Lord of Shadows
Page 146
Cristina glanced down. He held her hand so tightly it should have hurt, but all she saw was the red marks around both of their wrists. This close together, they had faded to almost nothing.
She felt again what she had felt that night in the ballroom, as if the binding spell amplified their nearness into something else, a thing that dragged her mind back to that hill in Faerie, the memory of being wrapped up in Mark.
Mark’s mouth found hers. She heard him groan: He was kissing her hard and desperately; her body felt as if fire was pouring through it, turning her light as ashes.
Yet she could not forget Kieran kissing Mark in front of her, forceful and deliberate. It seemed she could not think of Mark now without thinking of Kieran, too. Could not see blue and gold eyes without seeing black and silver.
“Mark.” She spoke against his lips. His hands were on her, stirring her blood to soft heat. “This is not the right way to make yourself forget.”
He drew away from her. “I want to hold you,” he said. “I want it very badly.” He let go of her slowly, as if the motion were an effort. “But it would not be fair. Not to you or Kieran or myself. Not now.”
Cristina touched the back of his hand. “You must go to Kieran and make things right between you. He is too important a part of you, Mark.”
“You heard what the King said.” Mark let his head fall back against the wall. “He’ll kill Kieran for testifying. He’ll hunt him forever. That’s our doing.”
“He agreed to it—”
“Without knowing the truth! He agreed to it because he thought he loved me and I loved him—”
“Isn’t that true?” Cristina said. “And even if it wasn’t, he didn’t just forget that you fought. He forgot what he did. He forgot what he owes. He forgot his own guilt. And that is part of why he is so angry. Not at you, but at himself.”
Mark’s hand tightened on hers. “We owe each other now, Kieran and I,” he said. “I have endangered him. The Unseelie King knows he plans to testify. He’s sworn to hunt Kieran. Cristina, what do we do?”
“We try to keep him safe,” Cristina said. “Whether he testifies or not, the King won’t forgive him. We need to find a place Kieran will be protected.” Her chin jerked up as realization hit her. “I know exactly where. Mark, we must—”
There was a knock on the door. They stepped away from each other as it swung open; both of them had been expecting Kieran, and Mark’s disappointment when it turned out to be Magnus was clear.
Magnus was carrying two etched metal flasks and raised an eyebrow when he saw Mark’s expression. “I don’t know who you were waiting for, and I’m sorry I’m not it,” he said dryly. “But the antidote is ready.”
Cristina had expected a thrill of relief to go through her. Instead she felt nothing. She touched her left hand to her sore wrist and glanced toward Mark, who was staring at the floor.
“Don’t rush to thank me or anything,” said Magnus, handing them each a flask. “Profuse expressions of gratitude only embarrass me, though cash gifts are always welcome.”
“Thank you, Magnus,” Cristina said, blushing. She unscrewed the flask: A dark and bitter scent wafted from it, like the smell of pulque, a drink that Cristina had never liked.
Magnus held up a hand. “Wait until you’re in separate rooms to drink it,” he said. “In fact, you should spend at least a few hours apart so that the spell can settle properly. All the effects should be gone by tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Mark, and headed for the door. He paused there and looked back at Cristina. “I agree with you,” he said to her. “About Kieran. If there’s anything you can do to guarantee his safety—do it.”
He was gone noiselessly, with cat-soft footsteps. Magnus glanced at the cracked wall, and then at Cristina.
“Do I want to know?” he asked.
Cristina sighed. “Can a fire-message get outside the wards you put up?”
Magnus stared at the wall again, shook his head, and said, “You’d better give it to me. I’ll get it sent.”
She hesitated.
“I won’t read it, either,” he added irritably. “I promise.”
Cristina set down her flask, found paper, pen, and stele, and scribbled a message with a rune-signature before folding it and handing it to Magnus, who gave a low whistle when he saw the name of the recipient across the top. “Are you sure?”
She nodded with a resolution she didn’t feel. “Absolutely.”
