Lord of Shadows
Page 92
“I have,” said Ty. He pointed.
Nearby was a large stall manned by a tall male witch with long braided gray hair. In front of the stall was a green baize table. Displayed on the table were antique birdcages made of white-painted wrought iron. Each one was quite pretty in its own right, and for a moment Kit thought that they were what was for sale.
Then he looked closer. Inside each cage was a small, trapped creature. An assortment of pixies, nixies, brownies, and even a goblin, whose wide eyes were nearly swollen shut—probably from so much proximity to cold iron. The other faeries were chattering mournfully and softly, their hands seizing at the bars and then falling away with low cries of pain.
Ty was white with distress. His hands trembled against his sides. Kit thought of Ty in the desert, stroking the small lizards, putting mice in his pockets, capturing weasels for company. Ty, whose heart went out to small and helpless living things. “We can’t leave them like that.”
“They’re probably selling them for blood and bones,” said Livvy, her voice shaking. “We have to do something.”
“You have no authority here, Shadowhunter.” A cool, clipped voice spun them around. A woman stood before them. Her skin was dark as mahogany, her hair like bronze and dressed high on her head. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars. She was dressed in a glacier-white pantsuit with high, sparkling heels. She could have been any age from eighteen to thirty.
She smiled when they looked at her. “Yes, I can recognize a Shadowhunter, even those clumsily hiding their Marks,” she said. “I suggest you leave the Market before someone less friendly than I am notices you.”
Both the twins had made subtle gestures toward their weapons belts, their hands hovering near the hilts of their seraph blades. Kit knew this was his moment: his moment to show how well he could handle a Market and its denizens.
Not to mention preventing a bloodbath.
“I am an emissary of Barnabas Hale,” he said. “Of the Los Angeles Market. These Shadowhunters are under my protection. Who are you?”
“Hypatia Vex,” she said. “I co-run this Market.” She narrowed her starry eyes at Kit. “A representative of Barnabas, you say? Why should I believe you?”
“The only people who know about Barnabas Hale,” said Kit, “are people he wants to know.”
She nodded slightly. “And the Shadowhunters? Barnabas sent them, too?”
“He needs me to consult a warlock regarding a peculiar magical object,” said Kit. He was flying high now, high on the lies and the trickery and the con. “They have it in their possession.”
“Very well, then. If Barnabas sent you to consult a warlock, which warlock was it?”
“It was me.” A deep voice spoke from the shadows.
Kit turned to see a figure standing in front of a large dark green tent. It had been a male voice, but otherwise the figure was too covered—massive robe, cloak, hood, and gloves—to discern gender. “I’ll take this, Hypatia.”
Hypatia blinked slowly. It was like the stars vanishing and then reappearing from behind a cloud. “If you insist.”
She made as if to turn and stalk away, then paused, looking back over her shoulder at Livvy and Ty. “If you pity those creatures, those faeries, dying inside their cages,” she said, “think of this: If it were not for the Cold Peace your people insisted on, they would not be here. Look to the blood on your own hands, Shadowhunters.”
She disappeared between two tents. Ty’s expression was full of distress. “But my hands—”
“It’s an expression.” Livvy put her arm around her twin, hugging him tightly to her side. “It’s not your fault, Ty, she’s just being cruel.”
“We should go,” Kit said to the robed and hooded warlock, who nodded.
“Come with me,” he said, and slipped into his tent. The rest of them followed.
* * *
The inside of the tent was remarkably clean and plain, with a wooden floor, a simple cot bed, and several shelves filled with books, maps, bottles of powder, candles in different colors, and jars of alarming-colored liquids. Ty exhaled, leaning back against one of the tent poles. Relief was printed clearly on his face as he basked in the relative calm and quiet. Kit wanted to go over to Ty and ask him if he was all right after the cacophony of the Market, but Livvy was already there, brushing the sweat-damp hair off her brother’s forehead. Ty nodded, said something to her Kit couldn’t hear.
“Come,” said the warlock. “Sit down with me.”
He gestured. In the center of the room was a small table surrounded by chairs. The Shadowhunters sat down, and the hooded warlock settled opposite them. In the flickering light inside the tent, Kit could glimpse the edge of a mask beneath the hood, obscuring the warlock’s face.
“You may call me Shade,” he said. “It’s not my last name, but it will do.”
