Lord of Shadows
Page 78
She nodded. “I haven’t been back to Idris since the Dark War. It’ll be interesting.” She leaned forward then, and kissed first Jules and then Emma, quickly, on the cheek. “Take care of yourselves. I mean it.”
She flipped the hood up on her jacket and stepped outside, swallowed up almost instantly by shadows. Emma’s arm pressed briefly against Julian’s as she raised her hand to wave good-bye. In the distance, Julian heard the clang of the front gate.
“Jules,” she said, without turning her head. “I know you said Diana refused to try to take the Institute, but do you know why . . . ?”
“No,” he said. It was a single word, but there was venom in it. “On the topic of confessions, were you planning on telling the rest of Mark’s family why you dumped their brother with no warning?”
Emma looked astonished. “You’re angry that Mark and I broke up?”
“I guess you’ve dumped two of their brothers, if we’re really counting,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Who’s next? Ty?”
He knew immediately he’d gone too far. Ty was her little brother, just as he was Julian’s. Her face went very still.
“Screw you, Julian Blackthorn,” she said, spun on her heel, and stalked back upstairs.
* * *
Neither Julian nor Emma slept well that night, though each of them thought they were the only one troubled, and the other one was probably resting just fine.
* * *
“I think it’s time for you to get your first real Mark,” said Ty.
Only the three of them—Livvy, Ty, and Kit—were left in the parlor. Everyone else had gone to bed. Kit guessed from the quality of the darkness outside that it was probably three or four in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. It could be jet lag, or Portal lag, or whatever they called it; it could be the contagious relief of the others that they were all reunited again.
It could be an approximate six hundred cups of tea.
“I’ve had Marks,” said Kit. “You put that iratze on me.”
Livvy looked mildly curious but didn’t ask. She was sprawled in an armchair by the fire, her legs hooked over one side.
“I meant a permanent one,” said Ty. “This is the first real one we all get.” He held up his long-fingered right hand, the back toward Kit, showing him the graceful eye-shaped rune that identified all Shadowhunters. “Voyance. It clarifies Sight.”
“I can already see the Shadow World,” Kit pointed out. He took a bite out of a chocolate digestive biscuit. One of the few great foods England had to offer, in his opinion.
“You probably don’t see everything you could,” Livvy said, then held up her hands to indicate neutrality. “But you do what you want.”
“It’s the most painful rune to get,” said Ty. “But worthwhile.”
“Sure,” said Kit, idly picking up another biscuit—Livvy had sneaked a whole package from the pantry. “Sounds great.”
He looked up in surprise a moment later when Ty’s shadow fell across him; Ty was standing behind him, his stele out, his eyes bright. “Your dominant hand is your right,” he said, “so put that one out, toward me.”
Surprised, Kit choked on his cookie; Livvy sat bolt upright. “Ty,” she said. “Don’t; he doesn’t want one. He was just kidding.”
“I—” Kit started, but Ty had gone the color of old ivory and stepped back, looking dismayed. His eyes darted away from Kit’s. Livvy was starting to get up out of her chair.
“No— No, I do want one,” Kit said. “I would like the Mark. You’re right, it’s time I got a real one.”
The moment hung suspended; Livvy was half out of her chair. Ty blinked rapidly. Then he smiled, a little, and Kit’s heart resumed its normal beating. “Your right hand, then,” Ty said.
Kit put his hand out, and Ty was right: The Mark hurt. It felt like what he imagined getting a tattoo was like: a deep burning sting. By the time Ty was done, his eyes were watering.
Kit flexed his fingers, staring at his hand. He’d have this forever, this eye on the back of his hand, this thing that Ty had put there. He could never erase it or change it.
“I wonder,” Ty said, sliding his stele back into his belt, “where that house of Malcolm’s, in Cornwall, might be.”
“I can tell you exactly where it is,” said the girl standing by the fireplace. “It’s in Polperro.”
Kit stared. He was absolutely sure she hadn’t been standing there a moment ago. She was blond, very young, and—translucent. He could see the wallpaper right through her.
He couldn’t help himself. He yelled.
