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

“How do we do that?” Helen had always been a little afraid of her Consul mother-in-law. She always imagined that Jia couldn’t possibly be pleased that Aline had chosen to marry a woman, much less a half-faerie one. Jia had never indicated by word or deed that she was disappointed in Aline’s choice, but Helen felt it just the same. Still, she couldn’t help but speak up now. “Downworlders are meant to come to the Sanctuary and we have to turn in the registrations to the Clave.”

“I know, Helen,” Jia said. “But you can’t ignore the orders. Horace will be watching to make sure the L.A. Institute meets its quota. I just got you two back from exile. I’m not losing you again. You’re clever. Find a creative way to undermine the registration mandate without ignoring it.”

Despite everything, Helen felt a little shock of happiness. You two, Jia had said. As if she had missed not just Aline but Helen, too.

“There is one bright spot,” Jia said. “I was with Sister Cleophas when the news came through, and she was furious. The Iron Sisters are definitely on our side. They can be formidable when they choose. I don’t think Horace will enjoy having them as enemies.”

“Mom,” Aline said. “You and Dad have to get out of Idris. Come here for a while. It’s not safe there.”

Helen took Aline’s hand and squeezed, because she knew what the answer would be. “I can’t just leave,” Jia said, sounding not like Aline’s mother but like the Consul of the Clave. “I can’t abandon our people. I swore an oath to protect Nephilim, and that means weathering this storm and doing everything I can to reverse what Horace has done—to get those children out of the Gard prison—” Jia looked over her shoulder. “I must go. But remember, girls—the Council is basically good, and so are the hearts of most people.”

She vanished.

“I wish I believed that,” said Aline. “I wish I understood how my mother could believe that, after all this time as Consul.”

She sounded angry at Jia, but Helen knew that wasn’t what was going on. “Your mom is smart. She’ll be safe.”

“I hope so,” said Aline, looking down at her hand and Helen’s, intertwined on the desk. “And now we need to figure out how to register people without actually registering them. A plan that doesn’t involve punching Horace. Why do I never get to do the things I want to do?”

Despite everything, Helen laughed. “Actually, I have an idea. And I think you might like it.”

*

The clearing overlooked the road below, visible as a white ribbon through the trees. The moon overhead was caught in the branches, casting enough illumination that Cristina could see the glade clearly: Surrounded by thick hawthorn trees, the grass underfoot was springy and cool, damp with dew. She had spread out Mark’s blanket roll and he lay asleep on it, curled partly on his side, his cheeks flushed.

Cristina sat beside him, her legs stretched out before her in the dew-wet grass. Kieran was nearby, leaning against the trunk of a hawthorn. In the distance, Cristina could hear the sounds of the revel, carried on the clear air.

“This,” said Kieran, his gaze fixed on the road below, “was not how I was expecting the events following our arrival in Faerie to transpire.”

Cristina brushed Mark’s hair back from his face. His skin was fever hot; she suspected it was a side effect of whatever the cat faerie had given him to drink. “How long do you think Mark will be unconscious?”

Kieran turned to press his back against the tree. In the darkness, his face was a map of black-and-white shadow. He had fallen into silence the moment they had reached the glade and gotten Mark settled. Cristina could only imagine what he had been dwelling on. “Another hour or so, most likely.”

Cristina felt as if a lead weight were pressing against her chest. “Every moment we wait brings us farther away from Emma and Julian,” she said. “I do not see how we could possibly catch up with them now.”

Kieran stretched his hands out in front of them. Long-fingered faerie hands, almost double-jointed. “I could summon Windspear again,” he said a little haltingly. “He is swift enough to reach them.”

“You do not sound as if you like that idea much,” Cristina observed, but Kieran only shrugged.

He drew away from the tree and came toward Mark, bending to tuck a corner of the blanket over Mark’s shoulder. Cristina watched him consideringly. Windspear was a prince’s steed, she thought. Windspear would catch attention, here in Faerie. He might alert the kingdom to Kieran’s presence, put him in danger. But Kieran seemed willing to summon him regardless.

“Not Windspear,” she said. “Even if we had him—what would we do, try to pluck them from the procession out of the air? We would be noticed, and think of the danger—to Mark, to Jules and Emma.”

Kieran smoothed the blanket over Mark’s shoulder and stood up. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not have answers.” He pulled his cloak around him. “But you are right. We cannot wait.”

Cristina glanced up at him. “We cannot leave Mark, either.”

“I know. I think you should let me go alone. You remain here with Mark.”

“No!” Cristina exclaimed. “No, you’re not going alone. And not without the artifact. It’s our only way out.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kieran. He bent down to lift his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Of course it matters!” Cristina started to her feet and winced; her legs were stinging with pins and needles. She hurried after Kieran nonetheless, limping a little.

Moving swiftly, Kieran had reached the edge of the glade when she caught up with him. She seized hold of his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “Kieran, stop.”

He stopped, though he didn’t look back at her. He was staring out at the road and the revel beyond. In a remote voice, he said, “Why do you prevent me?”

“To go alone on that road is dangerous, especially for you.”

Kieran didn’t seem to hear her. “When I touched the pool at the Scholomance, I felt the confusion and pain that I caused to you,” he said.

Cristina waited. He said nothing else. “And?”

“And?” he echoed in disbelief. “And I cannot bear it! That I hurt you like that, hurt you and Mark like that—I cannot stand it.”

“But you must,” said Cristina.

Kieran’s lips parted in astonishment. “What?”

“This is the nature of having a soul, Kieran, and a heart. We all stumble around in the dark and we cause each other pain and we try to make up for it the best we can. We are all confused.”

“Then let me make up for it.” Gently but firmly, he pried her hand from his sleeve. “Let me go after them.”

He started down the hill, but Cristina followed, blocking his way. “No—you must not—”

He tried to step around her. She moved in front of him. “Let me—”

“I will not let you risk yourself!” she cried, and caught at the front of his shirt with her hands, the fabric rough under her fingers. She heard him exhale with surprise.

She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes; they glittered, black and silver and remote as the moon. “Why not?” he demanded.

She could feel the warmth of him through the linen of his shirt. There had been a time she might have thought him fragile, unreal as moonbeams, but she knew now that he was strong. She could see herself reflected in his dark eye; his silver eye was a mirror to the stars. There was a weariness to his face that spoke of pain, but a steadfastness, too, more beautiful than symmetry of features. No wonder Mark had fallen in love with him in the Hunt. Who would not have?

“Perhaps you are not confused,” she said in a whisper. “But I am. You confuse me very much.”

“Cristina,” he whispered. He touched her face lightly; she leaned into the warmth of his hand, and his fingers slipped across her cheek to her mouth. He outlined the shape of her lips with his fingertips, his eyes half-closed. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

He pulled her against him, and their mouths came together so swiftly she could not have said who kissed who. It was all fire: the taste of him on her mouth, and his skin smooth where she touched it, sliding her fingers under the collar of his cloak. His lips were fine-grained, soft but firm; he sipped at her mouth as if drinking fine wine. Her hands found his hair and buried themselves in the soft locks.