Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 89
He met her gaze, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could feel what she was feeling, as he’d been able to for so long. He felt her wariness, her bone-deep hurt, and he knew he’d been the one to hurt her. He’d rejected her over and over, pushed her away, told her he felt nothing.
“Emma.” His voice was scratchy. “The spell—it’s broken.”
“What?”
“When Livvy and Cameron said there was no magic here, they meant it. The spell Magnus put on me, it’s not working here. I can feel things again.”
Emma just stared. “You mean about me?”
“Yeah.” When she didn’t move, Julian took a step forward and put his arms around her. She stood as stiffly as a wooden carving, her arms at her sides. It was like hugging a statue. “I feel everything,” he said desperately. “I feel like I did before.”
She pulled away from him. “Well, maybe I don’t.”
“Emma—” He didn’t move toward her. She deserved her space. She deserved whatever she wanted. She must have dammed up so many words while he’d been under the spell, words it would have been completely pointless to say to his emotionless self. He could only imagine the control it must have taken. “What do you mean?”
“You hurt me,” Emma said. “You hurt me a lot.” She took a shuddering breath. “I know you did it because of a spell, but you had that spell cast on yourself without thinking about how it would affect me or your family or your role as a Shadowhunter. And I hate to tell you all this now, because we’re in this terrible place and you just found out your sister is alive, sort of, and she looks kind of like Mad Max, which is cool actually, but this is the only place I can tell you, because when we get home—if we ever get home—you won’t care.” She paused, breathing as if she’d been running. “Okay. Fine. I’m going to take a shower. If you even think about following me into the bathroom to talk, I’ll shoot you.”
“You don’t have a gun,” Julian pointed out. It wasn’t a helpful thing to say—Emma stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. A moment later, there was the sound of running water.
Julian sank down onto the bed. After having his soul wrapped in cotton wool for so long, the new rawness of emotion felt like razor wire cutting into his heart every time it expanded with a breath.
But it wasn’t just pain. There was the bright current of joy that was seeing Livvy, hearing her voice. Of pride in watching Emma burn like fire in the Arctic, like the northern lights.
A voice seemed to ring in his head, clear as a bell; it was the Seelie Queen’s voice.
Have you ever wondered how we lure mortals to live amongst faeries and serve us, son of thorns? We choose those who have lost something and promise them that which humans desire most of all, a cessation to their grief and suffering. Little do they know that once they enter our Lands, they are in the cage and will never again feel happiness.
You are in that cage, boy.
The Queen was deceitful, but sometimes right. Grief could be like a wolf tearing your insides, and you would do anything to make it stop. He remembered his despair as he looked in the mirror in Alicante and knew that he had lost Livvy and would soon lose Emma, too. He had gone to Magnus like a shipwrecked man struggling onto a lonely rock, knowing he might die the next day of heat or thirst, but desperate to escape the tempest.
And then the tempest had been gone. He had been in the eye of the hurricane, the storm around him, but he had been untouched. It had felt like a cessation to suffering. Only now did he recognize what he couldn’t see before: that he had been going through life with a black hole at the center of him, a space like the emptiness between Portals.
Even at the moments when an emotion was so strong it seemed to pierce the veil, he had felt it at a sort of colorless, glassy remove—Ty atop Livvy’s pyre, Emma as the thorns of the hedge tore at her. He could see her now, all black and white, the only spots of color where the blood had been drawn.
There was a knock on the door. Julian’s throat was too tight for him to speak, but it didn’t seem to matter: Cameron Ashdown barged in anyway, carrying a pile of clothes. He dumped them into the wardrobe, went back to the hallway, and returned with a box of canned food, toothpaste, soap, and other basics. Dropping it on the desk, he rolled his shoulders back with an exaggerated sigh. “Jeans and turtlenecks, gloves and boots. If you go back outside, cover up as much as you can to hide your runes. There’s concealer, too, if you want to get fancy. Need anything else?”
Julian gave him a long look. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Actually, I do.”
Cameron had only just gone off muttering when Julian heard the water in the bathroom switch off. A moment later Emma appeared, wrapped in a towel, cheeks pink and glowing. Had she always looked like that? Such intense colors, the gold of her hair, black Marks against pale skin, the soft brown of her eyes—
“I’m sorry,” he said as she reached for the clothes on the bed. She froze. “I’m only just starting to understand how sorry I am.”
She went into the bathroom and came out a moment later dressed in black cargo pants and a green tank top. The permanent Marks twining her arms looked stark and startling, a reminder that no one else here had them. “Whoever was eyeballing our sizes has way overestimated my attributes,” she said, buckling her belt. “The bra they gave me is huge. I could wear it as a hat.”