27
ILL ANGELS ONLY
“Emma.” Julian rapped on her door with the back of his knuckles. At least he was fairly sure it was Emma’s door. He’d never been inside her room at the London Institute. “Emma, are you awake? I know it’s late.” He heard her call for him to come in, her voice muffled through the thick wooden door. Inside, the room was much like his own, small with heavy blocks of Victorian-looking furniture. The bed was a solid four-poster with silk hangings.
Emma was lying on the covers, wearing an overwashed T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She rolled onto her side and grinned at him.
An overwhelming feeling of love hit him like a punch to the chest. Her hair was tied messily back and she was lying on a rumpled blanket with a plate of pastries next to her, and he had to stop in the middle of the room for a moment and catch his breath.
She waved a tart at him cheerily. “Banoffee,” she said. “Want some?”
He could have crossed the room in a few steps. Could have picked her up and swung her into his arms and held her. Could have told her how much he loved her. If they were any other couple, it would be that easy.
But nothing for them would ever be easy.
She was looking at him in puzzlement. “Is everything all right?”
He nodded, a little surprised at his own feelings. Usually he kept better control over himself. Maybe it was the conversation he’d had with Magnus. Maybe it had given him hope.
If there was one thing Julian’s life had taught him, it was that nothing was more dangerous than hope.
“Julian,” she said, setting the tart down and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “Would you please say something?”
He cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”
She groaned and flopped back against her pillows. “Okay, not that.”
Julian sat down at the foot of her bed as she cleared off her covers, setting aside the food and a few things she’d been looking at—he saw an old photograph of a girl carrying a blade that looked like Cortana, and another one of four boys in Edwardian clothes by the side of a river.
When she was done, she brushed off her hands again and turned a set face to his.
“How soon do we have to separate?” she said. Her voice was shaking a little. “As soon as the meeting is over in Alicante? What will we tell the kids?”
“I talked to Magnus,” Julian said. “He said we should go to the Inquisitor.”
Emma made an incredulous noise. “The Inquisitor? As in, the Council leader who enforces Laws?”
“Pretty sure Magnus knows who the Inquisitor is,” said Julian. “He’s Alec’s dad.”
She felt again what she had felt that night in the ballroom, as if the binding spell amplified their nearness into something else, a thing that dragged her mind back to that hill in Faerie, the memory of being wrapped up in Mark.
Mark’s mouth found hers. She heard him groan: He was kissing her hard and desperately; her body felt as if fire was pouring through it, turning her light as ashes.
Yet she could not forget Kieran kissing Mark in front of her, forceful and deliberate. It seemed she could not think of Mark now without thinking of Kieran, too. Could not see blue and gold eyes without seeing black and silver.
“Mark.” She spoke against his lips. His hands were on her, stirring her blood to soft heat. “This is not the right way to make yourself forget.”
He drew away from her. “I want to hold you,” he said. “I want it very badly.” He let go of her slowly, as if the motion were an effort. “But it would not be fair. Not to you or Kieran or myself. Not now.”
Cristina touched the back of his hand. “You must go to Kieran and make things right between you. He is too important a part of you, Mark.”
“You heard what the King said.” Mark let his head fall back against the wall. “He’ll kill Kieran for testifying. He’ll hunt him forever. That’s our doing.”
“He agreed to it—”
“Without knowing the truth! He agreed to it because he thought he loved me and I loved him—”
“Isn’t that true?” Cristina said. “And even if it wasn’t, he didn’t just forget that you fought. He forgot what he did. He forgot what he owes. He forgot his own guilt. And that is part of why he is so angry. Not at you, but at himself.”
Mark’s hand tightened on hers. “We owe each other now, Kieran and I,” he said. “I have endangered him. The Unseelie King knows he plans to testify. He’s sworn to hunt Kieran. Cristina, what do we do?”
“We try to keep him safe,” Cristina said. “Whether he testifies or not, the King won’t forgive him. We need to find a place Kieran will be protected.” Her chin jerked up as realization hit her. “I know exactly where. Mark, we must—”
There was a knock on the door. They stepped away from each other as it swung open; both of them had been expecting Kieran, and Mark’s disappointment when it turned out to be Magnus was clear.