“Why did you lie for us?” Livvy said. “Out there. You don’t have any agreement with Barnabas Hale.”
“Oh, I have a few,” said Shade. “Not regarding you, to be fair, but I do know the man. And I’m curious that you do. Not many Shadowhunters are even aware of his name.”
“I’m not a Shadowhunter,” said Kit.
“Oh, you are,” said Shade. “You’re that new Herondale, to be exact.”
Livvy’s voice was sharp. “How do you know that? Tell us now.”
“Because of your face,” he said, to Kit. “Your pretty, pretty face. You’re not the first Herondale I’ve met, not even the first with those eyes, like distilled twilight. I don’t know why you only have one Mark, but I can certainly make a guess.” He templed his hands under his chin. Kit thought he saw a gleam of green skin at his wrist, just below the edge of his glove. “I have to say I never thought I’d have the pleasure of entertaining the Lost Herondale.”
“I’m not all that entertained, actually,” said Kit. “We could put on a movie.”
Livvy leaned forward. “Sorry,” she said. “He gets like this when he’s uncomfortable. Sarcastic.”
“Who knew that was an inherited trait?” Shade held out a gloved hand. “Now, show me what you’ve brought. I assume that wasn’t a lie?”
Ty reached into his jacket and brought out the aletheia crystal. In the candlelight, it glittered more than ever.
Shade chuckled. “A memory-holder,” he said. “It looks like you might get your movie, after all.” He reached out, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ty allowed him to take it.
Shade set the crystal delicately in the center of the table. He passed a hand over it, then frowned and removed his glove. As Kit had thought, the skin of the hand he revealed was deep green. He wondered why Shade would bother covering something like that up, here in the Shadow Market, where warlocks were commonplace.
Shade passed his bare hand over the crystal and murmured. The candles in the room began to gutter. His murmuring increased—Kit recognized the words as Latin, which he’d taken three months of in school before he decided there was no point in knowing a language you couldn’t converse in with anyone but the Pope, who he was unlikely to meet.
He had to admit now that it had a weight to it, though, a sense that each word was freighted with a deeper meaning. The candles went out entirely, but the room wasn’t dark: The crystal was glowing, brighter and brighter under Shade’s touch.
Nearby was a large stall manned by a tall male witch with long braided gray hair. In front of the stall was a green baize table. Displayed on the table were antique birdcages made of white-painted wrought iron. Each one was quite pretty in its own right, and for a moment Kit thought that they were what was for sale.
Then he looked closer. Inside each cage was a small, trapped creature. An assortment of pixies, nixies, brownies, and even a goblin, whose wide eyes were nearly swollen shut—probably from so much proximity to cold iron. The other faeries were chattering mournfully and softly, their hands seizing at the bars and then falling away with low cries of pain.
Ty was white with distress. His hands trembled against his sides. Kit thought of Ty in the desert, stroking the small lizards, putting mice in his pockets, capturing weasels for company. Ty, whose heart went out to small and helpless living things. “We can’t leave them like that.”
“They’re probably selling them for blood and bones,” said Livvy, her voice shaking. “We have to do something.”
“You have no authority here, Shadowhunter.” A cool, clipped voice spun them around. A woman stood before them. Her skin was dark as mahogany, her hair like bronze and dressed high on her head. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars. She was dressed in a glacier-white pantsuit with high, sparkling heels. She could have been any age from eighteen to thirty.
She smiled when they looked at her. “Yes, I can recognize a Shadowhunter, even those clumsily hiding their Marks,” she said. “I suggest you leave the Market before someone less friendly than I am notices you.”
Both the twins had made subtle gestures toward their weapons belts, their hands hovering near the hilts of their seraph blades. Kit knew this was his moment: his moment to show how well he could handle a Market and its denizens.
Not to mention preventing a bloodbath.
“I am an emissary of Barnabas Hale,” he said. “Of the Los Angeles Market. These Shadowhunters are under my protection. Who are you?”
“Hypatia Vex,” she said. “I co-run this Market.” She narrowed her starry eyes at Kit. “A representative of Barnabas, you say? Why should I believe you?”
“The only people who know about Barnabas Hale,” said Kit, “are people he wants to know.”
She nodded slightly. “And the Shadowhunters? Barnabas sent them, too?”
