Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 44
“Julian’s not here,” said Kit. “And I don’t know if I want him cutting my hair.”
“He’s not bad at it.” Ty dropped his hand. “You said your dad had stuff hidden all over Los Angeles. Is there anything that could help us?”
Your dad. As if Julian was Ty’s father. Then again, he was in a way. “Nothing necromantic,” said Kit.
Ty looked disappointed. Still dizzy from the electric-fence shock, Kit couldn’t stand it. He had to fix it, that look on Ty’s face. “Look—we tried the straightforward approach. Now we have to try the con.”
“I don’t really get cons,” said Ty. “I read a book about them, but I don’t understand how people let themselves get tricked like that.”
Kit’s eyes dropped to the gold locket around Ty’s neck. There was still blood on it. It looked like patches of rust. “It’s not about making people believe what you want them to believe. It’s about letting them believe what they want to believe. About giving them what they think they need.”
Ty raised his eyes; though they didn’t meet Kit’s, Kit could read the expression in them, the dawning awareness. Does he realize? Kit thought, in mingled relief and apprehension.
Ty sprang to his feet. “I have to send a fire-message to Hypatia Vex,” he said.
This was not at all what Kit had expected him to say. “Why? She already said no to helping us.”
“She did. But Shade says she’s always wanted to run the Shadow Market herself.” Ty smiled sideways, and in that moment, despite their difference in coloring, he looked like Julian. “It’s what she thinks she needs.”
* * *
The sky was a road and the stars made pathways; the moon was a watchtower, a lighthouse that led you home.
Being on Windspear’s back was both utterly strange and utterly familiar to Mark. So was having his arms around Kieran. He had flown through so many skies holding Kieran, and the feeling of Kieran’s body against his, the whipcord strength of him, the faint ocean-salt scent of his skin and hair, was mapped into Mark’s blood.
At the same time he could hear Cristina, hear her laughing, see her as she bent to point out landmarks flashing by beneath them. She had asked Kieran if they could fly over the Hollywood sign and he had obliged; Kieran, who made a point of being disobliging.
And Mark’s heart stirred at her laugh; it stirred as he touched Kieran; he was between them again, as he had been in London, and though agitation prickled his nerves at the thought, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad to have Kieran back again.
Kieran brought Windspear down in the lot behind the Institute. Everything was still, broken only by the sound of chirping cicadas. It was hard to believe that ten minutes previously they had been in a fight to the death with Harpyia demons.
“Are you all right?” Cristina said with a frown, as she slid from the horse’s back. “You don’t look well.”
With a start, Mark realized she was talking to Kieran. And that she was right. Kieran had arrived at the Vasquez Rocks almost crackling with energy. It was a kind of wild, numinous magic Mark associated with the royal family but had never seen Kieran employ before.
But the energy seemed to have left him; he leaned a hand against Windspear’s side, breathing hard. There was blood on his hands, his collar and skin; his face was drained of color.
Mark stepped forward, hesitated. He remembered Kieran telling him that they were done. “I didn’t know you were hurt at the rocks, Kier,” he said.
“No. This happened at the Scholomance.”
“Why did you leave?” Cristina asked.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Kieran winced, and slapped Windspear on the flank. The horse whickered and trotted into the shadows, melting into the darkness.
“First we must get you upstairs.” Cristina glanced at Mark as if she expected him to step forward to help Kieran. When he didn’t, she moved to Kieran’s side, curving his arm around her shoulder. “We must see how badly you are wounded.”
“It is important—” Kieran began.
“So is this.” Cristina moved forward with Kieran leaning on her. Mark could no longer stand it; he swung around to Kieran’s other side, and together they went into the house, Kieran limping between them.
“Thank you, Mark,” Kieran said in a low voice. When Mark chanced a glance sideways, he saw no anger in Kieran’s eyes, but hadn’t Kieran been angry the last time they had been together? Had Kieran forgotten Mark had wronged him? It was not in the nature of princes to forget wrongs or forgive them.
Cristina was saying something about water and food; Mark’s mind was in a whirl, and for a moment, when they stepped into the kitchen, he blinked around in confusion. He’d thought they were going to one of their rooms. Cristina helped Mark get Kieran settled into a chair before going to the sink to get damp towels and soap.
“I must speak to you of what I have learned,” Kieran was saying; he was perched on the chair, all long limbs and dark, odd clothes and burning eyes. His hair shimmered deep blue. He looked like a faerie out of place in the human world, and it stabbed Mark through with a painful sympathy mixed with a fear that he might look like that himself.
“Let me see your face.” Cristina brushed Kieran with gentle fingers; he leaned into her touch, and Mark could not blame him.
