yelled. “Can’t you see you’re hurting them both? That’s not the punishment! Let me go, I don’t have a parabatai, let me go, whip me instead—”
His words ran together inside Emma’s head. Pain was still throbbing through her body.
Gwyn, Iarlath, and Kieran were looking from her to Julian. There was a long, bloody welt along Julian’s back, and he was clutching the trunk of the tree. Sweat darkened his hairline.
Emma’s heart cracked. If what she had felt had been agony, what had he felt? Twice, four times as much?
“Send her away,” she heard Iarlath say irritably. “This wailing is ridiculous.”
“This is not hysterics, Iarlath,” said Kieran. “It’s because she’s his parabatai. His warrior partner—they’re bonded—”
“By the Lady, such fuss,” Iarlath hissed, and brought the whip down again.
This time Julian made noise. A choked sound, barely audible. He slid to his knees, still clutching at the tree. Pain lanced through Emma again, but now she was braced, prepared. She screamed—not just any scream, but an echoing sound of horror and betrayal, a shriek of rage and pain and fury.
Gwyn threw his arm out toward Iarlath, but he was looking at Emma. “Stop,” he said.
Emma felt the weight of his gaze, and then a lightness as the enchantment that had pinned her in place snapped asunder.
She dashed toward Julian and dropped down beside him, yanking her stele from her belt. She could hear Iarlath protest, and Gwyn telling him gruffly to leave it be. She paid no attention. All she could see was Julian—Julian on his knees, his arms around the trunk of the tree, his forehead pressed to it. Blood ran down his naked back. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as she reached for him, as if he were bracing himself for a third blow.
Jules, she thought, and as if he heard her, he half-turned his face. He had bitten through his lower lip. Blood dripped off his chin. He looked at her blindly, like a man staring at a mirage.
“Em?” he gasped.
“Shush,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek, her fingers in his hair. He was wet with blood and sweat, his pupils blown wide open. She could see herself in them, see her pale, strained face.
She laid her stele against his skin. “I need to heal him,” she said. “Let me heal him.”
“This is ridiculous,” Iarlath protested. “The boy should take the whipping—”
“Leave it, Iarlath,” said Gwyn. His arms were tight around Mark.
Iarlath subsided, muttering—Mark was struggling and gasping—the stele was cold in Emma’s hand—colder still as she brought it down against Julian’s skin—
She drew the rune.
“Sleep, my love,” she whispered, so low that only Julian could hear her. For a moment his eyes fluttered wide, clear and astonished. Then they shut, and he slumped to the ground.
“Emma!” Mark’s voice was a shout. “What have you done?”
Emma rose to her feet, turning to see Iarlath’s face, blazing with rage. Gwyn, though—she thought she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes.
“I knocked him out,” she said. “He’s unconscious. Nothing you can do will wake him.”
Iarlath’s lip curled. “You think to deprive us of our punishment by depriving him of his ability to feel it? Are you such a fool?” He turned toward Gwyn. “Bring Mark forward,” he snarled. “We will whip him instead, and then we will have whipped two Blackthorns.”
“No!” Kieran cried. “No! I forbid it—I cannot bear it—”
“No one cares what you can bear, princeling, least of all I,” said Iarlath. His smile was twisted. “Yes, we will whip both brothers,” he said. “Mark will not escape. And I doubt your parabatai will soon forgive you for it,” he added, turning back to Emma.
