Lady Midnight
Page 58
“Your target isn’t dead,” Diana pointed out. “Just armless.”
“Exactly,” said Julian. “So I can question him. Or it, you know, if it’s a demon.”
“Very strategic.” Diana tried to hide a smile as she made a note in her book. She picked up the dummy’s arms and fastened them back on. “Livvy?”
Livvy dispatched the dummy with a swing of her saber without passing the ash barrier. Dru acquitted herself decently with a thrown misericord, and Cristina flipped open her balisongs and hurled them so that one point of each blade stuck into the dummy’s head exactly where its eyes would have been.
“Gross,” said Livvy admiringly. “I like it.”
Cristina retrieved her knives and winked at Emma, who had climbed partway up the rope ladder, Cortana in her free hand.
“Emma?” Diana said, craning her head up. “What are you doing?”
Emma flung herself from the ladder. It wasn’t the cold fury of battle, but there was a moment of falling freedom that was pure pleasure, that drove the annoyance of Cameron’s warning out of her mind. She landed on the dummy, feet planted on its shoulders, and slashed down, driving Cortana’s hilt deep into its trunk. Then she flipped herself backward, over and down, landing on her feet inches outside the circle of ash.
“That was showing off,” Diana said, but she was smiling as she made another note. She glanced up. “Tiberius? It’s your turn.”
Ty took a step toward the circle. The white band of his headphones was stark against his black hair. He was as tall as the dummy, Emma realized with a jolt. She often thought of Ty as the child he had been. But he wasn’t—he was fifteen years old, older than she’d been when she and Julian had undergone the parabatai ceremony. His face wasn’t a little boy’s face anymore. Sharpness had replaced the softness.
Ty lifted his knife.
“Tiberius,” said a voice from the doorway. “Take the headphones off.”
It was Uncle Arthur. They all looked up in surprise: Arthur rarely ventured downstairs, and when he did, he avoided conversation, meals—all contact. It was strange to see him hovering in the doorway like a gray ghost: gray robe, gray stubble, worn gray pants.
“The pollution of mundane technology is everywhere,” said Arthur. “In those phones you carry. Cars—at the London Institute we didn’t own them. That computer you think I don’t know about.”An odd anger flashed across his face. “You’re not going to be able to go into battle wearing headphones.”
He said the word as if it were poisonous.
Diana closed her eyes.
“Ty,” she said. “Take them off.”
Ty slid the headphones down so that they hung around the back of his neck. He winced as the chatter of noise and voices from the radio struck his ears. “I won’t be able to do it, then.”
“Then you’ll fail,” said Arthur. “This has to be fair.”
“If you don’t let him use them, it won’t be fair,” said Emma.
“This is the test. Everyone has to do it,” Diana said. “Battle doesn’t always happen under optimum conditions. There’s noise, blood, distractions—”
“I won’t be in battle,” Ty said. “I don’t want to be that kind of Shadowhunter.”
“Tiberius,” Arthur said sharply. “Do as you’re asked.”
Ty’s face set. He lifted the knife and threw it, with deliberate awkwardness but great force. It slammed into the black plastic radio, which shattered into a hundred pieces.
There was silence.
Ty looked down at his right hand; it was bleeding. A piece of the shattered radio had gone wide and nicked his skin. Scowling, he went to stand by one of the pillars. Livvy watched him with miserable eyes; Julian made as if to start after him, when Emma caught him by the wrist.
“Don’t,” she said. “Give him a minute.”
“My turn,” said Mark. Diana turned toward him in surprise. He was already stalking toward the training dummy. He strode directly up to it, his boots scuffing the ash and salt on the ground.
“Mark,” Diana said, “you’re not supposed to—”
He caught hold of the dummy and yanked it toward himself, ripping the stuffed head from its body. Straw rained down around him. He tossed the head aside, seized hold of the attached arms, and bent them back until they snapped. He took a step back, planted his foot in the middle of the thing’s trunk, and shoved. It went over with a crash.
It would almost have been funny, Emma thought, if not for the look on his face.
“These are the weapons of my people,” he said, holding out his hands. A cut on the right one had opened and was bleeding.
