Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine. Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did. Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jackets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the symbol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back. They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them. Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust. She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrusting Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose, and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though, and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them; they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Luggage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out how to feed them . . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I suppose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate, we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make conversation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—” Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncomfortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, staring, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”





5


EARTH AND HEAVEN


Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment, thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway, wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets, shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulnerability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged, nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.