Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 66
Remember, Mark thought. Remember that none of this is real.
Oban flicked a hand toward the two of them as Manuel smirked almost audibly. “Chain them together and find them horses. We ride for the Unseelie Court this night.”
* * *
Barnabas was already at the 101 Coffee Shop in Hollywood when Drusilla arrived. He was sitting at a tan booth and forking up a plate of delicious-looking huevos rancheros. He sported a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie that seemed to be choking him, but he looked pleased with himself.
Dru stopped to glance at her reflection in the windows that ran along one side of the diner. The other side was a kitschy rock wall; in the corner there was a jukebox and dozens of framed photos of what Dru guessed were the owner’s family and friends.
It was dark outside, and the window gave her back a clear picture of herself. Dark hair pulled up and smooth, gray business suit, classic heels (stolen from Emma’s closet). She wore red lipstick and no other makeup; Kit had assured her that less was more. “You don’t want to look like a clown,” he’d said, tossing her powder blush in Racy Rose over his shoulder as if it were a grenade.
Somewhere out there in the shadows, Kit and Ty were watching, ready to jump to her defense if anything went wrong. Knowing that made her feel less worried. Hoisting her briefcase in her hand, she sauntered across the diner past ivory-and toffee-colored leather seats, and slid into the booth across from Barnabas.
His snake’s eyes flicked up to observe her. Up close, he didn’t look well. His scales were dull, and his eyes rimmed with red. “Vanessa Ashdown?”
“That’s me,” Dru said, setting the briefcase down on her place mat. “In the flesh.”
His forked tongue slithered out of his mouth. “And plenty of it. No worries, I like a woman with curves. Most of you Shadowhunters are so bony.”
Blech, Dru thought. She tapped the briefcase. “Business, Mr. Hale.”
“Right.” His tongue vanished, to her relief. “So, toots. You’ve got proof that Hypatia Vex has been passing secrets to Shadowhunters?”
“Right in here.” Dru smiled and pushed the briefcase toward him.
He unsnapped it and flicked it open, then frowned. “This is money.”
“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile and tried not to glance around to see if anyone was coming to back her up. “It’s the money we’ve earmarked for Hypatia in exchange for secrets.”
He rolled his eyes. “Normally, I’m happy to see a big box of money, don’t get me wrong. But I was kind of hoping for photos of her handing evidence to some Blackthorns.”
“Why Blackthorns?” Drusilla said.
“Because,” said Barnabas. “They’re smarmy little rats.” He sat back. “You gotta give me something better than this, Vanessa.”
“Well, look closer at the money.” Dru played for time. “Because, ah, it’s not ordinary money.”
Looking bored, Barnabas picked up a stack of twenties. Dru tensed. Kit had told her to keep Barnabas talking, but it wasn’t like she could distract him by telling him the plot of Bloody Birthday or about the new cute thing Church had done.
“There ain’t nothing special about this money,” Barnabas began, and broke off as the door of the diner flew open and a tall warlock woman with dark skin and bronze hair strode into the room. She wore a glimmering pantsuit and toweringly high heels. She was followed by two other Downworlders—a muscled male werewolf and a pallid, dark-haired vampire.
“Damn,” said Barnabas. “Hypatia—what—?”
“I heard you were selling secrets to Shadowhunters, Hale,” said Hypatia. “Look at that—caught with your hand in the bag.” She winked at Dru. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars.
“How could you?” demanded the vampire. “I thought it was all lies, Barnabas!” She sniffed and glanced at Dru. “You were really buying secrets off him? Who are you, anyway?”
“Drusilla,” said Dru. “Drusilla Blackthorn.”
“A Blackthorn?” said Barnabas, outraged.
“And he was definitely selling secrets,” said Dru. “For instance, he just told me he dug up a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic from under Johnny Rook’s booth as soon as he died. And he’s been keeping it to himself.”
“Is that true?” rumbled the werewolf. “And you call yourself the head of the Shadow Market?”
“You little—” Barnabas launched himself across the table at Dru. She slid out of the booth fast and collided with someone’s torso with an oomph. She looked up. It was Ty, a shortsword in his hand, pointed directly at Barnabas’s chest.
He put one arm protectively around Dru, his gaze never wavering from the warlock. “Leave my sister alone,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Kit. He waved from the next booth. “I forgot my weapons. But I do have this fork.” He wiggled it. “You are so forked,” he said to Barnabas.
“Oh, shut up,” Barnabas said. But he looked defeated; the werewolf had already grabbed him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hypatia was clearing the briefcase and money off the table.
She winked her starry eyes at Ty and Dru. “Time for you Shadowhunters to go,” she said. “This marks the end of your little Downworlder deal. And tell your new Inquisitor that we don’t want anything to do with him or his bigoted rules. We’ll go where we want, when we want.”