Cameron barged back in without knocking again. “Got what you asked for,” he said, and dumped a pile of pencils and a Canson sketch pad into Julian’s lap. “Have to admit, it’s a first. Most newbies ask for chocolate.”
“Do you have chocolate?” Emma said.
“No,” said Cameron, and stomped back out of the room. Emma watched him go with a bemused expression.
“I really like this new Cameron,” she said. “Who knew he had it in him to be such a badass? He was such a nice guy, but . . .”
“He always had kind of a secret side,” Julian said. He wondered if there was something about suddenly getting his emotions back that meant he didn’t feel like covering things up. Maybe he’d regret it later. “A while ago, he approached Diana, because he was pretty sure Anselm Nightshade was murdering werewolf children. He couldn’t prove it, but he had some good reasons for thinking it. His family kept telling him to drop it, that Nightshade had powerful friends. So he brought it to us—to the Institute.”
“That’s why you had Nightshade arrested,” said Emma, realizing. “You wanted the Clave to be able to search his house.”
“Diana told me they found a basement full of bones,” said Julian. “Werewolf children, just like Cameron said. They tested the stuff in the restaurant and there was death magic all over the place. Cameron was right, and he stood up to his family, in his own way. And he did it for Downworlders that he didn’t know.”
“You never said anything,” Emma said. “Not about Cameron, or about you—why you really got Anselm arrested. There are people who still blame you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Sometimes you have to let people blame you. When the only other option is letting bad things happen, it doesn’t matter what people think.”
She didn’t reply. When he glanced over at her, she looked as if she’d forgotten all about Cameron and Nightshade. Her eyes were wide and luminous as she reached out to touch a few of the Prismacolors that had rolled onto the bed.
“You asked for art supplies?” she whispered.
Julian looked down at his hands. “All this time, since the spell, I’ve been walking around missing the whole center of myself, but the thing is—I didn’t even notice. Not consciously. But I felt it. I was living in black and white and now the color is back.” He exhaled. “I’m saying it all wrong.”
“No,” Emma said, “I think I get it. You mean that the part of you that feels is also the part of you that creates things.”
“They always say faeries steal human children because they can’t make art or music of their own. Neither can warlocks or vampires. It requires mortality to make art. The knowledge of death, of things limited. There is fire inside us, Emma, and as it blazes, it burns us, and the burning causes pain—but without its light, I cannot see to draw.”
“Emma.” His voice was scratchy. “The spell—it’s broken.”
“What?”
“When Livvy and Cameron said there was no magic here, they meant it. The spell Magnus put on me, it’s not working here. I can feel things again.”
Emma just stared. “You mean about me?”
“Yeah.” When she didn’t move, Julian took a step forward and put his arms around her. She stood as stiffly as a wooden carving, her arms at her sides. It was like hugging a statue. “I feel everything,” he said desperately. “I feel like I did before.”
She pulled away from him. “Well, maybe I don’t.”
“Emma—” He didn’t move toward her. She deserved her space. She deserved whatever she wanted. She must have dammed up so many words while he’d been under the spell, words it would have been completely pointless to say to his emotionless self. He could only imagine the control it must have taken. “What do you mean?”
“You hurt me,” Emma said. “You hurt me a lot.” She took a shuddering breath. “I know you did it because of a spell, but you had that spell cast on yourself without thinking about how it would affect me or your family or your role as a Shadowhunter. And I hate to tell you all this now, because we’re in this terrible place and you just found out your sister is alive, sort of, and she looks kind of like Mad Max, which is cool actually, but this is the only place I can tell you, because when we get home—if we ever get home—you won’t care.” She paused, breathing as if she’d been running. “Okay. Fine. I’m going to take a shower. If you even think about following me into the bathroom to talk, I’ll shoot you.”
“You don’t have a gun,” Julian pointed out. It wasn’t a helpful thing to say—Emma stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. A moment later, there was the sound of running water.
Julian sank down onto the bed. After having his soul wrapped in cotton wool for so long, the new rawness of emotion felt like razor wire cutting into his heart every time it expanded with a breath.
But it wasn’t just pain. There was the bright current of joy that was seeing Livvy, hearing her voice. Of pride in watching Emma burn like fire in the Arctic, like the northern lights.
A voice seemed to ring in his head, clear as a bell; it was the Seelie Queen’s voice.
Have you ever wondered how we lure mortals to live amongst faeries and serve us, son of thorns? We choose those who have lost something and promise them that which humans desire most of all, a cessation to their grief and suffering. Little do they know that once they enter our Lands, they are in the cage and will never again feel happiness.
