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

Diana looked at Jia closely. Was it her imagination, or when the Consul glanced at the Centurions surrounding the small canal house, did she look—afraid?

“Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I know exactly what to do.”

*

She was climbing a spiral staircase that seemed to reach toward the stars. Cristina didn’t remember how she had found the staircase, nor did she recall her destination. The staircase rose from darkness and soared into the clouds; she kept the material of her long skirts clutched in her hands so she wouldn’t trip over them. Her hair felt dense and heavy, and the scent of white roses thickened the air.

The stairs ended abruptly and she stepped out in wonder onto a familiar rooftop: She was perched atop the Institute in Mexico City. She could see out over the city: El ángel, shining gold atop the Monumento a la Independencia, Chapultepec Park, the Palacio de Bellas Artes lit up and glowing, the bell-shaped towers of the Guadalupe Basilica. The mountains rising behind it all, cupping the city as if in an open palm.

A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the rooftop: slender and masculine, hands looped behind his back. She knew before he turned that it was Mark: No one else had hair like that, like gold hammered to airy silver. He wore a long belted tunic, a dagger thrust through the leather strap, and linen trousers. His feet were bare as he came toward her and took her in his arms.

His eyes were shadowed, hooded with desire, his movements as slow as if they were both underwater. He drew her toward him, running his fingers through her hair, and she realized why it had felt so heavy: It was woven through with vines on which grew full-blown red roses. They fell around Mark as he cradled her with his other arm, his free hand running from her hair to her lips to her collarbones, his fingers dipping below the neckline of her dress. His hands were warm, the night cool, and his lips on hers were even warmer. She swayed into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck, where the fine hairs were softest, straying down to touch his scars. . . .

He drew back. “Cristina,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

She turned in his arms and saw Kieran. He was in velvet where Mark was in plain linen, and there were heavy gold rings on his fingers, his eyes shimmering and black-rimmed with kohl. He was a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

One of Mark’s arms went around Cristina. The other reached for Kieran. And Cristina reached for him too, her hands finding the softness of his doublet, gathering him toward both her and Mark, enfolding them in the dark velvet of him. He kissed Mark, and then bent to her, Mark’s arms around her as Kieran’s lips found hers. . . .

“Cristina.” The voice pierced through Cristina’s sleep, and she sat up instantly, clutching her blankets to her chest, wide-eyed with shock. “Cristina Mendoza Rosales?”

It was a woman’s voice. Breathless, Cristina looked around as her bedroom came into focus: the Institute furniture, bright sunlight through the window, a blanket loaned to her by Emma folded at the foot of the bed. There was a woman sitting on the windowsill. She had blue skin and hair the color of white paper. The pupils of her eyes were a very deep blue. “I got your fire-message,” she said as Cristina stared at her, dazed. What did I just dream?

Not now, Cristina. Think about it later.

“Catarina Loss?” Cristina had wanted to talk to the warlock, granted, but she hadn’t expected Catarina to just appear in her bedroom, and certainly not at such an awkward moment. “How did you get in here . . . ?”

“I didn’t. I’m a Projection.” Catarina moved her hand in front of the bright surface of the window; sunlight streamed through it as if it were stained glass.

Cristina tugged discreetly at her hair. No roses. Ay. “What time is it?”

“Ten,” said Catarina. “I’m sorry—I really thought you’d be awake. Here.” She made a gesture with her fingers, and a paper cup appeared at Cristina’s bedside.

“Peet’s Coffee,” Catarina said. “My favorite on the West Coast.”

Cristina hugged the cup to her chest. Catarina was her new favorite person.

“I really wondered if I’d hear from you.” Cristina took a sip of coffee. “I know it was a weird question.”

“I wasn’t sure either.” Catarina sighed. “In a way, this is warlock business. Shadowhunters don’t use ley lines.”

“But we do use warlocks. You’re our allies. If you are getting sick, then we owe it to you to do something.”

Catarina looked surprised, then smiled. “I wasn’t—it’s good to hear you say that.” She glanced down. “It’s been getting worse. More and more warlocks are affected.”

“How is Magnus Bane?” said Cristina. She hadn’t known Magnus for long, but she’d liked him a great deal.

She was startled to see tears in Catarina’s eyes. “Magnus is—well, Alec takes good care of him. But no, he’s not well.”

Cristina set her coffee down. “Then please let us help. What would a sign of ley line contamination be? What can we look for?”

“Well, at a place where the ley lines have been compromised, there would be increased demon activity,” said Catarina.

“That’s something we can definitely check.”

“I can look into it myself. I’ll send you a marked map via fire-message.” Catarina stood up, and the sunlight streamed through her transparent white hair. “But if you’re going to investigate an area with increased demon activity, don’t go alone. Take several others with you. You Shadowhunters can be so careless.”

“We’re not all Jace Herondale,” said Cristina, who was usually the least careless person she knew.

“Please. I’ve taught at Shadowhunter Academy. I—” Catarina began to cough, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes widened.

Cristina slid out of bed, alarmed. “Are you all right—?”

But Catarina had vanished. There wasn’t even a swirl of air to show where her Projection had been.

Cristina threw on her clothes: jeans, an old T-shirt of Emma’s. It smelled like Emma’s perfume, a mixture of lemons and rosemary. Cristina wished with all her heart that Emma was here, that they could talk about last night, that Emma could give her advice and a shoulder to cry on.

But she wasn’t and she couldn’t. Cristina touched her necklace, whispered a quick prayer to the Angel, and headed down the hall to Mark’s room.

He’d been up as late as she was, so there was a high possibility he was still sleeping. She knocked on the door hesitantly and then harder; finally Mark threw it open, yawning and stark naked.

“Híjole!” Cristina shrieked, and pulled her T-shirt collar up over her face. “Put your pants on!”

“Sorry,” he called, ducking behind the door. “At least you’ve already seen it all.”

“Not in good lighting!” Cristina could still see Mark through the gap in the door; he was wearing boxer shorts and pulling on a shirt. His head popped through the collar, his blond hair adorably ruffled.

No, not adorable, she told herself. Terrible. Annoying.

Naked.

No, she wasn’t going to think about that, either. Am I awake? she wondered. She still felt wobbly about the dream she’d had. Dreams didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. It probably had something to do with anxiety, and not Mark and Kieran at all.

Mark reappeared in the doorway. “I’m so sorry. I—we often slept naked in the Hunt, and I forgot—”

Cristina yanked her shirt back down. “Let’s not discuss it.”

“Did you want to talk about last night?” He looked eager. “I can explain.”

“No. I don’t,” she said firmly. “I need your help, and I—well, I couldn’t ask anyone else. Ty and the others are too young, and Aline and Helen would feel like they had to tell Jia.”

Mark looked disappointed, but rallied. “This is something the Clave can’t know about?”

“I don’t know. I just—at this point, I wonder if we can tell them anything.”

“Can you at least tell me what this is about? Demons?”