“He needs me to consult a warlock regarding a peculiar magical object,” said Kit. He was flying high now, high on the lies and the trickery and the con. “They have it in their possession.”
“Very well, then. If Barnabas sent you to consult a warlock, which warlock was it?”
“It was me.” A deep voice spoke from the shadows.
Kit turned to see a figure standing in front of a large dark green tent. It had been a male voice, but otherwise the figure was too covered—massive robe, cloak, hood, and gloves—to discern gender. “I’ll take this, Hypatia.”
Hypatia blinked slowly. It was like the stars vanishing and then reappearing from behind a cloud. “If you insist.”
She made as if to turn and stalk away, then paused, looking back over her shoulder at Livvy and Ty. “If you pity those creatures, those faeries, dying inside their cages,” she said, “think of this: If it were not for the Cold Peace your people insisted on, they would not be here. Look to the blood on your own hands, Shadowhunters.”
She disappeared between two tents. Ty’s expression was full of distress. “But my hands—”
“It’s an expression.” Livvy put her arm around her twin, hugging him tightly to her side. “It’s not your fault, Ty, she’s just being cruel.”
“We should go,” Kit said to the robed and hooded warlock, who nodded.
“Come with me,” he said, and slipped into his tent. The rest of them followed.
* * *
The inside of the tent was remarkably clean and plain, with a wooden floor, a simple cot bed, and several shelves filled with books, maps, bottles of powder, candles in different colors, and jars of alarming-colored liquids. Ty exhaled, leaning back against one of the tent poles. Relief was printed clearly on his face as he basked in the relative calm and quiet. Kit wanted to go over to Ty and ask him if he was all right after the cacophony of the Market, but Livvy was already there, brushing the sweat-damp hair off her brother’s forehead. Ty nodded, said something to her Kit couldn’t hear.
“Come,” said the warlock. “Sit down with me.”
He gestured. In the center of the room was a small table surrounded by chairs. The Shadowhunters sat down, and the hooded warlock settled opposite them. In the flickering light inside the tent, Kit could glimpse the edge of a mask beneath the hood, obscuring the warlock’s face.
“You may call me Shade,” he said. “It’s not my last name, but it will do.”
“Why did you lie for us?” Livvy said. “Out there. You don’t have any agreement with Barnabas Hale.”
“Oh, I have a few,” said Shade. “Not regarding you, to be fair, but I do know the man. And I’m curious that you do. Not many Shadowhunters are even aware of his name.”
“I’m not a Shadowhunter,” said Kit.
“Oh, you are,” said Shade. “You’re that new Herondale, to be exact.”
Livvy’s voice was sharp. “How do you know that? Tell us now.”
“Because of your face,” he said, to Kit. “Your pretty, pretty face. You’re not the first Herondale I’ve met, not even the first with those eyes, like distilled twilight. I don’t know why you only have one Mark, but I can certainly make a guess.” He templed his hands under his chin. Kit thought he saw a gleam of green skin at his wrist, just below the edge of his glove. “I have to say I never thought I’d have the pleasure of entertaining the Lost Herondale.”
“I’m not all that entertained, actually,” said Kit. “We could put on a movie.”
Livvy leaned forward. “Sorry,” she said. “He gets like this when he’s uncomfortable. Sarcastic.”
“Who knew that was an inherited trait?” Shade held out a gloved hand. “Now, show me what you’ve brought. I assume that wasn’t a lie?”
Ty reached into his jacket and brought out the aletheia crystal. In the candlelight, it glittered more than ever.
Shade chuckled. “A memory-holder,” he said. “It looks like you might get your movie, after all.” He reached out, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ty allowed him to take it.
Shade set the crystal delicately in the center of the table. He passed a hand over it, then frowned and removed his glove. As Kit had thought, the skin of the hand he revealed was deep green. He wondered why Shade would bother covering something like that up, here in the Shadow Market, where warlocks were commonplace.
Shade passed his bare hand over the crystal and murmured. The candles in the room began to gutter. His murmuring increased—Kit recognized the words as Latin, which he’d taken three months of in school before he decided there was no point in knowing a language you couldn’t converse in with anyone but the Pope, who he was unlikely to meet.
He had to admit now that it had a weight to it, though, a sense that each word was freighted with a deeper meaning. The candles went out entirely, but the room wasn’t dark: The crystal was glowing, brighter and brighter under Shade’s touch.
