Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

She flung the next two knives, blades sliding through her fingers, their flight smooth and tightly controlled. Thunk. Thunk. She remembered the days when she’d thrown so many bo-shuriken that she’d made her hands split and bleed. How much of that rage had been about her parents—because a lot of it had been, she knew—and how much had been about the fact that she’d kept the doors of her awareness tightly shut, never letting herself know what she wanted, what would make her truly happy?

She picked up two more knives and positioned herself facing away from the target, breathing hard. It was impossible not to think about Julian. Now that the spell was off him, she felt a desperate desire to be with him, mixed with the bitterness of regret—regret for past choices made, regret for wasted years. She and Julian had both been in denial, and look what it had cost them. If either of them had been able to acknowledge why they shouldn’t be parabatai, they wouldn’t be facing separation from each other. Or exile from everything they loved.

Love is powerful, and the more you’re together, and let yourself feel what you do, the stronger it’ll be. You need to not touch each other. Not speak to each other. Try not to even think about each other.

Thunk. A knife sailed over her shoulder. Thunk. Another. She turned to see the handles vibrating where they stuck out from the wall.

“Nice throw.”

Emma spun around. Mark was leaning against the doorway, his body like a long, lean spoke in the shadows. He was wearing his gear and he looked tired. More than tired, he looked weary.

It had been a while since she’d spent time with Mark alone. It was neither of their faults—there had been the separation in Idris, then Faerie and Thule—but there was another piece to it too, perhaps. There was an apprehensive sadness in Mark these days, as if he were constantly waiting to be told he had lost something. It seemed deeper than what he had carried back with him from Faerie.

She picked up another knife. Held it out. “Do you want a turn?”

“Very much so.”

He came and took the knife from her. She stepped back a little while he took aim, sighting down the line of his arm toward the target.

“Do you want to talk about what’s going on with Cristina?” she said hesitantly. “And . . . Kieran?”

He let the knife go. It sank into the wall beside one of Emma’s. “No,” he said. “I am trying not to think about it, and I do not think discussing it will accomplish that goal.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “Do you want to just throw knives in a silent, angry bro way together?”

He cracked a slight smile. “There are other things we could discuss than my love life. Like your love life.”

It was Emma’s turn to grab a knife. She threw it hard, viciously, and it hit the wall hard enough to crack the wood. “That sounds like about as much fun as stabbing myself in the head.”

“I think mundanes discuss the weather when they have nothing else to talk about,” said Mark. He had gone to lift a bow and quiver down from the wall. The bow was a delicate piece of workmanship, carved with filigreed runes. “We are not mundanes.”

“Sometimes I wonder what we are,” Emma said. “Considering I don’t think the current powers that be in Alicante would like us to be Nephilim at all.”

Mark drew back the bow and let an arrow fly. It whipped through the air, plunging directly into the center of the target on the wall. Emma felt a twist of grim pride; people often underestimated how good a warrior Mark was.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Mark said. “Raziel made us Shadowhunters. Not the Clave.”

Emma sighed. “What would you do if things were different? If you could do anything, be anything. If this was all over.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “You always wanted to be like Jace Herondale,” he said. “The greatest of all fighters. But I would like to be more like Alec Lightwood. I would like to do something important for Shadowhunters and Downworlders. For I will always be part of each world.”

“I can’t believe you remember I always wanted to be like Jace. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It was cute that you wanted to be such a fighter, especially when you were very small.” He smiled a real smile, one that lit up his face. “I remember you and Julian when you were ten—both of you with wooden swords, and me trying to teach you not to smack each other in the head with them.”

Emma giggled. “I thought you were so old—fourteen!”

He sobered. “I have been thinking that not everything that is strange is bad,” he said. “Since I came from Faerie the way I did—it closed the gap of years between me and Julian, and me and you. I have been able to be much better friends with both of you now, rather than an older sibling, and that has been a gift.”

“Mark—” she began, and broke off, staring out the west-facing picture window. Something—someone—was walking up the road toward the Institute, a dark figure moving purposefully.

She caught a flash of gold.

“I have to go.” Emma grabbed a longsword and bolted out of the training room, leaving Mark staring after her. Energy was ping-ponging through her body. She took the stairs three at a time, burst out the front doors, and crossed the grass just as the figure she’d seen reached the top of the road.

The moon was bright, flooding the world with bright spears of illumination. Emma blinked away stars and gazed at Zara Dearborn, stalking toward her across the grass.

Zara was fully decked out in her Centurion gear, Primi Ordines pin and all. Her hair was tightly braided around her head, her brown eyes narrowed. In her hand was a golden sword that shone like the light of dawn.

Cortana. A flash of gold.

Emma stiffened all over. She whipped the longsword from its scabbard, though it felt like dead weight in her hand now that she was looking at her own beloved blade. “Stop,” she said. “You aren’t welcome here, Zara.”

Zara gave her a narrow little smile. She was gripping Cortana all wrong, which blinded Emma with rage. Wayland Smith had made that blade, and now Zara had it in her sticky, incompetent hand. “Aren’t you going to ask about this?” she asked, twirling the sword as if it were a toy.

Emma swallowed bitter rage. “I’m not going to ask you anything except to get off our property. Now.”

“Really?” Zara cooed. “Your property? This is an Institute, Emma. Clave property. I know you and the Blackthorns treat it like it’s yours. But it isn’t. And you won’t be living here much longer.”

Emma tightened her grip on her longsword. “What do you mean?”

“You were sent a message,” Zara said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know about it. Most of the other Institutes have shown up in Idris to prove their support. Not you guys, though.” She twirled Cortana inexpertly. “You haven’t even replied to the summons. And the names in your registry were a joke. Did you think we were too stupid to get it?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “Also, it seems like it took you a week to figure it out, at least. Who got it in the end? Manuel?”

Zara flushed angrily. “You think it’s cute, not taking anything seriously? Not taking the Downworlder threat seriously? Samantha’s dead. She hurled herself out the window of the Basilias. Because of your faerie friend—”

“I already know what really happened,” Emma said, with a feeling of immense sadness for Samantha. “Kieran pulled Samantha out of the pool. He tried to help her. You can twist things and twist things, Zara, but you can’t just make facts whatever you want them to be. You stood around and laughed when Samantha fell into that water. And the cruelty she saw—the terrible pain she’d caused—that was because of you and what you made her do. And that’s the truth.”

Zara stared at her, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You don’t deserve Cortana,” Emma said. “You don’t deserve to have it in your hand.”

“I don’t deserve it?” Zara hissed. “You were given it because you’re a Carstairs! That’s all! I worked and worked to get respect, and people just gave it to you like you’re special because your parents died in the Dark War. A lot of people died in the Dark War. You’re not special at all.” She took a step toward Emma, Cortana shaking in her grip. “Don’t you get it? None of this is yours. Not the Institute. Not this sword. Not the Blackthorns, who aren’t your family. Not the reputation for being a great warrior. You didn’t earn any of it.”