Lord of Shadows
Page 27
“Emma,” he said. “You do not and cannot understand, and I cannot explain to you—”
“I bet you can’t,” she said. “Look, you know I haven’t always been your biggest fan, but I thought a lot better of you than this.”
A muscle twitched in his face. His jaw was rigid. “As I said. You cannot understand, and I cannot explain.”
“It would be one thing,” Emma said, “if you’d just been two-timing, which I still would think was despicable, but—Zara? You’re the reason she’s here. You know we aren’t— You know Julian has to be careful.”
“He should not worry too much,” said Diego tonelessly. “Zara is only interested in what profits her. I do not think she has any interest in Arthur’s secrets, only in getting attention from the Council for completing this mission successfully.”
“Easy for you to assume.”
“I have reasons for everything I do, Emma,” he said. “Maybe Cristina does not know them now, but one day she will.”
“Diego, everyone has reasons for everything they do. Malcolm had reasons for what he did.”
Diego’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Do not compare me to Malcolm Fade.”
“Because he was a warlock?” Emma’s voice was low, dangerous. “Because you think like your fiancée does? About the Cold Peace? About warlocks, and faeries? About Mark?”
“Because he was a murderer.” Diego spoke through his teeth. “Whatever else you think of me, Emma, I am not a senseless bigot. I do not believe Downworlders are lesser, to be registered or to be tortured—”
“But you admit Zara does,” said Emma.
“I have never told her anything,” he said.
“Maybe you can understand why I’m wondering how you could prefer her to Cristina,” Emma said.
Diego tensed—and shouted. Emma had forgotten how fast he could move, despite his bulk: He leaped back, cursing and kicking out with his left foot. Muttering in pain, he kicked off his shoe. Columns of ants marched over his ankle, scurrying up his leg.
“Oh, dear,” said Emma. “You must have stood on a red-ant hill. You know, accidentally.”
Diego slapped the ants away, still cursing. He’d kicked away part of the top of the mound of dirt, and ants were pouring out of it.
Emma stepped back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re not poisonous.”
“You tricked me into standing on an anthill?” He had shoved his foot back into his shoe, but Emma knew he’d have itchy bites for a few days unless he used an iratze.
“Cristina made me promise not to touch you, so I had to get creative,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t have lied to my best friend. Desgraciado mentiroso.”
He stared at her.
Emma sighed. “I hope that meant what I think it meant. I’d hate to have just called you a rusty bucket or something.”
“No,” he said. To her surprise, he sounded wearily amused. “It meant what you thought it meant.”
“Good.” She stalked back toward the house. She was almost out of earshot when he called after her. She turned and saw him standing where she’d left him, apparently heedless of the ants or the hot sun beating down on his shoulders.
“Believe me, Emma,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear him, “no one hates me more than I hate myself right now.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked. Emma didn’t shout, but she knew the words carried. He looked at her for a long moment, silently, before she walked away.
* * *
The day stayed hot until the late afternoon, when a storm rolled in over the ocean. The Centurions had left before noon, and Emma couldn’t help but stare out the windows anxiously as the sun set behind a mass of black and gray clouds on the horizon, shot through with heat lightning.
“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Dru asked, her hands worrying the hilt of her throwing knife. “Aren’t they out in a boat? It looks like a bad storm.”
“We don’t know what they’re doing,” Emma said. She almost added that thanks to the Centurions’ snobbish desire to conceal their activities from the Institute’s Shadowhunters, it would be very difficult to rescue them if something dangerous did happen, but she saw the look on Dru’s face and didn’t. Dru had practically hero-worshipped Diego—despite everything, she was probably still fond of him.
Emma felt briefly guilty about the ants.
“They’ll be fine,” said Cristina reassuringly. “Centurions are very careful.”
Livvy called Dru over to fence with her, and Dru trailed off toward where Ty, Kit, and Livvy stood together on a training mat. Somehow Kit had been convinced to don training gear. He looked like a mini Jace, Emma thought with amusement, with his blond curls and angular cheekbones.
