Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

“Do—do you mind?” Cristina said.

“I do not mind you,” said Kieran. “I thought I would, but I do not. It is something about you. You are beautiful, and you are kind, and you are—good. I do not know why that should make a difference. But it does.”

He sounded almost surprised. Cristina said nothing. Her blood was getting on Kieran’s shirt. It was a surreal sight. His body was warm, not cold as marble as she’d always imagined. He smelled faintly of night and woods, a clean smell untouched by the city.

“Mark needs kindness,” Kieran said, after a long pause. “And so do I.”

They’d reached the Institute, and Kieran went quickly up the stairs—and paused at the top. His arms tautened around her.

Cristina looked at him, puzzled. Then the light dawned. “You can’t open the door,” she said. “You’re not a Shadowhunter.”

“That is the case.” Kieran blinked at the doors as if they’d surprised him.

“What if you’d come back without me?” Cristina had the most bizarre urge to laugh, though nothing that had happened had been funny, and Erec’s blood still stiffened the back of her clothes. She wondered how many times she’d have to shower before she felt even a little clean. “I really would have imagined you’d thought further ahead.”

“I seem to have absorbed some of your human impulsiveness,” Kieran said.

He sounded shocked at himself. Taking pity on him, Cristina began to unknot her fingers from around his neck.

She reached for the door, but it swung inward. Light blazed out of the entryway, and on the threshold stood Mark, staring from one of them to the other in astonishment.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “By the Angel—Kieran, Cristina—” He reached out as if to take her from Kieran’s arms.

“It’s all right,” Cristina said. “I can stand.”

Kieran gently lowered her to the ground. The pain in her arm was already beginning to fade, though looking at Mark’s wrist—red, puffy, ringed with blood—filled her with guilt. It was so hard to believe, even now, that the pain she felt was his pain too; her bleeding, his bleeding.

Mark drew his hand down her sleeve, already hardening as Erec’s blood dried. “All this blood—it’s not just your wrist—and why would you go out, either of you—?”

“It is not her blood,” said Kieran. “It is my brother’s.”

They were all in the entryway now. Kieran reached behind him and deliberately shut the massive front doors with a loud clang. Above them, Cristina could hear footsteps, someone hurrying downstairs.

“Your brother’s?” Mark echoed. Against Kieran’s dark clothes the blood hadn’t been very visible, but Mark seemed to look more closely now and see the thin spatters of scarlet against Kieran’s neck and cheek. “You mean—Adaon?”

Kieran looked dazed. “I went to meet him, to speak of the binding spell and of his possible accession to the throne.”

“And blood was spilled? But why?” Mark touched Kieran’s cheek gently. “If we had known there might be a fight, we never would have suggested you talk to him on our behalf. And why did you go alone? Why did you not tell me, or bring me with you?”

Kieran closed his eyes for just a moment, turning his cheek into the cup of Mark’s palm. “I did not want to risk you,” he said in a low voice.

Mark met Cristina’s eyes, over Kieran’s shoulder. “It wasn’t Adaon who wanted a fight,” she said, rubbing her wrist. “It was Erec.”

Kieran opened his eyes, gently drawing Mark’s hand away from his face, lacing his fingers through Mark’s as he did. “He must have followed Adaon to our meeting place,” he said. “I never even had the chance to tell Adaon of our plans for him, and the throne.” His eyes darkened. “Mark, there is something you must know—”

Magnus burst into the vestibule, Alec behind him. They were both out of breath. “What’s going on?” Alec asked.

“Where are the children?” Kieran said. “The little ones, and the blue child with the small horns?”

Alec blinked. “Bridget’s watching them,” he said. “Why?”

“I will explain in more detail when I can,” said Kieran. “For now, you must know this. The King my father has sent the Seven Riders to find the Black Volume, and they are here in London. I imagine he believes the location of the Black Volume is known by those in this Institute. The danger is great. We are safe within these walls for now, but—”

Mark had gone white. “But Livvy and Ty aren’t within these walls,” he said. “They went with Kit to get the ingredients for the binding spell. They’re somewhere in the city.”

There was a babble of voices, Alec snapping out a question, Magnus gesturing. But the pain and shock—not just hers, but Mark’s—was graying out Cristina’s vision, however much she tried to cling onto consciousness. She tried to say something but the words disappeared, everything sliding up and away from her as she tumbled into the shadows.

She wasn’t sure whether it was Mark or Kieran who caught her as she fell.

*

Rain clouds had replaced blue sky over London. Ty, Kit, and Livvy had decided to walk back from Hypatia’s after picking up Magnus’s ingredients, rather than wait in the fussy, damp line for the riverboat.

Kit was enjoying himself kicking his way through puddles on the Thames Path, which wound like a granite snake along the side of the river. They’d passed the Tower of London again, and Ty had pointed out Traitor’s Gate, where condemned criminals had once entered the tower to have their heads chopped off.

Livvy had sighed. “I wish Dru was with us. She would have liked that. She’s hardly come out of her room lately.”

“I think she’s afraid someone will make her babysit if she does,” said Kit. He wasn’t sure he had a clear impression of Dru yet—more a blurred sense of a round face, flushed cheeks, and a lot of black clothes. She had the Blackthorn eyes, but they were usually focused on something else.

“I think she’s keeping a secret,” Livvy said. They’d passed Millennium Bridge, a long iron line stretching across the river, and were nearing an older-looking bridge, painted a dented red and gray.

Ty was humming to himself, lost in thought. The river was the same color as his eyes today, a sort of steely-gray, touched with bits of silver. The white band of his headphones was around his neck, trapping his unruly black hair under it. He looked puzzled. “Why would she do that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” said Livvy. “I can’t prove it . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was squinting into the distance, her hand up to shield her face from the gray afternoon light. “What’s that?”

Kit followed her glance and felt a coldness pass through him. Shapes were moving through the sky, a line of racing figures, silhouetted against the clouds. Three horses, clear as paper outlines, with three riders on their backs.

He looked around wildly. Mundanes were all around, paying little to no attention to the three teenagers in jeans and hooded raincoats hurrying along with their bags full of magic powders.

“The Wild Hunt?” Kit said. “But why—?”

“I don’t think it’s the Wild Hunt,” said Livvy. “They ride at night. It’s broad daylight.” She put her hand to her side, where her seraph blades hung.

“I don’t like this.” Ty sounded breathless. The figures were incredibly close now, skimming the top of the bridge, angling downward. “They’re coming toward us.”

They turned, but it was too late. Kit felt a breeze ruffle his hair as the horses and their riders passed overhead. A moment later there was a clatter as the three landed in a neat pattern around Kit, Livvy, and Ty, cutting off their retreat.