Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

Horace transferred his glare to her, but said nothing. The Council was now a hum of relief, and even Horace Dearborn knew better than to fly directly in the face of popular opinion during a vote. He stayed on the dais as the meeting was dismissed, his supporters flocking around him in a thick crowd.

Feeling inexpressibly weary, Diana made for one of the exits. She felt as if she had been called to witness a bloody execution only to see the victim spared for a week. Relief mixed with fear of what the future would bring.

“Diana!” said a light, accented voice behind her. Diana turned to see one of the women from the Barcelona Institute—Trini Castel—approach her. She put a birdlike hand on Diana’s arm.

“I was inspired by what you said, Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “You are correct that rights—anyone’s rights—are not to be discarded lightly.”

“Thank you,” said Diana, more than a little surprised. Trini Castel gave her a quick smile and scurried away, leaving Diana with a clear view of the dais.

Zara stood at its edge, her gaze fixed on Diana. In the pale light filtering through the window, the naked hatred on her face—far more than anyone might feel over a past insult—was clear as day. Shuddering, Diana turned and hurried from the Hall.

* * *

Catarina’s suspicious confluence of ley lines turned out to be in a small desert park near the Antelope Valley Freeway, famous for its massive sandstone formations. Both Helen and Aline seemed faintly surprised that Mark and Cristina were planning to go out on patrol, but they hadn’t done anything to stop them, as if they reluctantly acknowledged that patrolling was a normal part of Shadowhunter life, and the sooner everyone got back to normal life, the better.

The drive from Malibu—they’d taken Diana’s truck, which had been left in the parking lot of the Institute—reminded Cristina of long ambling road trips she’d taken with Emma. Windows down in the truck, music playing low on the speakers, beach turning to highway turning to desert as the sun went down in a haze of fire. Mark had his long legs up on the dashboard and would sometimes turn his head to look at her as they rolled along in silence; the weight of his gaze felt like skin against her skin. Like a touch.

The Vasquez Rocks park closed at sunset, and the dirt parking lot was empty when Cristina cruised the truck into it and turned off the engine. They collected their weapons from the bed of the truck, snapping on wrist protectors and buckling weapons belts. Cristina strapped a longsword and her trusted balisong to her belt, while Mark found a runed black whip and cracked it a few times. He wore a look of pleasure on his face as it snaked across the darkening sky.

They had runed themselves before they left. Cristina could see Mark’s Night Vision rune gleaming black against his throat as they passed under the lights of the ranger station and crossed onto a dirt path that wound through scrub among rocks that twisted and folded like envelopes.

Cristina breathed deeply. Of all the things she loved about California, she loved the scent of the desert the most: clear air mixed with juniper, manzanita, and sage. The sky opened above them like a secret told, scattered with a million stars.

They passed a wooden sign for a trail just as a massive rock formation rose ahead of them, nearly blocking out the moon. “The ley line confluence,” Mark said, pointing.

Cristina didn’t ask him how he knew; faeries had a sense for such things. They moved closer to the rocks, which rose above them in tilted slabs, like the remains of a spaceship that had crashed into the sand. Cristina’s boots crunched on the sand, the sound loud in her ears thanks to her Audio rune.

A sharp, insect-like sound buzzed behind her. She turned. Mark was frowning at the Sensor in his hand. “It’s making a buzzing noise, but not one I’ve heard before,” he said.

Cristina turned around slowly. The desert stretched around her, a carpet of black and brown and dim gold. The sky was dark velvet. “I don’t see anything.”

“We should wait here,” said Mark. “See if it happens again.”

Cristina was in no mood to hang around under the romantic moon with Mark. “I think we should keep moving.”

“Cristina,” Mark said. “You seem wroth with me.”

Cristina rolled her eyes. “Nothing gets by you, Mark Blackthorn.”

Mark lowered the Sensor. “Last night—It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I did want to—”

Cristina blushed furiously. “It’s not that, Mark,” she said. “You can want to or not want to. It’s your business. It was that you lied.”

“Humans lie,” he said, his bicolored eyes suddenly blazing. “Mortals lie to each other every day, especially in matters of love. Is it that my lie wasn’t good enough? Should I be more practiced?”