Behind them, Diana was showing Mark a training stance. Emma blinked—Julian had been there, a moment ago. She was sure of it.
“He went to check on your uncle,” Cristina said. “Something about him not liking storms.”
“No, it’s Tavvy who doesn’t like . . .” Emma’s voice trailed off. Tavvy was sitting in the corner of the training room, reading a book. She remembered all the times Julian had disappeared during storms, claiming Tavvy was frightened of them.
She slid Cortana into its sheath. “I’ll be back.”
Cristina watched her go with troubled eyes. No one else seemed to notice as she slipped out the training room door and down the hallway. The massive windows spaced along the corridor let in a peculiar gray light, hazed with pinpoints of silver.
She reached the door to the attic and ran up the stairs; though she didn’t bother to conceal the sound of her footfalls, neither Arthur nor Julian seemed to have noticed her when she entered the main attic room.
The windows were tightly closed and sealed with paper, all except one, over the desk at which Arthur sat. The paper had been torn away from it, showing clouds racing across the sky, colliding and untangling like thick rounds of gray and black yarn.
Trays of uneaten food were scattered on Arthur’s several desks. The room smelled like rot and mildew. Emma swallowed, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming.
Arthur was slumped in his desk chair, lank hair falling over his eyes. “I want them to go,” he was saying. “I don’t like having them here.”
“I know.” Julian spoke with a gentleness that surprised Emma. How could he not be angry? She was angry—angry about everything that had conspired to force Julian to grow up years too fast. That had deprived him of a childhood. How could he look at Arthur and not think of that? “I want them to go too, but there’s nothing I can do to send them away. We have to be patient.”
“I need my medicine,” Arthur whispered. “Where is Malcolm?”
Emma winced at the look on Julian’s face—and Arthur seemed suddenly to notice her. He raised his eyes, their gaze fixing on her—no, not on her. On her sword.
“Cortana,” he said. “Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, ‘Mercy is better than revenge.’”
“I bet you can’t,” she said. “Look, you know I haven’t always been your biggest fan, but I thought a lot better of you than this.”
A muscle twitched in his face. His jaw was rigid. “As I said. You cannot understand, and I cannot explain.”
“It would be one thing,” Emma said, “if you’d just been two-timing, which I still would think was despicable, but—Zara? You’re the reason she’s here. You know we aren’t— You know Julian has to be careful.”
“He should not worry too much,” said Diego tonelessly. “Zara is only interested in what profits her. I do not think she has any interest in Arthur’s secrets, only in getting attention from the Council for completing this mission successfully.”
“Easy for you to assume.”
“I have reasons for everything I do, Emma,” he said. “Maybe Cristina does not know them now, but one day she will.”
“Diego, everyone has reasons for everything they do. Malcolm had reasons for what he did.”
Diego’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Do not compare me to Malcolm Fade.”
“Because he was a warlock?” Emma’s voice was low, dangerous. “Because you think like your fiancée does? About the Cold Peace? About warlocks, and faeries? About Mark?”
“Because he was a murderer.” Diego spoke through his teeth. “Whatever else you think of me, Emma, I am not a senseless bigot. I do not believe Downworlders are lesser, to be registered or to be tortured—”
“But you admit Zara does,” said Emma.
“I have never told her anything,” he said.
“Maybe you can understand why I’m wondering how you could prefer her to Cristina,” Emma said.
Diego tensed—and shouted. Emma had forgotten how fast he could move, despite his bulk: He leaped back, cursing and kicking out with his left foot. Muttering in pain, he kicked off his shoe. Columns of ants marched over his ankle, scurrying up his leg.
“Oh, dear,” said Emma. “You must have stood on a red-ant hill. You know, accidentally.”
Diego slapped the ants away, still cursing. He’d kicked away part of the top of the mound of dirt, and ants were pouring out of it.
Emma stepped back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re not poisonous.”
