“Em?” he gasped.
“Shush,” she said, putting her hand against his cheek, her fingers in his hair. He was wet with blood and sweat, his pupils blown wide open. She could see herself in them, see her pale, strained face.
She laid her stele against his skin. “I need to heal him,” she said. “Let me heal him.”
“This is ridiculous,” Iarlath protested. “The boy should take the whipping—”
“Leave it, Iarlath,” said Gwyn. His arms were tight around Mark.
Iarlath subsided, muttering—Mark was struggling and gasping—the stele was cold in Emma’s hand—colder still as she brought it down against Julian’s skin—
She drew the rune.
“Sleep, my love,” she whispered, so low that only Julian could hear her. For a moment his eyes fluttered wide, clear and astonished. Then they shut, and he slumped to the ground.
“Emma!” Mark’s voice was a shout. “What have you done?”
Emma rose to her feet, turning to see Iarlath’s face, blazing with rage. Gwyn, though—she thought she caught a flash of amusement in his eyes.
“I knocked him out,” she said. “He’s unconscious. Nothing you can do will wake him.”
Iarlath’s lip curled. “You think to deprive us of our punishment by depriving him of his ability to feel it? Are you such a fool?” He turned toward Gwyn. “Bring Mark forward,” he snarled. “We will whip him instead, and then we will have whipped two Blackthorns.”
“No!” Kieran cried. “No! I forbid it—I cannot bear it—”
“No one cares what you can bear, princeling, least of all I,” said Iarlath. His smile was twisted. “Yes, we will whip both brothers,” he said. “Mark will not escape. And I doubt your parabatai will soon forgive you for it,” he added, turning back to Emma.
“Instead of whipping two Blackthorns,” she said, “you can whip a Carstairs. Wouldn’t that be better?”
Gwyn hadn’t moved at Iarlath’s order; now his eyes widened. Kieran drew in his breath.
“Julian told you he killed faeries during the Dark War,” she said. “But I have killed many more. I cut their throats; I wet my fingers with their blood. I’d do it again.”
“Silence!” Rage filled Iarlath’s voice. “How dare you brag of such things?”
She reached down and yanked up her shirt. Mark’s eyes widened as she dropped it to the ground. She was standing in front of all of them in just her bra and jeans. She didn’t care. She didn’t feel naked—she felt clothed in rage and fury, like a warrior from one of Arthur’s tales.
“Whip me,” she said. “Agree to it and this will end here. Otherwise I swear I will hunt you through the lands of Faerie unto eternity. Mark can’t, but I can.”
Iarlath said something exasperated in a language Emma didn’t know, turning to look at the ocean. Kieran moved forward as he did so, toward Julian’s crumpled form.
“Don’t you touch him!” Mark yelled, but Kieran didn’t look at him, just slid his hands under Julian’s arms and drew him away from the tree. He laid him down a few feet away, removing his own long tunic to wrap it around Jules’s unconscious, bleeding body.
Emma expelled a breath of relief. The sun felt hot on her naked back. “Do it,” she said. “Unless you are too cowardly to whip a girl.”
“Emma, stop,” said Mark. His voice was full of a terrible ache. “Let it be me.”
Iarlath’s eyes had brightened with a cruel light. “Very well, Carstairs,” he said. “Do as your parabatai did. Ready yourself for the whip.”
Emma saw Gwyn’s expression turn to one of sadness as she moved toward the tree. The bark, up close, was smooth and dark red-brown. It felt cool to the touch as she slid her arms around it. She could see the individual cracks in the bark.
She gripped the wood with her hands. She heard Mark call her name again, but it seemed to be coming from very far away. Iarlath moved to stand behind her.
The whip whistled as he raised it. She closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw Julian, and fire around him. Fire in the chambers of the Silent City. She heard his voice whisper the words, those old words from the Bible, taken and remade by Shadowhunters to form the parabatai oath.
Whither thou goest, I will go—
The whip came down. If she had thought she felt pain before, it was agony now. Her back felt as if it were being opened up by fire. She ground her teeth together to silence her scream.
Entreat me not to leave thee—
Again. The pain was worse this time. Her fingers bit into the wood of the tree.
Or to return from following after thee—
Again. She slid to her knees.
The Angel do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.
Again. The pain rose up like a wave, blotting out the sun. She screamed, but she couldn’t hear herself—her ears were stoppered, the world crumpling, folding in on itself. The whip came down a fifth time, a sixth, a seventh, but now she barely felt it as the darkness swallowed her.