Magnus was carrying two etched metal flasks and raised an eyebrow when he saw Mark’s expression. “I don’t know who you were waiting for, and I’m sorry I’m not it,” he said dryly. “But the antidote is ready.”
Cristina had expected a thrill of relief to go through her. Instead she felt nothing. She touched her left hand to her sore wrist and glanced toward Mark, who was staring at the floor.
“Don’t rush to thank me or anything,” said Magnus, handing them each a flask. “Profuse expressions of gratitude only embarrass me, though cash gifts are always welcome.”
“Thank you, Magnus,” Cristina said, blushing. She unscrewed the flask: A dark and bitter scent wafted from it, like the smell of pulque, a drink that Cristina had never liked.
Magnus held up a hand. “Wait until you’re in separate rooms to drink it,” he said. “In fact, you should spend at least a few hours apart so that the spell can settle properly. All the effects should be gone by tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Mark, and headed for the door. He paused there and looked back at Cristina. “I agree with you,” he said to her. “About Kieran. If there’s anything you can do to guarantee his safety—do it.”
He was gone noiselessly, with cat-soft footsteps. Magnus glanced at the cracked wall, and then at Cristina.
“Do I want to know?” he asked.
Cristina sighed. “Can a fire-message get outside the wards you put up?”
Magnus stared at the wall again, shook his head, and said, “You’d better give it to me. I’ll get it sent.”
She hesitated.
“I won’t read it, either,” he added irritably. “I promise.”
Cristina set down her flask, found paper, pen, and stele, and scribbled a message with a rune-signature before folding it and handing it to Magnus, who gave a low whistle when he saw the name of the recipient across the top. “Are you sure?”
She nodded with a resolution she didn’t feel. “Absolutely.”
27
ILL ANGELS ONLY
“Emma.” Julian rapped on her door with the back of his knuckles. At least he was fairly sure it was Emma’s door. He’d never been inside her room at the London Institute. “Emma, are you awake? I know it’s late.” He heard her call for him to come in, her voice muffled through the thick wooden door. Inside, the room was much like his own, small with heavy blocks of Victorian-looking furniture. The bed was a solid four-poster with silk hangings.
Emma was lying on the covers, wearing an overwashed T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She rolled onto her side and grinned at him.
An overwhelming feeling of love hit him like a punch to the chest. Her hair was tied messily back and she was lying on a rumpled blanket with a plate of pastries next to her, and he had to stop in the middle of the room for a moment and catch his breath.
She waved a tart at him cheerily. “Banoffee,” she said. “Want some?”
He could have crossed the room in a few steps. Could have picked her up and swung her into his arms and held her. Could have told her how much he loved her. If they were any other couple, it would be that easy.
But nothing for them would ever be easy.
She was looking at him in puzzlement. “Is everything all right?”
He nodded, a little surprised at his own feelings. Usually he kept better control over himself. Maybe it was the conversation he’d had with Magnus. Maybe it had given him hope.
If there was one thing Julian’s life had taught him, it was that nothing was more dangerous than hope.
“Julian,” she said, setting the tart down and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “Would you please say something?”
He cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”
She groaned and flopped back against her pillows. “Okay, not that.”
Julian sat down at the foot of her bed as she cleared off her covers, setting aside the food and a few things she’d been looking at—he saw an old photograph of a girl carrying a blade that looked like Cortana, and another one of four boys in Edwardian clothes by the side of a river.
When she was done, she brushed off her hands again and turned a set face to his.
“How soon do we have to separate?” she said. Her voice was shaking a little. “As soon as the meeting is over in Alicante? What will we tell the kids?”
“I talked to Magnus,” Julian said. “He said we should go to the Inquisitor.”
Emma made an incredulous noise. “The Inquisitor? As in, the Council leader who enforces Laws?”
“Pretty sure Magnus knows who the Inquisitor is,” said Julian. “He’s Alec’s dad.”
