Lord of Shadows
Page 64
“It’s white,” she said, frowning.
For death and mourning, the color’s white. White was funerals for Shadowhunters: There was white gear for state funerals, and white silk was placed over the eyes of dead Shadowhunters when their bodies were burned.
“White doesn’t mean anything to faeries,” he said. “To them, it’s the color of flowers and natural things.”
“I know, it’s just . . .” She sighed and began to pad barefoot up the stairs to the dais where the bed was centered. She stopped to examine the enormous mattress, shaking her head in wonderment. “Okay maybe I didn’t immediately warm to Fergus when we met,” she said. Her face was glowing from the heat of the water, her cheeks pink. “But he would run an awesome bed-and-breakfast, you have to admit. He’d probably slip a mint tenderly under your pillow every night.”
The gown fell away slightly as she climbed onto the bed, and Julian realized to his horror that it was slit up the side almost to her hip. Her long legs flashed against the material as she settled herself onto the bedspread.
The universe didn’t just hate him, it was trying to kill him.
“Give me some more pillows,” Emma demanded, and snatched several of them from beside Julian before he could move. He kept firm hold of the one on his lap and looked at Emma levelly.
“No stealing the covers,” he said.
“I would never.” She pushed the pillows behind her, making a pile she could lean against. Her damp hair adhered to her neck and shoulders, long locks of pale wet gold.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying. Emma rarely cried. He realized her chatter since she’d come into the bedroom was false cheer, something he ought to have known—he, who knew Emma better than anyone.
“Em,” he said, unable to help himself, or the gentleness in his voice. “Are you all right? What happened at the Unseelie Court—”
“I just feel so stupid,” she said, the bravado draining from her voice. Under the artifice was Emma, his Emma, with all her force and intelligence and bravery. Emma, sounding shattered. “I know faeries play tricks. I know they lie without lying. And yet the phouka said to me—he said if I came into Faerie, I would see the face of someone I had loved and lost.”
“Very Fair Folk,” said Julian. “You saw his face, your father’s face, but it wasn’t him. It was an illusion.”
“It was like I couldn’t process it,” she said. “My whole mind was clouded. All I could think was that I had my father back.”
“Your mind probably was clouded,” said Julian. “There are all sorts of subtle enchantments that can blur your thoughts here. And it happened so quickly. I didn’t suspect it was an illusion either. I’ve never heard of one so strong.”
She didn’t say anything. She was leaning back on her hands, her body outlined by the white gown. He felt a flash of almost-pain as if there were a key embedded under his flesh, tightening his skin every time it was turned. Memories attacked his mind ruthlessly—what it was like to slide his hands over her body, the way her teeth felt against his lower lip. The arch of her body fitting into the arch of his: a double crescent, an unraveled infinity sign.
He’d always thought desire was meant to be a pleasurable feeling. He’d never thought it could cut like this, like razors under his skin. He’d thought before that night on the beach with Emma that he wanted her more than anyone had ever wanted. He’d thought the wanting might kill him. But now he knew imagination was a pale thing. That even when it bled from him in the form of paint on canvas, it couldn’t capture the richness of her skin on his, the sweet-hot taste of her mouth. Wanting wouldn’t kill him, he thought, but knowing what he was missing might.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, hard. Unfortunately, he’d bitten them down too far to do much damage.
“Seeing that thing turn out not to be my father—it made me realize how much of my life was an illusion,” Emma said. “I spent so much time looking for revenge, but finding it didn’t make me happy. Cameron didn’t make me happy. I thought all these things would make me happy, but it was all an illusion.” She turned toward him, her eyes wide and impossibly dark. “You’re one of the only real things in my life, Julian.”
He could feel his heart beating through his body. Every other emotion—his jealousy of Mark, the pain of separation from Emma, his worry for the children, his fear of what the Seelie Court held for them—faded. Emma was looking at him and her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted and if she leaned toward him, if she wanted him at all, he would give up and break down and apart. Even if it meant betraying his brother, he would do it. He would pull her toward him and bury himself in her, in her hair and her skin and her body.