“No!” She whirled on him. “I like that you don’t lie, Mark. It is why I was so—Mark, can’t you understand? I didn’t expect you to lie to me.”

“You saw me lie to Kieran,” he said.

“Yes, but that was to save lives,” she said. “Unless you’re telling me that you not wanting to have sex with me has something to do with saving lives, which I find hard to believe—”

“I did want to!” Mark exploded. “One thing you must understand—I did want to be with you in that way, and all ways, and that is not a lie.”

Cristina sank down on a low rock. Her heart was pounding. And she’d just said the word “sex,” which horribly embarrassed her. “Then I don’t understand why you did it,” she said in a small voice. “Were you trying to spare someone? Kieran?”

“I was trying to spare you,” he said, his voice dark and hard, like late-winter ice.

“Spare me what?”

“You know who you are!” he cried, startling her. She looked up at him, not understanding—it was not as if she were a stranger, to him or to anyone. What did he mean? “Kieran called you a princess of the Nephilim, and rightly,” he said. The moon was out fully, and the silver-white light illuminated his hair like a halo. It illuminated his eyes, too—wide and gold and blue and full of pain. “You are one of the best examples of our people I have ever known—shining, righteous, virtuous. You are all the good things I can think of, and all the things I would like to be and know I never can. I do not want you to do anything that later you would regret. I do not want you to later realize how far down from your standards you reached, when you reached for me.”

“Mark!” She bolted up from the rock and went over to him. She heard a thump as something hit the ground, and threw her arms around Mark, hugging him tightly.

For a moment he held himself stiff and frozen. Then he softened against her, his arms encircling her body, his lips brushing her cheek, the soft curls of her hair that had escaped from her braid.

“Cristina,” he whispered.

She drew back enough to touch his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his cheekbones. His skin had that impossible faerie smoothness that came from never having needed the touch of a razor. “Mark Blackthorn,” she said, and shivered deep in her bones at the look in his eyes. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you. You are so many things I never thought to want, but I do want them. I want all things with you.”

His arms tightened around her; he gathered her to him as if he were gathering an armful of flowers. His lips skated along her cheek, her jawline; at last their mouths met, burning hot in the cold air, and Cristina gave a little gasp at the desire that shot through her, sharp as an arrowhead.

He tasted like honey and faerie wine. They staggered backward, fetching up against a rock pile. Mark’s hands were on he

r gear jacket; he was undoing it, sliding his hands inside, under her shirt, as if desperate for the touch of her skin. He murmured words like “beautiful” and “perfect” and she smiled and swiped her tongue slowly across his bottom lip, making him gasp as if she had stabbed him. He groaned helplessly and pulled her tighter.

The Sensor buzzed, loud and long.

They sprang apart, gasping. Cristina zipped her jacket with shaking hands as Mark bent awkwardly to seize the Sensor. It buzzed again and they both whirled, staring.

“No mames,” she whispered. The buzzer made another, insistent noise, and something hit her hard from the side.

It was Mark. He’d knocked her to the ground; they both rolled sideways over the bumpy, pitted earth as something massive and shadowy rose above them. Black wings spread like ragged shadows. Cristina shoved herself up on her elbow, yanked a runed dagger from her belt, and flung it.

There was a cawing scream. Witchlight lit the sky; Mark was on his knees, a rune-stone in his hand. Above them a massive white-faced demon trailing feathers like a shadowy cloak of rags flapped its wings; the hilt of Cristina’s dagger protruded from its chest. Its outline was already beginning to blur as it screeched again, clawing at the hilt with a taloned claw, before folding up like paper and vanishing.

“Harpyia demon,” said Mark, leaping to his feet. He reached down to help Cristina up after him. “Probably hiding in the rocks. That’s why the Sensor didn’t pick it up well.”

“We should go.” Cristina glanced around. “Judging by the Sensor, there are more.”

They began to jog toward the dirt trail, Cristina glancing back over her shoulder to see if anything was following them.

“I just want to make it clear that I did not engineer the interruption of the Harpyia demon,” Mark said, “and was indeed eager to continue with our sexual congress.”

Cristina sighed. “Good to know.” She cut sideways through some low sagebrush. In the far distance, she could see the metal gleam of the parked truck.

Mark’s footsteps slowed. “Cristina. Look.”