Ty lowered his sword slowly. Kit dropped his fork, and the three of them strode out of the diner. Once on the pavement, Dru took a deep, relieved breath of air—it was a warm night, and the moon was high and glowing over Franklin Avenue. She felt shivery with excitement—she’d done it! She’d tricked a famous warlock. Pulled off a con. She was a con woman now!
“I think Hypatia meant what she said to us,” Kit said, glancing back through the windows of the coffee shop. Hypatia and the other Downworlders were escorting a struggling Barnabas toward the back door. “All that stuff about telling the Inquisitor—that wasn’t part of the con. That was a real message.”
“As if we could get word to the Inquisitor,” said Ty. He touched his hand absently to the locket at his throat. “That was good. You did a really good job, Dru.”
“Yep. You kept your cool,” said Kit. He glanced up and down the street. “I’d suggest we go get milk shakes or something to celebrate, but this is kind of a scary neighborhood.”
“Shadowhunters don’t worry about scary neighborhoods,” said Dru.
“Have you learned nothing from the way Batman’s parents died?” said Kit, feigning shock.
Ty smiled. And for the first time since Livvy had died, Dru laughed.
* * *
With Aline and Tavvy’s help, Helen had set up a large table inside the Sanctuary. Two chairs sat behind it, and the table was covered in the accoutrements of bureaucracy: pens and blank forms that had been sent by the Clave, file folders and rubber stamps. It was all drearily mundane, in Helen’s opinion.
A long line of werewolves, warlocks, vampires, and faeries stretched through the room and out the front doors. They had set up their “Registry Station” atop the Angelic Power rune etched on the floor, blocking the doors that led into the Institute.
The first Downworlder to step up to their makeshift office was a werewolf. He had an enormous mustache that reminded Helen of seventies cop movies. He was glowering. “My name is Greg—”
“Your name is Elton John,” Aline said, writing it down.
“No,” said the werewolf. “It’s Greg. Greg Anderson.”
“It’s Elton John,” said Aline, grabbing a stamp. “You’re thirty-six and you’re a chimney sweep who lives in Bel Air.” She stamped the paper in red ink—REGISTERED—and handed it back.
The werewolf took the paper, blinking in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”
“It means the Clave won’t be able to find you,” explained Tavvy, who was sitting under the table, playing with a toy car. “But you’re registered.”
“Technically,” said Helen, willing him to accept the ruse. If he didn’t, they’d have trouble with the others.
Oban flicked a hand toward the two of them as Manuel smirked almost audibly. “Chain them together and find them horses. We ride for the Unseelie Court this night.”
* * *
Barnabas was already at the 101 Coffee Shop in Hollywood when Drusilla arrived. He was sitting at a tan booth and forking up a plate of delicious-looking huevos rancheros. He sported a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie that seemed to be choking him, but he looked pleased with himself.
Dru stopped to glance at her reflection in the windows that ran along one side of the diner. The other side was a kitschy rock wall; in the corner there was a jukebox and dozens of framed photos of what Dru guessed were the owner’s family and friends.
It was dark outside, and the window gave her back a clear picture of herself. Dark hair pulled up and smooth, gray business suit, classic heels (stolen from Emma’s closet). She wore red lipstick and no other makeup; Kit had assured her that less was more. “You don’t want to look like a clown,” he’d said, tossing her powder blush in Racy Rose over his shoulder as if it were a grenade.
Somewhere out there in the shadows, Kit and Ty were watching, ready to jump to her defense if anything went wrong. Knowing that made her feel less worried. Hoisting her briefcase in her hand, she sauntered across the diner past ivory-and toffee-colored leather seats, and slid into the booth across from Barnabas.
His snake’s eyes flicked up to observe her. Up close, he didn’t look well. His scales were dull, and his eyes rimmed with red. “Vanessa Ashdown?”
“That’s me,” Dru said, setting the briefcase down on her place mat. “In the flesh.”
His forked tongue slithered out of his mouth. “And plenty of it. No worries, I like a woman with curves. Most of you Shadowhunters are so bony.”
Blech, Dru thought. She tapped the briefcase. “Business, Mr. Hale.”
“Right.” His tongue vanished, to her relief. “So, toots. You’ve got proof that Hypatia Vex has been passing secrets to Shadowhunters?”
“Right in here.” Dru smiled and pushed the briefcase toward him.
He unsnapped it and flicked it open, then frowned. “This is money.”
“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile and tried not to glance around to see if anyone was coming to back her up. “It’s the money we’ve earmarked for Hypatia in exchange for secrets.”
He rolled his eyes. “Normally, I’m happy to see a big box of money, don’t get me wrong. But I was kind of hoping for photos of her handing evidence to some Blackthorns.”
“Why Blackthorns?” Drusilla said.