* * *
Bridget had led Emma to a bedroom she seemed to have picked out ahead of time, and Emma soon found out why: There were two height charts scribbled on the plaster, the kind you got by standing someone against a wall and drawing a line just above their head, with the date. One was marked Will Herondale, the other, James Carstairs.
A Carstairs room. Emma hugged her elbows and imagined Jem: his kind voice, his dark eyes. She missed him.
But that wasn’t all; after all, Jem and Will could have done their height charts in any room. In the nightstand drawer, Emma found a cluster of old photographs, most dating from the early 1900s.
Photographs of a group of four boys, at various stages of their lives. They seemed a lively bunch. Two of them—one blond, one dark-haired—were together in almost every photo, their arms slung around each other, both laughing. There was a girl with brown hair who looked a great deal like Tessa, but wasn’t Tessa. And then there was Tessa, looking exactly the same, with a gorgeously handsome man in his late twenties. The famous Will Herondale, Emma guessed. And there was a girl, with dark red hair and brown skin, and a serious look. There was a golden sword in her hands. Emma recognized it instantly, even without the inscription on the blade: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.
Cortana. Whoever the girl was in the photograph, she was a Carstairs.
On the back, someone had scrawled what looked like a line from a poem. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
Emma stared at it for a long time.
* * *
“There’s really no need for you to yell,” said the girl crossly. Her accent was very English. “I’m a ghost, that’s all. You act as if you haven’t seen one before.”
“I haven’t,” Kit said, nettled.
Livvy was on her feet. “Kit, what’s going on? Who are you talking to?”
“A ghost,” said Ty. “Who is it, Kit?”
“My name is Jessamine,” said the girl. “And just because you didn’t see me before doesn’t mean I wasn’t trying.”
“Her name is Jessamine,” Kit reported. “She says she’s been trying to get our attention.”
“A ghost,” said Ty, looking toward the fireplace. It was clear he couldn’t see Jessamine, but also clear he had a good idea where she was standing. “They say a ghost saved the London Institute during the Dark War. Was that her?”
Kit listened and repeated. “She says she did. She looks very smug about it.”
Jessamine glared.
“She also says she knows where Malcolm lived,” said Kit.
She flipped the hood up on her jacket and stepped outside, swallowed up almost instantly by shadows. Emma’s arm pressed briefly against Julian’s as she raised her hand to wave good-bye. In the distance, Julian heard the clang of the front gate.
“Jules,” she said, without turning her head. “I know you said Diana refused to try to take the Institute, but do you know why . . . ?”
“No,” he said. It was a single word, but there was venom in it. “On the topic of confessions, were you planning on telling the rest of Mark’s family why you dumped their brother with no warning?”
Emma looked astonished. “You’re angry that Mark and I broke up?”
“I guess you’ve dumped two of their brothers, if we’re really counting,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Who’s next? Ty?”
He knew immediately he’d gone too far. Ty was her little brother, just as he was Julian’s. Her face went very still.
“Screw you, Julian Blackthorn,” she said, spun on her heel, and stalked back upstairs.
* * *
Neither Julian nor Emma slept well that night, though each of them thought they were the only one troubled, and the other one was probably resting just fine.
* * *
“I think it’s time for you to get your first real Mark,” said Ty.
Only the three of them—Livvy, Ty, and Kit—were left in the parlor. Everyone else had gone to bed. Kit guessed from the quality of the darkness outside that it was probably three or four in the morning, but he wasn’t tired. It could be jet lag, or Portal lag, or whatever they called it; it could be the contagious relief of the others that they were all reunited again.
It could be an approximate six hundred cups of tea.
“I’ve had Marks,” said Kit. “You put that iratze on me.”
Livvy looked mildly curious but didn’t ask. She was sprawled in an armchair by the fire, her legs hooked over one side.
“I meant a permanent one,” said Ty. “This is the first real one we all get.” He held up his long-fingered right hand, the back toward Kit, showing him the graceful eye-shaped rune that identified all Shadowhunters. “Voyance. It clarifies Sight.”
“I can already see the Shadow World,” Kit pointed out. He took a bite out of a chocolate digestive biscuit. One of the few great foods England had to offer, in his opinion.