“You tricked me into standing on an anthill?” He had shoved his foot back into his shoe, but Emma knew he’d have itchy bites for a few days unless he used an iratze.
“Cristina made me promise not to touch you, so I had to get creative,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t have lied to my best friend. Desgraciado mentiroso.”
He stared at her.
Emma sighed. “I hope that meant what I think it meant. I’d hate to have just called you a rusty bucket or something.”
“No,” he said. To her surprise, he sounded wearily amused. “It meant what you thought it meant.”
“Good.” She stalked back toward the house. She was almost out of earshot when he called after her. She turned and saw him standing where she’d left him, apparently heedless of the ants or the hot sun beating down on his shoulders.
“Believe me, Emma,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear him, “no one hates me more than I hate myself right now.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked. Emma didn’t shout, but she knew the words carried. He looked at her for a long moment, silently, before she walked away.
* * *
The day stayed hot until the late afternoon, when a storm rolled in over the ocean. The Centurions had left before noon, and Emma couldn’t help but stare out the windows anxiously as the sun set behind a mass of black and gray clouds on the horizon, shot through with heat lightning.
“Do you think they’ll be okay?” Dru asked, her hands worrying the hilt of her throwing knife. “Aren’t they out in a boat? It looks like a bad storm.”
“We don’t know what they’re doing,” Emma said. She almost added that thanks to the Centurions’ snobbish desire to conceal their activities from the Institute’s Shadowhunters, it would be very difficult to rescue them if something dangerous did happen, but she saw the look on Dru’s face and didn’t. Dru had practically hero-worshipped Diego—despite everything, she was probably still fond of him.
Emma felt briefly guilty about the ants.
“They’ll be fine,” said Cristina reassuringly. “Centurions are very careful.”
Livvy called Dru over to fence with her, and Dru trailed off toward where Ty, Kit, and Livvy stood together on a training mat. Somehow Kit had been convinced to don training gear. He looked like a mini Jace, Emma thought with amusement, with his blond curls and angular cheekbones.
Behind them, Diana was showing Mark a training stance. Emma blinked—Julian had been there, a moment ago. She was sure of it.
“He went to check on your uncle,” Cristina said. “Something about him not liking storms.”
“No, it’s Tavvy who doesn’t like . . .” Emma’s voice trailed off. Tavvy was sitting in the corner of the training room, reading a book. She remembered all the times Julian had disappeared during storms, claiming Tavvy was frightened of them.
She slid Cortana into its sheath. “I’ll be back.”
Cristina watched her go with troubled eyes. No one else seemed to notice as she slipped out the training room door and down the hallway. The massive windows spaced along the corridor let in a peculiar gray light, hazed with pinpoints of silver.
She reached the door to the attic and ran up the stairs; though she didn’t bother to conceal the sound of her footfalls, neither Arthur nor Julian seemed to have noticed her when she entered the main attic room.
The windows were tightly closed and sealed with paper, all except one, over the desk at which Arthur sat. The paper had been torn away from it, showing clouds racing across the sky, colliding and untangling like thick rounds of gray and black yarn.
Trays of uneaten food were scattered on Arthur’s several desks. The room smelled like rot and mildew. Emma swallowed, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming.
Arthur was slumped in his desk chair, lank hair falling over his eyes. “I want them to go,” he was saying. “I don’t like having them here.”
“I know.” Julian spoke with a gentleness that surprised Emma. How could he not be angry? She was angry—angry about everything that had conspired to force Julian to grow up years too fast. That had deprived him of a childhood. How could he look at Arthur and not think of that? “I want them to go too, but there’s nothing I can do to send them away. We have to be patient.”
“I need my medicine,” Arthur whispered. “Where is Malcolm?”
Emma winced at the look on Julian’s face—and Arthur seemed suddenly to notice her. He raised his eyes, their gaze fixing on her—no, not on her. On her sword.
“Cortana,” he said. “Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, ‘Mercy is better than revenge.’”
