Lord of Shadows
Page 113
Which was good, Mark thought, as he took the stairs down, two at a time. Because he wasn’t in much shape to understand anyone. He didn’t even understand himself.
A long corridor took him to two white-painted double doors, one of them standing open. Inside was a massive, dusty, half-lit room.
It clearly hadn’t been used in many years, though it was clean other than the dust. White sheets covered most of the furniture. Arched windows looked out onto the courtyard, and a night that sparkled with stars.
Cristina was there, in the middle of the room, looking up at one of the chandeliers. There was a row of three of them, unlit but glittering with crystal drops.
He let the door fall shut behind him and she turned. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She was wearing a simple black dress that looked as if it had been cut for someone shorter than her, and her hair was up off her face.
“Mark,” she said. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“Not well.” He glanced ruefully down at his wrist, though the pain had gone now that he was with Cristina. “Did you feel the same?”
She nodded. Her eyes were bright. “My mother always said that the ballroom in the London Institute was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.” She looked around, at the Edwardian striped wallpaper, the heavy velvet curtains looped back from the windows. “But she must have seen it very much alive and filled with people. It seems like Sleeping Beauty’s castle now. As if the Dark War surrounded it with thorns and since then it has slept.”
Mark held out his hand, the wound of the binding circling his wrist like Julian’s sea-glass bracelet circled his. “Let us wake it up,” he said. “Dance with me.”
“But there’s no music,” she said. She swayed a little toward him, though, as she spoke.
“I have danced at many a revel,” he said, “where there has been no pipe and no fiddle, where there has been only the music of the wind and stars. I can show you.”
She came toward him, the golden pendant at her throat glittering. “How magical,” she said, and her eyes were huge and dark and luminous with mischief. “Or I could do this.”
She took her phone out of her pocket and thumbed a few buttons. Music poured out of the small speakers: not loud, but Mark could feel it—not a tune he knew, but fast and energetic, thrumming down through his blood.
He held out his hands. Setting her phone down on a windowsill, she took them, laughing as he pulled her toward him. Their bodies touched once, lightly, and she spun away, making him follow her. If he’d thought he would be leading, he realized, he was wrong.
He paced after her as she moved like fire, always just ahead of him, spinning until her hair came down out of its fastening and flew around her face. The chandeliers glittered overhead like rain and Mark seized Cristina’s hand in his. He whirled her in a circle; her body brushed his as she turned, and he caught her hips and drew her toward him.
And now she was in his arms, moving, and everywhere her body touched his felt like a lit spark. Everything had been driven out of his head but Cristina. The light on her brown skin, her flushed face, the way her skirt flew up when she twirled, affording him a glimpse of the smooth thighs he’d imagined a hundred times.
He caught her by the waist and she swayed backward in his arms, boneless, her hair brushing the floor. When she rose up again, eyes half-lidded, he could no longer contain himself. He drew her into him and kissed her.
Her hands flew up and fastened in his hair, her fingers tugging and pulling him closer against her. She tasted like cold clear water and he drew on her mouth as if he were incredibly thirsty. His whole body felt like one desperate ache, and when she moved away from him, he groaned softly. But she was laughing, looking at him, dancing lightly backward with her hands held out. His skin felt tight all over; he was desperate to kiss her again, desperate to let his hands go where his eyes had gone earlier: sliding up the outsides of her long legs, under her skirt, along her waist, over her back where the muscles were smooth and long on either side of her spine.
He wanted her, and it was a very human want; not starlight and strangeness, but right here and right now. He strode after her, reaching for her hands. “Cristina—”
She froze, and for a moment of fear he thought it was because of him. But she was looking past him. He turned and saw Kieran in the doorway, leaning against it, gazing very steadily at them both.
Mark tensed. In a moment of delayed clarity he realized he had been stupid, alarmingly stupid to have done what he was doing. But none of it was Cristina’s fault. If Kieran brought his temper to bear on her—
But when Kieran spoke, it was lightly. “Mark,” he said. “You really have no idea, do you? You should show her how it is properly done.”