“You weren’t supposed to touch the circle,” said Diana. “Those are the rules, and I don’t make them. The Clave—”
“Lex malla, lex nulla,” Mark said coldly, and walked away from the dummy. Emma heard Arthur draw in his breath at the words of the Blackthorn family motto. He turned without a word and stalked out of the room.
Julian’s eyes tracked his brother as Mark went toward Ty and leaned against the pillar beside him.
Ty, who had been holding his right hand with his left, his jaw set, looked up in surprise. “Mark?”
Mark touched his younger brother’s hand, gently, and Ty did not pull away. They both had the Blackthorn fingers, long and delicate, with sharp, articulated bones.
Slowly, the angry look faded from Ty’s face. Instead he looked sideways up at his brother, as if the answer to a question Emma couldn’t guess at could be read in Mark’s face.
She remembered what Ty had said about his brother in the library.
It’s not his fault if he doesn’t understand everything. Or if things are too much for him. It’s not his fault.
“Now we both have hurt hands,” Mark said.
“Julian,” Diana said. “We need to talk about Ty.”
Julian stood motionless in front of her desk. He could see past Diana, past the huge glass windows behind her, down to the highway and the beach below, and the ocean beyond that.
He held a very clear memory in his mind, though he no longer remembered how old he had been when it happened. He had been on the beach, sketching the sun going down and the surfers out in the water. A loose sketch, more about the joy of movement than about getting the picture right. Ty had been there too, playing: He had been building a row of small, perfect squares of damp sand, each exactly the same size and shape.
Julian had looked at his own inexact, messy work and Ty’s methodical rows, and thought: We both see the same world, but in a different way. Ty feels the same joy I do, the joy of creation. We feel all the same things, only the shapes of our feelings are different.
“This was Arthur’s fault,” said Julian. “I—I don’t know why he did that.” He knew he sounded troubled. He couldn’t help it. Usually on Arthur’s bad days, his hate and anger were turned inward, toward himself. He wouldn’t have thought his uncle even knew of Ty’s headphones: He didn’t think Arthur paid attention to any of them enough to notice such things, and to Ty least of all. “I don’t know why he treated Ty that way.”
“We can be cruelest to those who remind us of ourselves.”
“Exactly,” said Julian. “So I can question him. Or it, you know, if it’s a demon.”
“Very strategic.” Diana tried to hide a smile as she made a note in her book. She picked up the dummy’s arms and fastened them back on. “Livvy?”
Livvy dispatched the dummy with a swing of her saber without passing the ash barrier. Dru acquitted herself decently with a thrown misericord, and Cristina flipped open her balisongs and hurled them so that one point of each blade stuck into the dummy’s head exactly where its eyes would have been.
“Gross,” said Livvy admiringly. “I like it.”
Cristina retrieved her knives and winked at Emma, who had climbed partway up the rope ladder, Cortana in her free hand.
“Emma?” Diana said, craning her head up. “What are you doing?”
Emma flung herself from the ladder. It wasn’t the cold fury of battle, but there was a moment of falling freedom that was pure pleasure, that drove the annoyance of Cameron’s warning out of her mind. She landed on the dummy, feet planted on its shoulders, and slashed down, driving Cortana’s hilt deep into its trunk. Then she flipped herself backward, over and down, landing on her feet inches outside the circle of ash.
“That was showing off,” Diana said, but she was smiling as she made another note. She glanced up. “Tiberius? It’s your turn.”
Ty took a step toward the circle. The white band of his headphones was stark against his black hair. He was as tall as the dummy, Emma realized with a jolt. She often thought of Ty as the child he had been. But he wasn’t—he was fifteen years old, older than she’d been when she and Julian had undergone the parabatai ceremony. His face wasn’t a little boy’s face anymore. Sharpness had replaced the softness.
Ty lifted his knife.
“Tiberius,” said a voice from the doorway. “Take the headphones off.”
It was Uncle Arthur. They all looked up in surprise: Arthur rarely ventured downstairs, and when he did, he avoided conversation, meals—all contact. It was strange to see him hovering in the doorway like a gray ghost: gray robe, gray stubble, worn gray pants.