It would be a thing he would remember later with agony that felt like white-hot knives. It would be a further reminder of everything he could never really have. And he would hate himself for hurting Mark. But none of that would stop him. He knew how far his willpower went, and he had reached its limit. Already his body was shaking, his breath quickening. He had only to reach out—
“I want to be parabatai again,” she said. “The way we were before.”
The words exploded like a blow inside his head. She didn’t want him; she wanted to be parabatai, and that was it. He’d been sitting there thinking of what he wanted and how much pain he could take, but it didn’t matter if she didn’t want him. How had he been so stupid?
He spoke evenly. “We’ll always be parabatai, Emma. It’s for life.”
“It’s been weird ever since we—ever since I started dating Mark,” she said, holding his gaze with her own. “But it’s not because of Mark. It’s because of us. What we did.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “There’s no rule book for this, no guidance. But we don’t want to hurt each other, so we won’t.”
“There’ve been parabatai in the past who started hating each other. Think of Lucian Graymark and Valentine Morgenstern.”
“That won’t happen to us. We chose each other when we were children. We chose each other again when we were fourteen. I chose you, and you chose me. That’s what the parabatai ceremony is, really, isn’t it? It’s a way of sealing that promise. The one that says that I will always choose you.”
She leaned against his arm, just the lightest touch of her shoulder against his, but it lit up his body like fireworks over the Santa Monica Pier. “Jules?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“I will always choose you, too,” she said, and, laying her head on his shoulder, shut her eyes.
* * *
Cristina woke out of an uneasy sleep with a start. The room was dim; she was curled on the foot of the bed, her legs drawn up under her. Kieran was sleeping a drugged sleep propped against pillows, and Mark was on the floor, tangled in blankets.
Two hours, Nene had said. She had to check on Kieran every two hours. She looked again at Mark, decided she couldn’t wake him, sighed, and rose to a sitting position, edging up the bed toward the faerie prince.
Many people looked calm in their sleep, but not Kieran. He was breathing hard, eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. His hands moved restlessly over the bedcovers. Still, he did not wake when she leaned forward to push up the back of his shirt with awkward fingers.
For death and mourning, the color’s white. White was funerals for Shadowhunters: There was white gear for state funerals, and white silk was placed over the eyes of dead Shadowhunters when their bodies were burned.
“White doesn’t mean anything to faeries,” he said. “To them, it’s the color of flowers and natural things.”
“I know, it’s just . . .” She sighed and began to pad barefoot up the stairs to the dais where the bed was centered. She stopped to examine the enormous mattress, shaking her head in wonderment. “Okay maybe I didn’t immediately warm to Fergus when we met,” she said. Her face was glowing from the heat of the water, her cheeks pink. “But he would run an awesome bed-and-breakfast, you have to admit. He’d probably slip a mint tenderly under your pillow every night.”
The gown fell away slightly as she climbed onto the bed, and Julian realized to his horror that it was slit up the side almost to her hip. Her long legs flashed against the material as she settled herself onto the bedspread.
The universe didn’t just hate him, it was trying to kill him.
“Give me some more pillows,” Emma demanded, and snatched several of them from beside Julian before he could move. He kept firm hold of the one on his lap and looked at Emma levelly.
“No stealing the covers,” he said.
“I would never.” She pushed the pillows behind her, making a pile she could lean against. Her damp hair adhered to her neck and shoulders, long locks of pale wet gold.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying. Emma rarely cried. He realized her chatter since she’d come into the bedroom was false cheer, something he ought to have known—he, who knew Emma better than anyone.
“Em,” he said, unable to help himself, or the gentleness in his voice. “Are you all right? What happened at the Unseelie Court—”
“I just feel so stupid,” she said, the bravado draining from her voice. Under the artifice was Emma, his Emma, with all her force and intelligence and bravery. Emma, sounding shattered. “I know faeries play tricks. I know they lie without lying. And yet the phouka said to me—he said if I came into Faerie, I would see the face of someone I had loved and lost.”
“Very Fair Folk,” said Julian. “You saw his face, your father’s face, but it wasn’t him. It was an illusion.”