He walked toward them, a true prince of Faerie in all his grace. He wore a white shirt and breeches and his black hair fell partway to his shoulders. He reached the middle of the room and held a hand out to Cristina. “My lady,” he said, and bowed. “Favor me with a dance?”
Cristina hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
“You don’t have to,” Mark said in a whisper. She only gave him a long look, and then followed Kieran out to the middle of the floor.
“Now,” Kieran said, and he began to move.
Mark didn’t think he’d ever danced with Kieran before, not at a revel; they had always tried to conceal their relationship in front of the greater world of Faerie. And Kieran, if he could not dance with his chosen partner, would not dance with anyone.
But he was dancing now. And if Cristina had moved like fire, Kieran moved like lightning. After a moment of hesitation, Cristina followed him—he drew her into his arms—caught her, lifted her up into the air with easy faerie strength, whirling her around him. She gasped, and her face lit up with the pleasure of the music and the movement.
Mark stood where he was, feeling awkward and startled in equal measure. What was Kieran doing? What was he thinking? Was this a reproach of some sort? But it didn’t seem to be one. How much had Kieran seen? The kissing, or just the dancing?
He heard Cristina laugh. His eyes widened. Incredible. She and Kieran were like stars whirling together, just touching at the edges, but flaring up into a rain of sparks and fire when they did. And Kieran was smiling, actually smiling. It changed his face, made him look as young as he actually was.
The music ended. Cristina stopped dancing, looking suddenly shy. Kieran lifted his hand to touch her long dark hair, sweeping it back over her shoulder so he could lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Only then, when he had drawn back, did he look at Mark. “There,” he said. “That is how the blood of Faerieland can dance.”
* * *
“Wake up.”
Kit groaned and rolled over. He’d finally been sleeping, and dreaming something pleasant about being at the beach with his dad. Not that his dad had ever actually taken him to the beach, but that was what dreams were for, weren’t they?
In the dream, his father had touched his shoulder and said, I always knew you’d make a good Shadowhunter.
Never mind that Johnny Rook would rather that his son became a serial killer than one of the Nephilim. Struggling up out of sleep, Kit remembered his father’s knowing smile and the last time he had seen it, on the morning when Malcolm Fade’s demons had torn Johnny Rook to shreds.
A long corridor took him to two white-painted double doors, one of them standing open. Inside was a massive, dusty, half-lit room.
It clearly hadn’t been used in many years, though it was clean other than the dust. White sheets covered most of the furniture. Arched windows looked out onto the courtyard, and a night that sparkled with stars.
Cristina was there, in the middle of the room, looking up at one of the chandeliers. There was a row of three of them, unlit but glittering with crystal drops.
He let the door fall shut behind him and she turned. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She was wearing a simple black dress that looked as if it had been cut for someone shorter than her, and her hair was up off her face.
“Mark,” she said. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“Not well.” He glanced ruefully down at his wrist, though the pain had gone now that he was with Cristina. “Did you feel the same?”
She nodded. Her eyes were bright. “My mother always said that the ballroom in the London Institute was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.” She looked around, at the Edwardian striped wallpaper, the heavy velvet curtains looped back from the windows. “But she must have seen it very much alive and filled with people. It seems like Sleeping Beauty’s castle now. As if the Dark War surrounded it with thorns and since then it has slept.”
Mark held out his hand, the wound of the binding circling his wrist like Julian’s sea-glass bracelet circled his. “Let us wake it up,” he said. “Dance with me.”
“But there’s no music,” she said. She swayed a little toward him, though, as she spoke.
“I have danced at many a revel,” he said, “where there has been no pipe and no fiddle, where there has been only the music of the wind and stars. I can show you.”
She came toward him, the golden pendant at her throat glittering. “How magical,” she said, and her eyes were huge and dark and luminous with mischief. “Or I could do this.”
She took her phone out of her pocket and thumbed a few buttons. Music poured out of the small speakers: not loud, but Mark could feel it—not a tune he knew, but fast and energetic, thrumming down through his blood.
He held out his hands. Setting her phone down on a windowsill, she took them, laughing as he pulled her toward him. Their bodies touched once, lightly, and she spun away, making him follow her. If he’d thought he would be leading, he realized, he was wrong.
