“Julian’s my brother,” Ty said, but the words came out strained. “And so are you. You’re like me,” he added. “We’re like each other.”
“No,” Mark said sharply. “We’re not. I’m a mess, Ty. I barely know how to live in this world. You’re capable. I’m not. You’re a whole person—you were raised by someone who loved you, loved you more than his own life, and that’s not anything to be grateful for, that’s what parents do, but for years, I haven’t had that. By the Angel, I barely know how to take care of myself. I certainly can’t take care of the rest of you.”
Ty’s lips had gone white. He took a step back, then bolted out into the hallway, his running steps fading.
God, Mark thought. What a disaster. What a total disaster. He was already starting to panic. What had he said to Ty? Had he made him feel like a burden? Had he wrecked things with his little brother, hurt Ty in some unfixable way?
He was a coward, he thought, cringing from the responsibility that Julian had carried for so many years, panicked at the thought of what could happen to his family in his thoughtless, inexperienced hands.
He desperately needed to talk to someone. Not Julian; it would be another burden on him. And Emma couldn’t keep a secret from Julian. Livvy would murder him; the others were too young. . . .
Cristina. Cristina always gave him good advice; Cristina’s sweet smile calmed his heart. He hurried toward her room.
He should have knocked, of course. That was what normal people did. But Mark, who had lived in a world without doors for so many years, put his hand to Cristina’s and pushed it open without a thought.
Sunlight was streaming through her window. She was sitting up on her bed, propped against the pillows, and Diego, kneeling in front of her, was kissing her. He was holding her head in his hands as if it was something precious, and her black hair was spilling out between his fingers.
Neither of them noticed Mark as he froze in the doorway or as he pulled the door shut as silently as he could. He leaned against the wall, shame burning through him.
I’ve misunderstood everything, he thought, wrecked everything. His feelings for Cristina were muddled and strange, but seeing her kiss Diego hurt more than he would have thought. Some of the pain was jealousy. Some was the realization that he had been away from mortal people so long that he no longer understood them. Perhaps he never would.
I should have stayed with the Hunt. He slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands.
A cloud of dust and wood and plaster rose from the place where the Rooks’ floor had been destroyed. Now a fine spray of blood joined it. Kit slid from the chair he’d been standing on and stood stunned. His face was splattered with blood and he could smell it in the room, the hot iron stench of it.
My father’s blood.
The demons were gathered in a circle, tearing at something on the floor. The body of Kit’s father. The sound of ripping flesh filled the room. Sickened, Kit felt his stomach lurch—just as the demon who had tumbled down the stairs came screeching back up them.
Its eyes, milky bulbs in its spongy head, seemed fixed on Kit. It advanced on him, and he seized up the chair beside him and held it out like a shield. In the back of his mind he was conscious that it probably shouldn’t be possible for an untrained fifteen-year-old boy to swing around a heavy piece of oak furniture like it was a toy.
But Kit didn’t care; he was half-insane with panic and horror. As the demon reared up in front of him, he swung the chair at it, knocking it backward. It surged up and lunged again. Kit feinted but this time a razored foreleg came down, slicing the chair in half. The demon sprang toward him with its teeth bared, and Kit held up the remains of the chair, which shattered in his hands. He was flung backward against the wall.
His head hit, hard, and dizziness flooded through him. He saw, through a haze, the praying mantis monster rearing up over him. Make it quick, he thought. For God’s sake let me die fast.
It descended toward him, mouth open, showing row upon row of teeth and a black gullet that seemed to fill his vision. He raised a hand to ward it off—it was closer, closer—and then it seemed to burst apart. Its head went one way, its body another. Green-black demon blood spattered onto him.
He stared upward and through the haze he saw two people standing over him. One was the blond Shadowhunter girl from the Institute, Emma Carstairs. She was brandishing a golden sword, stained with ichor. Beside her was another woman who looked a few years older. She was tall and slender, with long, curling brown hair. Vaguely, he knew he had seen her before—in the Shadow Market? He wasn’t sure.
“You deal with Kit,” said Emma. “I’ll take care of the other Mantids.”