Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

Whoever was holding Cristina was strong, stronger than a mundane human.

“Now step forward, and do as I say,” said the voice behind her, breathless but low and confident. She found herself shoved ahead into the center of the park. She was hauled toward the fountain, and the two faeries standing there. Both of them stared—Kieran at her, his brother a little above her head.

“Erec,” Adaon said, sounding weary. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you.” Erec’s voice echoed behind Cristina. She remembered him with a flare of hate, remembered him in Faerie, Julian’s knife against his throat as his was against her own now. “I was curious as to your purpose here. And I wanted to see our little brother, too.”

“Let her go,” Kieran said, with a gesture toward Cristina. He didn’t meet her eyes. “She’s nothing to do with this. Just a Shadowhunter spying without my knowledge.”

“You said she’s nothing to do with you,” Erec sneered. “Not that you don’t care.” Hot silver pain flashed at Cristina’s throat. She felt the warmth of blood. She stiffened her spine, refusing to flinch.

“Leave her be.” Kieran’s face was a pale mask of rage. “Do you want the Nephilim after you, Erec? Are you a fool? I know you’re a torturer—you used to torture me.” He took a step toward Cristina and Erec. “Do you remember? You made these.” He shoved his loose black sleeves up, and Cristina saw the long scars on his arms. “And the ones on my back.”

“You were a soft child,” said Erec. “Too soft to be the son of a King. Kindness has no place in the court of a broken crown.” He chuckled. “Besides, I come with news. Father has sent the Seven.”

Kieran paled even further. “Mannan’s Seven? Sent them where?”

“Here. To the mundane world. They are tasked to retrieve the Black Volume, now that the death of Malcolm Fade is known. They will find it, and before you do.”

“The Black Volume is nothing to do with me,” said Kieran.

“But it is to do with our father,” said Adaon. “He has wanted it since the First Heir was stolen.”

“Longer than he has hated the Nephilim?” Kieran said.

Erec spat. “Those Nephilim you love so. They are a doomed race. You are wasting yourself, Kieran, when you could be much more.”

“Let him be, Erec,” Adaon said. “What do you imagine Father would do if Kieran came home, besides kill him?”

“If Father was still alive to kill anyone.”

“Enough scheming!” roared Adaon. “Enough, Erec!”

“Then let him prove he’s loyal!” Erec removed the knife from Cristina’s throat with a sudden gesture; she spluttered and coughed. Her wrist was searing pain and Erec’s hands were iron bands around her upper arms. He shoved her forward, toward his brothers, without releasing his grip. “Kill the Shadowhunter,” he shouted at Kieran. “Adaon, give him your blade. Run it through her heart, Kieran. Show you are loyal and I will intercede for you with Father. You can be welcomed back at Court instead of killed or exiled to the Hunt.”

Adaon put his hand to his side, to sieze his sword, but Kieran had already seized it. Cristina struggled, kicking out, but she couldn’t dislodge Erec’s grip. Terror rose up in her as Kieran came toward them both, the faerie sword glimmering in his hand, his eyes flat as mirrors.

Cristina began to pray. Angel, keep me safe. Raziel, help me. She kept her eyes open. She wouldn’t close them. That was a coward’s way to die. If the Angel wanted her to die now, she’d die on her feet with her eyes open like Jonathan Shadowhunter. She would—

Kieran’s eyes flickered, minutely, his head tilting. She followed the movement, suddenly understanding, as he lifted the sword in his hand. He swung it forward—and she ducked her head.

The sword sliced through the air cleanly above her. Something hot and wet and copper-smelling spilled across her back. She cried out, pivoting away as Erec’s arms released her, his throat severed to the spine, his body crumpling to the pebbled path.

“Kieran,” Adaon breathed in horror. Kieran stood over Erec’s body, the blood-smeared sword in his hand. “What have you done?”

“He would have killed her,” Kieran said. “And she is my—and Mark—”

Cristina caught at the fountain to hold herself up. Her legs felt numb. The pain in her arm was fire.

Adaon strode forward and snatched the sword from Kieran’s hand. “Iarlath was not your blood,” he said. His skin looked tight with shock. “But Erec was. You will be denounced a kin-slayer if anyone discovers what you have done.”

Kieran raised his head. His eyes burned into his brother’s. “Will you tell them?”

Adaon jerked the hood up over his face. Wind had begun to blow through the square—a cold, sharp squall of it. Adaon’s cloak flapped like wings. “Go, Kieran. Seek the safety of the Institute.”

Adaon bent over Erec’s body. It was twisted at a violent angle, blood running among the pebbles and grass. As he knelt, Kieran started to walk out of the park—and stopped.

Slowly, he turned back and looked at Cristina. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes.” She was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice, but her body betrayed her—when she stood upright, agony shot through her arm, down into her side, and she doubled over, gasping.

A moment later there were hands on her, none too gentle, and she felt herself lifted off the ground. She started in surprise—Kieran had picked her up and was carrying her from the park.

She let her arms dangle, not knowing what else to do. She was speechless. Despite the dancing the night before, it was bizarre to be held by Kieran like this. Mark had been there, then—and now they were alone.

“Do not be foolish,” said Kieran. “Put your arms around me. I do not want to drop you and then have to explain matters to Mark.”

He would have killed her. And she is my—and Mark—

She wondered what he’d meant to say. Mark would have been angry? Mark would have been disappointed? She is my friend?

No, he couldn’t have meant that. Kieran didn’t like her. She was sure of it. And maybe that hadn’t been what he’d said at all. Her memories were becoming blurred with pain.

They were passing down a street whose lights seemed to change from gas to electric as they went. Illumination blinked on in windows overhead. Cristina raised her arms and put them around Kieran’s neck. She laced her fingers together, biting her lip against the pain of the binding spell.

Kieran’s hair tickled her fingers. It was soft, surprisingly so. His skin was incredibly fine-grained, more so than any human’s, like the surface of polished porcelain. She remembered Mark kissing Kieran against a tree in the desert, hands on his hair, pushing the neck of his sweater down to get at his skin, his bones, his body. She blushed.

“Why did you follow me?” Kieran said stiffly.

“I saw you through the library window,” said Cristina. “I thought you were running away.”

“I went to see Adaon, as I promised I would, that is all. Besides”— he laughed shortly—“where have I to go?”

“People often run even when they have nowhere to go,” said Cristina. “It is all about what you can bear in the place where you are.”

There was a long silence, long enough that Cristina assumed Kieran wasn’t planning to answer. Then he spoke. “I have the sense,” he said, “that I have done Mark some kind of wrong. I do not know what it was. But I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. He thinks he is hiding it, but he is not. Though he can lie with his mouth, he has never learned to conceal the truth in his eyes.”

“You’ll have to ask Mark,” said Cristina. They had reached the street that led to the Institute. Cristina could see the spire of it rising in the distance. “When Adaon said that if you became King, you’d have to give up Mark, what did he mean?”

“A King of Faerie can have no human consort.” He looked down at her with his eyes like stars. “Mark lies about you. But I have seen the way he looks at you. Last night, when we danced. He more than desires you.”