He paced after her as she moved like fire, always just ahead of him, spinning until her hair came down out of its fastening and flew around her face. The chandeliers glittered overhead like rain and Mark seized Cristina’s hand in his. He whirled her in a circle; her body brushed his as she turned, and he caught her hips and drew her toward him.
And now she was in his arms, moving, and everywhere her body touched his felt like a lit spark. Everything had been driven out of his head but Cristina. The light on her brown skin, her flushed face, the way her skirt flew up when she twirled, affording him a glimpse of the smooth thighs he’d imagined a hundred times.
He caught her by the waist and she swayed backward in his arms, boneless, her hair brushing the floor. When she rose up again, eyes half-lidded, he could no longer contain himself. He drew her into him and kissed her.
Her hands flew up and fastened in his hair, her fingers tugging and pulling him closer against her. She tasted like cold clear water and he drew on her mouth as if he were incredibly thirsty. His whole body felt like one desperate ache, and when she moved away from him, he groaned softly. But she was laughing, looking at him, dancing lightly backward with her hands held out. His skin felt tight all over; he was desperate to kiss her again, desperate to let his hands go where his eyes had gone earlier: sliding up the outsides of her long legs, under her skirt, along her waist, over her back where the muscles were smooth and long on either side of her spine.
He wanted her, and it was a very human want; not starlight and strangeness, but right here and right now. He strode after her, reaching for her hands. “Cristina—”
She froze, and for a moment of fear he thought it was because of him. But she was looking past him. He turned and saw Kieran in the doorway, leaning against it, gazing very steadily at them both.
Mark tensed. In a moment of delayed clarity he realized he had been stupid, alarmingly stupid to have done what he was doing. But none of it was Cristina’s fault. If Kieran brought his temper to bear on her—
But when Kieran spoke, it was lightly. “Mark,” he said. “You really have no idea, do you? You should show her how it is properly done.”
He walked toward them, a true prince of Faerie in all his grace. He wore a white shirt and breeches and his black hair fell partway to his shoulders. He reached the middle of the room and held a hand out to Cristina. “My lady,” he said, and bowed. “Favor me with a dance?”
Cristina hesitated a moment, and then nodded.
“You don’t have to,” Mark said in a whisper. She only gave him a long look, and then followed Kieran out to the middle of the floor.
“Now,” Kieran said, and he began to move.
Mark didn’t think he’d ever danced with Kieran before, not at a revel; they had always tried to conceal their relationship in front of the greater world of Faerie. And Kieran, if he could not dance with his chosen partner, would not dance with anyone.
But he was dancing now. And if Cristina had moved like fire, Kieran moved like lightning. After a moment of hesitation, Cristina followed him—he drew her into his arms—caught her, lifted her up into the air with easy faerie strength, whirling her around him. She gasped, and her face lit up with the pleasure of the music and the movement.
Mark stood where he was, feeling awkward and startled in equal measure. What was Kieran doing? What was he thinking? Was this a reproach of some sort? But it didn’t seem to be one. How much had Kieran seen? The kissing, or just the dancing?
He heard Cristina laugh. His eyes widened. Incredible. She and Kieran were like stars whirling together, just touching at the edges, but flaring up into a rain of sparks and fire when they did. And Kieran was smiling, actually smiling. It changed his face, made him look as young as he actually was.
The music ended. Cristina stopped dancing, looking suddenly shy. Kieran lifted his hand to touch her long dark hair, sweeping it back over her shoulder so he could lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Only then, when he had drawn back, did he look at Mark. “There,” he said. “That is how the blood of Faerieland can dance.”
* * *
“Wake up.”
Kit groaned and rolled over. He’d finally been sleeping, and dreaming something pleasant about being at the beach with his dad. Not that his dad had ever actually taken him to the beach, but that was what dreams were for, weren’t they?
In the dream, his father had touched his shoulder and said, I always knew you’d make a good Shadowhunter.
Never mind that Johnny Rook would rather that his son became a serial killer than one of the Nephilim. Struggling up out of sleep, Kit remembered his father’s knowing smile and the last time he had seen it, on the morning when Malcolm Fade’s demons had torn Johnny Rook to shreds.