“It was like I couldn’t process it,” she said. “My whole mind was clouded. All I could think was that I had my father back.”
“Your mind probably was clouded,” said Julian. “There are all sorts of subtle enchantments that can blur your thoughts here. And it happened so quickly. I didn’t suspect it was an illusion either. I’ve never heard of one so strong.”
She didn’t say anything. She was leaning back on her hands, her body outlined by the white gown. He felt a flash of almost-pain as if there were a key embedded under his flesh, tightening his skin every time it was turned. Memories attacked his mind ruthlessly—what it was like to slide his hands over her body, the way her teeth felt against his lower lip. The arch of her body fitting into the arch of his: a double crescent, an unraveled infinity sign.
He’d always thought desire was meant to be a pleasurable feeling. He’d never thought it could cut like this, like razors under his skin. He’d thought before that night on the beach with Emma that he wanted her more than anyone had ever wanted. He’d thought the wanting might kill him. But now he knew imagination was a pale thing. That even when it bled from him in the form of paint on canvas, it couldn’t capture the richness of her skin on his, the sweet-hot taste of her mouth. Wanting wouldn’t kill him, he thought, but knowing what he was missing might.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, hard. Unfortunately, he’d bitten them down too far to do much damage.
“Seeing that thing turn out not to be my father—it made me realize how much of my life was an illusion,” Emma said. “I spent so much time looking for revenge, but finding it didn’t make me happy. Cameron didn’t make me happy. I thought all these things would make me happy, but it was all an illusion.” She turned toward him, her eyes wide and impossibly dark. “You’re one of the only real things in my life, Julian.”
He could feel his heart beating through his body. Every other emotion—his jealousy of Mark, the pain of separation from Emma, his worry for the children, his fear of what the Seelie Court held for them—faded. Emma was looking at him and her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted and if she leaned toward him, if she wanted him at all, he would give up and break down and apart. Even if it meant betraying his brother, he would do it. He would pull her toward him and bury himself in her, in her hair and her skin and her body.
It would be a thing he would remember later with agony that felt like white-hot knives. It would be a further reminder of everything he could never really have. And he would hate himself for hurting Mark. But none of that would stop him. He knew how far his willpower went, and he had reached its limit. Already his body was shaking, his breath quickening. He had only to reach out—
“I want to be parabatai again,” she said. “The way we were before.”
The words exploded like a blow inside his head. She didn’t want him; she wanted to be parabatai, and that was it. He’d been sitting there thinking of what he wanted and how much pain he could take, but it didn’t matter if she didn’t want him. How had he been so stupid?
He spoke evenly. “We’ll always be parabatai, Emma. It’s for life.”
“It’s been weird ever since we—ever since I started dating Mark,” she said, holding his gaze with her own. “But it’s not because of Mark. It’s because of us. What we did.”
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “There’s no rule book for this, no guidance. But we don’t want to hurt each other, so we won’t.”
“There’ve been parabatai in the past who started hating each other. Think of Lucian Graymark and Valentine Morgenstern.”
“That won’t happen to us. We chose each other when we were children. We chose each other again when we were fourteen. I chose you, and you chose me. That’s what the parabatai ceremony is, really, isn’t it? It’s a way of sealing that promise. The one that says that I will always choose you.”
She leaned against his arm, just the lightest touch of her shoulder against his, but it lit up his body like fireworks over the Santa Monica Pier. “Jules?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“I will always choose you, too,” she said, and, laying her head on his shoulder, shut her eyes.
* * *
Cristina woke out of an uneasy sleep with a start. The room was dim; she was curled on the foot of the bed, her legs drawn up under her. Kieran was sleeping a drugged sleep propped against pillows, and Mark was on the floor, tangled in blankets.
Two hours, Nene had said. She had to check on Kieran every two hours. She looked again at Mark, decided she couldn’t wake him, sighed, and rose to a sitting position, edging up the bed toward the faerie prince.
Many people looked calm in their sleep, but not Kieran. He was breathing hard, eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. His hands moved restlessly over the bedcovers. Still, he did not wake when she leaned forward to push up the back of his shirt with awkward fingers.
