Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

He couldn’t see Kieran. Kieran was somewhere behind him; Mark could hear the guards shouting at him, almost drowned out by the sounds of music and laughter. Kieran. Cristina. His heart was a cold knot of fear for both of them as he was shoved through a filthy puddle and up a set of wooden steps.

A flap of velvet canopy slapped him in the face; Mark sputtered as the guard holding him laughed. There were hands at his waist, unfastening his weapons belt.

He kicked out reflexively and was shoved to the floor. “Kneel, half-breed,” snapped one of the guards. They released him, and Mark crouched where he was, on his knees, his chest throbbing with rage. Two guards stood behind him, holding spears level with the back of Mark’s neck. A few feet away, Kieran was in the same position, though he was bleeding from a cut lip. His expression was set in a bitter snarl.

They were inside Oban’s pavilion. The walls were heavy hanging velvet, the floor expensive rugs that had been trampled and muddied by uncountable booted feet. Wooden tables held dozens of empty and half-empty bottles of wine; some had tipped over and spilled, filling the room with the reek of alcohol.

“Well, well,” said a drawling voice. Mark looked up; in front of them was a red velvet sofa, and sprawled on it was an indolent-looking young man. Hair streaked black and purple tumbled around his pointed ears, and black kohl was smudged around glittering silver eyes. He wore a silver silk doublet and hose, and white lace spilled from his cuffs. “Little brother Kieran. How nice to see you.” His silver eyes flicked to Mark. “With some guy.” He flicked a dismissive hand in Mark’s direction and turned his smirk on Manuel. “Good work.”

“I told you I saw them,” Manuel said. “They were at the revel.”

“I admit it never occurred to me they would be stupid enough to set foot in the Unseelie Lands,” said Oban. “You win that point, Villalobos.”

“They make an excellent gift,” said Manuel. He stood between the guards with their spears, his arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning. “Your father will be pleased.”

“My father?” Oban tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “You think I should deliver Kieran to my father? He’ll just kill him. Dull.”

Mark darted a glance at Kieran through his eyelashes. Kieran was on his knees. He didn’t look frightened of Oban, but he’d never show it if he was.

“A gift is more than just a gift,” said Manuel. “It’s a method of persuasion. Your father—mistakenly—thinks you weak, Prince. If you bring him Prince Kieran and the Shadowhunter half-breed, he’ll realize he should take you more seriously.” He lowered his voice. “We can convince him to kill the prisoners and move ahead with our plan.”

Prisoners? What prisoners? Mark tensed. Could he mean Julian and Emma? But that wasn’t possible. They were with the Seelie procession.

At least Cristina was safe. She had vanished, eluding the guards. The Angel knew where she was now. Mark chanced a sideways glance at Kieran: Wasn’t he panicking too? Wasn’t he terrified for Cristina as Mark was? He ought to be, considering the way they’d been kissing.

Oban reached for the side table and scrabbled around among the bottles stacked on top of it, looking for one with alcohol still in it. “My father does not respect me,” he said. “He thinks my brothers are more worthy of the throne. Though they are not.”

“I’m sure they think the same about you,” Mark muttered.

Oban found a bottle and lifted it up to the light, squinting at the half inch of amber fluid still inside. “A wanted prisoner might change his mind, but it might not be enough.”

“You do want to rise in your father’s favor, do you not?” said Manuel.

Oban took a swig from his bottle. “Of course. Rather.”

Mark had the feeling Manuel was rolling his eyes internally. “Then you need to demonstrate that he should take you seriously. The first time you went to him, he wouldn’t even hear you out.”

“Fatuous old bag,” muttered Oban, tossing the empty bottle aside. It shattered.

“If you bring him these prisoners, he will listen to you. I will go with you—I will tell him that together we tracked them down. I will make it clear that as a representative of the Cohort, I wish to work only with you as our contact in the Unseelie Court. It will make you seem important.”

“Seem?” said Oban.

Kieran made an inelegant snorting noise.

“It will make him understand how important you are,” Manuel corrected smoothly. “Your father will realize the value you bring to him. The hostages are the key to a parley between Nephilim and the Unseelie Folk that has no precedent in our history. When every Shadowhunter sees you meet and achieve a mutually beneficial peace, all will realize that you and Horace Dearborn are the greatest of leaders, able to achieve the alliance your forefathers could not.”