“What’s going on?” Light blazed up in the kitchen; it was Helen, carrying a rune-stone in one hand. “Is someone hurt?”
Mark and Cristina exchanged startled looks; Kieran looked between Mark and Helen, his lips parting in realization.
“Were you waiting up for us?” Mark demanded. “It’s past midnight.”
“I was . . . not.” Helen looked down at her sweatpants guiltily. “I wanted a sandwich.” She squinted at Kieran. “Did you trade in Diana’s truck for a faerie prince?”
Kieran was still looking at her with that same realization and Mark knew what he must be seeing: someone who was so clearly Mark’s sister, so clearly the Helen that Mark had spoken about with such pain for so many years in the Hunt.
He rose to his feet and crossed the room to Helen. He lifted her free hand and kissed the back of it.
“The beloved sister of my beloved Mark. It is a joy to behold you well and reunited with your family.”
“I like him,” Helen said to Mark.
Kieran lowered her hand. “May I share my sorrow at the passing of your sister Livia,” he said. “It is a shame to see such a bright and beautiful star untimely extinguished.”
“Yes.” Helen’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
I don’t understand. Mark felt as if he were in a dream. He had imagined Kieran meeting his family, but it had not been like this, and Kieran had never been so gracious, even in Mark’s imagination.
“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Helen said. “I think I’d better hear about what happened tonight on your ‘normal patrol.’” She raised an eyebrow at Mark.
“I must first tell you of what befell at the Scholomance,” said Kieran firmly. “It is imperative.”
“What happened?” Cristina said. “I thought it would be safe for you there—”
“It was, for a short time,” said Kieran. “Then the Cohort returned from Idris and discovered me. But that story must wait. I came to bring you news.” He glanced around at their expectant faces. “The Inquisitor of the Clave has sent Emma and Julian on a secret mission to Faerie. They are not expected either to return or to survive.”
Mark felt numb all over. “What do you mean?”
“It is a dangerous mission—and someone has been sent after them to make sure they don’t complete it—” Gasping, Kieran slumped back in his chair, looking terribly pale.
Mark and Cristina both reached to steady him at the same time. They looked at each other in some surprise over Kieran’s bowed head.
“Kieran, you’re bleeding!” Cristina exclaimed, taking her hand away from his shoulder. It was stained red.
“It is nothing,” Kieran said roughly. Not a lie, precisely—Mark was sure he believed it, but his ashen face and feverish eyes told another story.
“He’s not bad at it.” Ty dropped his hand. “You said your dad had stuff hidden all over Los Angeles. Is there anything that could help us?”
Your dad. As if Julian was Ty’s father. Then again, he was in a way. “Nothing necromantic,” said Kit.
Ty looked disappointed. Still dizzy from the electric-fence shock, Kit couldn’t stand it. He had to fix it, that look on Ty’s face. “Look—we tried the straightforward approach. Now we have to try the con.”
“I don’t really get cons,” said Ty. “I read a book about them, but I don’t understand how people let themselves get tricked like that.”
Kit’s eyes dropped to the gold locket around Ty’s neck. There was still blood on it. It looked like patches of rust. “It’s not about making people believe what you want them to believe. It’s about letting them believe what they want to believe. About giving them what they think they need.”
Ty raised his eyes; though they didn’t meet Kit’s, Kit could read the expression in them, the dawning awareness. Does he realize? Kit thought, in mingled relief and apprehension.
Ty sprang to his feet. “I have to send a fire-message to Hypatia Vex,” he said.
This was not at all what Kit had expected him to say. “Why? She already said no to helping us.”
“She did. But Shade says she’s always wanted to run the Shadow Market herself.” Ty smiled sideways, and in that moment, despite their difference in coloring, he looked like Julian. “It’s what she thinks she needs.”
* * *
The sky was a road and the stars made pathways; the moon was a watchtower, a lighthouse that led you home.
Being on Windspear’s back was both utterly strange and utterly familiar to Mark. So was having his arms around Kieran. He had flown through so many skies holding Kieran, and the feeling of Kieran’s body against his, the whipcord strength of him, the faint ocean-salt scent of his skin and hair, was mapped into Mark’s blood.
At the same time he could hear Cristina, hear her laughing, see her as she bent to point out landmarks flashing by beneath them. She had asked Kieran if they could fly over the Hollywood sign and he had obliged; Kieran, who made a point of being disobliging.
And Mark’s heart stirred at her laugh; it stirred as he touched Kieran; he was between them again, as he had been in London, and though agitation prickled his nerves at the thought, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad to have Kieran back again.
Kieran brought Windspear down in the lot behind the Institute. Everything was still, broken only by the sound of chirping cicadas. It was hard to believe that ten minutes previously they had been in a fight to the death with Harpyia demons.