You are in that cage, boy.
The Queen was deceitful, but sometimes right. Grief could be like a wolf tearing your insides, and you would do anything to make it stop. He remembered his despair as he looked in the mirror in Alicante and knew that he had lost Livvy and would soon lose Emma, too. He had gone to Magnus like a shipwrecked man struggling onto a lonely rock, knowing he might die the next day of heat or thirst, but desperate to escape the tempest.
And then the tempest had been gone. He had been in the eye of the hurricane, the storm around him, but he had been untouched. It had felt like a cessation to suffering. Only now did he recognize what he couldn’t see before: that he had been going through life with a black hole at the center of him, a space like the emptiness between Portals.
Even at the moments when an emotion was so strong it seemed to pierce the veil, he had felt it at a sort of colorless, glassy remove—Ty atop Livvy’s pyre, Emma as the thorns of the hedge tore at her. He could see her now, all black and white, the only spots of color where the blood had been drawn.
There was a knock on the door. Julian’s throat was too tight for him to speak, but it didn’t seem to matter: Cameron Ashdown barged in anyway, carrying a pile of clothes. He dumped them into the wardrobe, went back to the hallway, and returned with a box of canned food, toothpaste, soap, and other basics. Dropping it on the desk, he rolled his shoulders back with an exaggerated sigh. “Jeans and turtlenecks, gloves and boots. If you go back outside, cover up as much as you can to hide your runes. There’s concealer, too, if you want to get fancy. Need anything else?”
Julian gave him a long look. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Actually, I do.”
Cameron had only just gone off muttering when Julian heard the water in the bathroom switch off. A moment later Emma appeared, wrapped in a towel, cheeks pink and glowing. Had she always looked like that? Such intense colors, the gold of her hair, black Marks against pale skin, the soft brown of her eyes—
“I’m sorry,” he said as she reached for the clothes on the bed. She froze. “I’m only just starting to understand how sorry I am.”
She went into the bathroom and came out a moment later dressed in black cargo pants and a green tank top. The permanent Marks twining her arms looked stark and startling, a reminder that no one else here had them. “Whoever was eyeballing our sizes has way overestimated my attributes,” she said, buckling her belt. “The bra they gave me is huge. I could wear it as a hat.”
Cameron barged back in without knocking again. “Got what you asked for,” he said, and dumped a pile of pencils and a Canson sketch pad into Julian’s lap. “Have to admit, it’s a first. Most newbies ask for chocolate.”
“Do you have chocolate?” Emma said.
“No,” said Cameron, and stomped back out of the room. Emma watched him go with a bemused expression.
“I really like this new Cameron,” she said. “Who knew he had it in him to be such a badass? He was such a nice guy, but . . .”
“He always had kind of a secret side,” Julian said. He wondered if there was something about suddenly getting his emotions back that meant he didn’t feel like covering things up. Maybe he’d regret it later. “A while ago, he approached Diana, because he was pretty sure Anselm Nightshade was murdering werewolf children. He couldn’t prove it, but he had some good reasons for thinking it. His family kept telling him to drop it, that Nightshade had powerful friends. So he brought it to us—to the Institute.”
“That’s why you had Nightshade arrested,” said Emma, realizing. “You wanted the Clave to be able to search his house.”
“Diana told me they found a basement full of bones,” said Julian. “Werewolf children, just like Cameron said. They tested the stuff in the restaurant and there was death magic all over the place. Cameron was right, and he stood up to his family, in his own way. And he did it for Downworlders that he didn’t know.”
“You never said anything,” Emma said. “Not about Cameron, or about you—why you really got Anselm arrested. There are people who still blame you.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “Sometimes you have to let people blame you. When the only other option is letting bad things happen, it doesn’t matter what people think.”
She didn’t reply. When he glanced over at her, she looked as if she’d forgotten all about Cameron and Nightshade. Her eyes were wide and luminous as she reached out to touch a few of the Prismacolors that had rolled onto the bed.
“You asked for art supplies?” she whispered.
Julian looked down at his hands. “All this time, since the spell, I’ve been walking around missing the whole center of myself, but the thing is—I didn’t even notice. Not consciously. But I felt it. I was living in black and white and now the color is back.” He exhaled. “I’m saying it all wrong.”
“No,” Emma said, “I think I get it. You mean that the part of you that feels is also the part of you that creates things.”
“They always say faeries steal human children because they can’t make art or music of their own. Neither can warlocks or vampires. It requires mortality to make art. The knowledge of death, of things limited. There is fire inside us, Emma, and as it blazes, it burns us, and the burning causes pain—but without its light, I cannot see to draw.”