“The pollution of mundane technology is everywhere,” said Arthur. “In those phones you carry. Cars—at the London Institute we didn’t own them. That computer you think I don’t know about.”An odd anger flashed across his face. “You’re not going to be able to go into battle wearing headphones.”
He said the word as if it were poisonous.
Diana closed her eyes.
“Ty,” she said. “Take them off.”
Ty slid the headphones down so that they hung around the back of his neck. He winced as the chatter of noise and voices from the radio struck his ears. “I won’t be able to do it, then.”
“Then you’ll fail,” said Arthur. “This has to be fair.”
“If you don’t let him use them, it won’t be fair,” said Emma.
“This is the test. Everyone has to do it,” Diana said. “Battle doesn’t always happen under optimum conditions. There’s noise, blood, distractions—”
“I won’t be in battle,” Ty said. “I don’t want to be that kind of Shadowhunter.”
“Tiberius,” Arthur said sharply. “Do as you’re asked.”
Ty’s face set. He lifted the knife and threw it, with deliberate awkwardness but great force. It slammed into the black plastic radio, which shattered into a hundred pieces.
There was silence.
Ty looked down at his right hand; it was bleeding. A piece of the shattered radio had gone wide and nicked his skin. Scowling, he went to stand by one of the pillars. Livvy watched him with miserable eyes; Julian made as if to start after him, when Emma caught him by the wrist.
“Don’t,” she said. “Give him a minute.”
“My turn,” said Mark. Diana turned toward him in surprise. He was already stalking toward the training dummy. He strode directly up to it, his boots scuffing the ash and salt on the ground.
“Mark,” Diana said, “you’re not supposed to—”
He caught hold of the dummy and yanked it toward himself, ripping the stuffed head from its body. Straw rained down around him. He tossed the head aside, seized hold of the attached arms, and bent them back until they snapped. He took a step back, planted his foot in the middle of the thing’s trunk, and shoved. It went over with a crash.
It would almost have been funny, Emma thought, if not for the look on his face.
“These are the weapons of my people,” he said, holding out his hands. A cut on the right one had opened and was bleeding.
“You weren’t supposed to touch the circle,” said Diana. “Those are the rules, and I don’t make them. The Clave—”
“Lex malla, lex nulla,” Mark said coldly, and walked away from the dummy. Emma heard Arthur draw in his breath at the words of the Blackthorn family motto. He turned without a word and stalked out of the room.
Julian’s eyes tracked his brother as Mark went toward Ty and leaned against the pillar beside him.
Ty, who had been holding his right hand with his left, his jaw set, looked up in surprise. “Mark?”
Mark touched his younger brother’s hand, gently, and Ty did not pull away. They both had the Blackthorn fingers, long and delicate, with sharp, articulated bones.
Slowly, the angry look faded from Ty’s face. Instead he looked sideways up at his brother, as if the answer to a question Emma couldn’t guess at could be read in Mark’s face.
She remembered what Ty had said about his brother in the library.
It’s not his fault if he doesn’t understand everything. Or if things are too much for him. It’s not his fault.
“Now we both have hurt hands,” Mark said.
“Julian,” Diana said. “We need to talk about Ty.”
Julian stood motionless in front of her desk. He could see past Diana, past the huge glass windows behind her, down to the highway and the beach below, and the ocean beyond that.
He held a very clear memory in his mind, though he no longer remembered how old he had been when it happened. He had been on the beach, sketching the sun going down and the surfers out in the water. A loose sketch, more about the joy of movement than about getting the picture right. Ty had been there too, playing: He had been building a row of small, perfect squares of damp sand, each exactly the same size and shape.
Julian had looked at his own inexact, messy work and Ty’s methodical rows, and thought: We both see the same world, but in a different way. Ty feels the same joy I do, the joy of creation. We feel all the same things, only the shapes of our feelings are different.
“This was Arthur’s fault,” said Julian. “I—I don’t know why he did that.” He knew he sounded troubled. He couldn’t help it. Usually on Arthur’s bad days, his hate and anger were turned inward, toward himself. He wouldn’t have thought his uncle even knew of Ty’s headphones: He didn’t think Arthur paid attention to any of them enough to notice such things, and to Ty least of all. “I don’t know why he treated Ty that way.”
“We can be cruelest to those who remind us of ourselves.”