“Are you all right?” Cristina said with a frown, as she slid from the horse’s back. “You don’t look well.”
With a start, Mark realized she was talking to Kieran. And that she was right. Kieran had arrived at the Vasquez Rocks almost crackling with energy. It was a kind of wild, numinous magic Mark associated with the royal family but had never seen Kieran employ before.
But the energy seemed to have left him; he leaned a hand against Windspear’s side, breathing hard. There was blood on his hands, his collar and skin; his face was drained of color.
Mark stepped forward, hesitated. He remembered Kieran telling him that they were done. “I didn’t know you were hurt at the rocks, Kier,” he said.
“No. This happened at the Scholomance.”
“Why did you leave?” Cristina asked.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Kieran winced, and slapped Windspear on the flank. The horse whickered and trotted into the shadows, melting into the darkness.
“First we must get you upstairs.” Cristina glanced at Mark as if she expected him to step forward to help Kieran. When he didn’t, she moved to Kieran’s side, curving his arm around her shoulder. “We must see how badly you are wounded.”
“It is important—” Kieran began.
“So is this.” Cristina moved forward with Kieran leaning on her. Mark could no longer stand it; he swung around to Kieran’s other side, and together they went into the house, Kieran limping between them.
“Thank you, Mark,” Kieran said in a low voice. When Mark chanced a glance sideways, he saw no anger in Kieran’s eyes, but hadn’t Kieran been angry the last time they had been together? Had Kieran forgotten Mark had wronged him? It was not in the nature of princes to forget wrongs or forgive them.
Cristina was saying something about water and food; Mark’s mind was in a whirl, and for a moment, when they stepped into the kitchen, he blinked around in confusion. He’d thought they were going to one of their rooms. Cristina helped Mark get Kieran settled into a chair before going to the sink to get damp towels and soap.
“I must speak to you of what I have learned,” Kieran was saying; he was perched on the chair, all long limbs and dark, odd clothes and burning eyes. His hair shimmered deep blue. He looked like a faerie out of place in the human world, and it stabbed Mark through with a painful sympathy mixed with a fear that he might look like that himself.
“Let me see your face.” Cristina brushed Kieran with gentle fingers; he leaned into her touch, and Mark could not blame him.
“What’s going on?” Light blazed up in the kitchen; it was Helen, carrying a rune-stone in one hand. “Is someone hurt?”
Mark and Cristina exchanged startled looks; Kieran looked between Mark and Helen, his lips parting in realization.
“Were you waiting up for us?” Mark demanded. “It’s past midnight.”
“I was . . . not.” Helen looked down at her sweatpants guiltily. “I wanted a sandwich.” She squinted at Kieran. “Did you trade in Diana’s truck for a faerie prince?”
Kieran was still looking at her with that same realization and Mark knew what he must be seeing: someone who was so clearly Mark’s sister, so clearly the Helen that Mark had spoken about with such pain for so many years in the Hunt.
He rose to his feet and crossed the room to Helen. He lifted her free hand and kissed the back of it.
“The beloved sister of my beloved Mark. It is a joy to behold you well and reunited with your family.”
“I like him,” Helen said to Mark.
Kieran lowered her hand. “May I share my sorrow at the passing of your sister Livia,” he said. “It is a shame to see such a bright and beautiful star untimely extinguished.”
“Yes.” Helen’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
I don’t understand. Mark felt as if he were in a dream. He had imagined Kieran meeting his family, but it had not been like this, and Kieran had never been so gracious, even in Mark’s imagination.
“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Helen said. “I think I’d better hear about what happened tonight on your ‘normal patrol.’” She raised an eyebrow at Mark.
“I must first tell you of what befell at the Scholomance,” said Kieran firmly. “It is imperative.”
“What happened?” Cristina said. “I thought it would be safe for you there—”
“It was, for a short time,” said Kieran. “Then the Cohort returned from Idris and discovered me. But that story must wait. I came to bring you news.” He glanced around at their expectant faces. “The Inquisitor of the Clave has sent Emma and Julian on a secret mission to Faerie. They are not expected either to return or to survive.”
Mark felt numb all over. “What do you mean?”
“It is a dangerous mission—and someone has been sent after them to make sure they don’t complete it—” Gasping, Kieran slumped back in his chair, looking terribly pale.
Mark and Cristina both reached to steady him at the same time. They looked at each other in some surprise over Kieran’s bowed head.
“Kieran, you’re bleeding!” Cristina exclaimed, taking her hand away from his shoulder. It was stained red.
“It is nothing,” Kieran said roughly. Not a lie, precisely—Mark was sure he believed it, but his ashen face and feverish eyes told another story.