“Because,” said Barnabas. “They’re smarmy little rats.” He sat back. “You gotta give me something better than this, Vanessa.”
“Well, look closer at the money.” Dru played for time. “Because, ah, it’s not ordinary money.”
Looking bored, Barnabas picked up a stack of twenties. Dru tensed. Kit had told her to keep Barnabas talking, but it wasn’t like she could distract him by telling him the plot of Bloody Birthday or about the new cute thing Church had done.
“There ain’t nothing special about this money,” Barnabas began, and broke off as the door of the diner flew open and a tall warlock woman with dark skin and bronze hair strode into the room. She wore a glimmering pantsuit and toweringly high heels. She was followed by two other Downworlders—a muscled male werewolf and a pallid, dark-haired vampire.
“Damn,” said Barnabas. “Hypatia—what—?”
“I heard you were selling secrets to Shadowhunters, Hale,” said Hypatia. “Look at that—caught with your hand in the bag.” She winked at Dru. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars.
“How could you?” demanded the vampire. “I thought it was all lies, Barnabas!” She sniffed and glanced at Dru. “You were really buying secrets off him? Who are you, anyway?”
“Drusilla,” said Dru. “Drusilla Blackthorn.”
“A Blackthorn?” said Barnabas, outraged.
“And he was definitely selling secrets,” said Dru. “For instance, he just told me he dug up a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic from under Johnny Rook’s booth as soon as he died. And he’s been keeping it to himself.”
“Is that true?” rumbled the werewolf. “And you call yourself the head of the Shadow Market?”
“You little—” Barnabas launched himself across the table at Dru. She slid out of the booth fast and collided with someone’s torso with an oomph. She looked up. It was Ty, a shortsword in his hand, pointed directly at Barnabas’s chest.
He put one arm protectively around Dru, his gaze never wavering from the warlock. “Leave my sister alone,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Kit. He waved from the next booth. “I forgot my weapons. But I do have this fork.” He wiggled it. “You are so forked,” he said to Barnabas.
“Oh, shut up,” Barnabas said. But he looked defeated; the werewolf had already grabbed him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hypatia was clearing the briefcase and money off the table.
She winked her starry eyes at Ty and Dru. “Time for you Shadowhunters to go,” she said. “This marks the end of your little Downworlder deal. And tell your new Inquisitor that we don’t want anything to do with him or his bigoted rules. We’ll go where we want, when we want.”
Ty lowered his sword slowly. Kit dropped his fork, and the three of them strode out of the diner. Once on the pavement, Dru took a deep, relieved breath of air—it was a warm night, and the moon was high and glowing over Franklin Avenue. She felt shivery with excitement—she’d done it! She’d tricked a famous warlock. Pulled off a con. She was a con woman now!
“I think Hypatia meant what she said to us,” Kit said, glancing back through the windows of the coffee shop. Hypatia and the other Downworlders were escorting a struggling Barnabas toward the back door. “All that stuff about telling the Inquisitor—that wasn’t part of the con. That was a real message.”
“As if we could get word to the Inquisitor,” said Ty. He touched his hand absently to the locket at his throat. “That was good. You did a really good job, Dru.”
“Yep. You kept your cool,” said Kit. He glanced up and down the street. “I’d suggest we go get milk shakes or something to celebrate, but this is kind of a scary neighborhood.”
“Shadowhunters don’t worry about scary neighborhoods,” said Dru.
“Have you learned nothing from the way Batman’s parents died?” said Kit, feigning shock.
Ty smiled. And for the first time since Livvy had died, Dru laughed.
* * *
With Aline and Tavvy’s help, Helen had set up a large table inside the Sanctuary. Two chairs sat behind it, and the table was covered in the accoutrements of bureaucracy: pens and blank forms that had been sent by the Clave, file folders and rubber stamps. It was all drearily mundane, in Helen’s opinion.
A long line of werewolves, warlocks, vampires, and faeries stretched through the room and out the front doors. They had set up their “Registry Station” atop the Angelic Power rune etched on the floor, blocking the doors that led into the Institute.
The first Downworlder to step up to their makeshift office was a werewolf. He had an enormous mustache that reminded Helen of seventies cop movies. He was glowering. “My name is Greg—”
“Your name is Elton John,” Aline said, writing it down.
“No,” said the werewolf. “It’s Greg. Greg Anderson.”
“It’s Elton John,” said Aline, grabbing a stamp. “You’re thirty-six and you’re a chimney sweep who lives in Bel Air.” She stamped the paper in red ink—REGISTERED—and handed it back.
The werewolf took the paper, blinking in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”
“It means the Clave won’t be able to find you,” explained Tavvy, who was sitting under the table, playing with a toy car. “But you’re registered.”
“Technically,” said Helen, willing him to accept the ruse. If he didn’t, they’d have trouble with the others.