“What?” said Mark, unable to stay silent. “What are you talking about?”

“Might it not bring real war?” Oban had found another bottle. “War seems like a bad idea.”

With exasperated patience, Manuel said, “There will be no war. I told you.” He glanced at Kieran and then at Mark. “War is not the object here. And I think the King wants Kieran dead more than you think.”

“Because the people love him,” said Oban, in a maudlin tone. “They wanted him to be King. Because he was kind.”

“Kindness is not a kingly quality,” said Manuel. “As the people will discover when your father hangs Kieran from a gibbet high above the tower gardens.”

Mark jerked backward, and nearly impaled himself on a spear. “You—”

“Kindness may not be a kingly quality, but mercy is,” interrupted Kieran. “You don’t have to do this, Oban. Manuel is not worth your effort, and his schemes are so many lies.”

Oban sighed. “You are tediously predictable, youngest son.” He dropped the bottle he was holding, and the scarlet liquid in it ran out onto the floor like blood. “I want the throne, and I shall have the throne, and Manuel will help me get it. That is all I care about. That is all that matters.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Unlike you, I have not come to love and pursue shadows, but only what is real.”

Remember, Mark thought. Remember that none of this is real.

Oban flicked a hand toward the two of them as Manuel smirked almost audibly. “Chain them together and find them horses. We ride for the Unseelie Court this night.”

* * *

Barnabas was already at the 101 Coffee Shop in Hollywood when Drusilla arrived. He was sitting at a tan booth and forking up a plate of delicious-looking huevos rancheros. He sported a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie that seemed to be choking him, but he looked pleased with himself.

Dru stopped to glance at her reflection in the windows that ran along one side of the diner. The other side was a kitschy rock wall; in the corner there was a jukebox and dozens of framed photos of what Dru guessed were the owner’s family and friends.

It was dark outside, and the window gave her back a clear picture of herself. Dark hair pulled up and smooth, gray business suit, classic heels (stolen from Emma’s closet). She wore red lipstick and no other makeup; Kit had assured her that less was more. “You don’t want to look like a clown,” he’d said, tossing her powder blush in Racy Rose over his shoulder as if it were a grenade.

Somewhere out there in the shadows, Kit and Ty were watching, ready to jump to her defense if anything went wrong. Knowing that made her feel less worried. Hoisting her briefcase in her hand, she sauntered across the diner past ivory-and toffee-colored leather seats, and slid into the booth across from Barnabas.

His snake’s eyes flicked up to observe her. Up close, he didn’t look well. His scales were dull, and his eyes rimmed with red. “Vanessa Ashdown?”

“That’s me,” Dru said, setting the briefcase down on her place mat. “In the flesh.”

His forked tongue slithered out of his mouth. “And plenty of it. No worries, I like a woman with curves. Most of you Shadowhunters are so bony.”

Blech, Dru thought. She tapped the briefcase. “Business, Mr. Hale.”

“Right.” His tongue vanished, to her relief. “So, toots. You’ve got proof that Hypatia Vex has been passing secrets to Shadowhunters?”

“Right in here.” Dru smiled and pushed the briefcase toward him.

He unsnapped it and flicked it open, then frowned. “This is money.”

“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile and tried not to glance around to see if anyone was coming to back her up. “It’s the money we’ve earmarked for Hypatia in exchange for secrets.”

He rolled his eyes. “Normally, I’m happy to see a big box of money, don’t get me wrong. But I was kind of hoping for photos of her handing evidence to some Blackthorns.”

“Why Blackthorns?” Drusilla said.

“Because,” said Barnabas. “They’re smarmy little rats.” He sat back. “You gotta give me something better than this, Vanessa.”

“Well, look closer at the money.” Dru played for time. “Because, ah, it’s not ordinary money.”

Looking bored, Barnabas picked up a stack of twenties. Dru tensed. Kit had told her to keep Barnabas talking, but it wasn’t like she could distract him by telling him the plot of Bloody Birthday or about the new cute thing Church had done.

“There ain’t nothing special about this money,” Barnabas began, and broke off as the door of the diner flew open and a tall warlock woman with dark skin and bronze hair strode into the room. She wore a glimmering pantsuit and toweringly high heels. She was followed by two other Downworlders—a muscled male werewolf and a pallid, dark-haired vampire.

“Damn,” said Barnabas. “Hypatia—what—?”