“You probably don’t see everything you could,” Livvy said, then held up her hands to indicate neutrality. “But you do what you want.”
“It’s the most painful rune to get,” said Ty. “But worthwhile.”
“Sure,” said Kit, idly picking up another biscuit—Livvy had sneaked a whole package from the pantry. “Sounds great.”
He looked up in surprise a moment later when Ty’s shadow fell across him; Ty was standing behind him, his stele out, his eyes bright. “Your dominant hand is your right,” he said, “so put that one out, toward me.”
Surprised, Kit choked on his cookie; Livvy sat bolt upright. “Ty,” she said. “Don’t; he doesn’t want one. He was just kidding.”
“I—” Kit started, but Ty had gone the color of old ivory and stepped back, looking dismayed. His eyes darted away from Kit’s. Livvy was starting to get up out of her chair.
“No— No, I do want one,” Kit said. “I would like the Mark. You’re right, it’s time I got a real one.”
The moment hung suspended; Livvy was half out of her chair. Ty blinked rapidly. Then he smiled, a little, and Kit’s heart resumed its normal beating. “Your right hand, then,” Ty said.
Kit put his hand out, and Ty was right: The Mark hurt. It felt like what he imagined getting a tattoo was like: a deep burning sting. By the time Ty was done, his eyes were watering.
Kit flexed his fingers, staring at his hand. He’d have this forever, this eye on the back of his hand, this thing that Ty had put there. He could never erase it or change it.
“I wonder,” Ty said, sliding his stele back into his belt, “where that house of Malcolm’s, in Cornwall, might be.”
“I can tell you exactly where it is,” said the girl standing by the fireplace. “It’s in Polperro.”
Kit stared. He was absolutely sure she hadn’t been standing there a moment ago. She was blond, very young, and—translucent. He could see the wallpaper right through her.
He couldn’t help himself. He yelled.
* * *
Bridget had led Emma to a bedroom she seemed to have picked out ahead of time, and Emma soon found out why: There were two height charts scribbled on the plaster, the kind you got by standing someone against a wall and drawing a line just above their head, with the date. One was marked Will Herondale, the other, James Carstairs.
A Carstairs room. Emma hugged her elbows and imagined Jem: his kind voice, his dark eyes. She missed him.
But that wasn’t all; after all, Jem and Will could have done their height charts in any room. In the nightstand drawer, Emma found a cluster of old photographs, most dating from the early 1900s.
Photographs of a group of four boys, at various stages of their lives. They seemed a lively bunch. Two of them—one blond, one dark-haired—were together in almost every photo, their arms slung around each other, both laughing. There was a girl with brown hair who looked a great deal like Tessa, but wasn’t Tessa. And then there was Tessa, looking exactly the same, with a gorgeously handsome man in his late twenties. The famous Will Herondale, Emma guessed. And there was a girl, with dark red hair and brown skin, and a serious look. There was a golden sword in her hands. Emma recognized it instantly, even without the inscription on the blade: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.
Cortana. Whoever the girl was in the photograph, she was a Carstairs.
On the back, someone had scrawled what looked like a line from a poem. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
Emma stared at it for a long time.
* * *
“There’s really no need for you to yell,” said the girl crossly. Her accent was very English. “I’m a ghost, that’s all. You act as if you haven’t seen one before.”
“I haven’t,” Kit said, nettled.
Livvy was on her feet. “Kit, what’s going on? Who are you talking to?”
“A ghost,” said Ty. “Who is it, Kit?”
“My name is Jessamine,” said the girl. “And just because you didn’t see me before doesn’t mean I wasn’t trying.”
“Her name is Jessamine,” Kit reported. “She says she’s been trying to get our attention.”
“A ghost,” said Ty, looking toward the fireplace. It was clear he couldn’t see Jessamine, but also clear he had a good idea where she was standing. “They say a ghost saved the London Institute during the Dark War. Was that her?”
Kit listened and repeated. “She says she did. She looks very smug about it.”
Jessamine glared.
“She also says she knows where Malcolm lived,” said Kit.
