"Hello, Tiberius." Mark liked the long version of his little brother's name. It seemed to suit him and his solemn demeanor. "Were you looking for something?"
"I was looking for you," said Ty in his direct way. "I tried last night, but I couldn't find you, and then I fell asleep."
"I was saying good-bye to Kieran," said Mark.
"Good-bye?" Ty hunched his shoulders up. "Does that mean you're staying here definitely?"
Mark couldn't help a smile. "I am. I'm staying here."
Ty exhaled a long sigh; it sounded like half relief, half nervousness. "Good," he said. "That's good."
"I thought so."
"It is," Ty said, as if Mark was being a bit slow, "because you can take over from Julian."
"Take over?" Mark stared in puzzlement.
"Julian isn't technically the oldest," said Ty. "And even though they'd never put you in charge officially because you're half-faerie, you could still do what Julian does. Look after us, tell us what to do. It doesn't have to be him. It could be you."
Mark braced himself against the doorway. Ty was wearing a completely open expression, and there was hope in the back of his pale gray eyes, and Mark felt a wash of panic that nearly made him sick. "Have you said anything about this to Julian?" he demanded. "Have you told him that you were planning on asking me this?"
Ty, not catching the half-furious note in Mark's voice, drew his delicate dark brows together. "I think I mentioned it to him."
"Ty," Mark said. "You can't just arrange other people's lives like that. What would make you think that this was a good idea?"
Ty's eyes darted around the room, resting everywhere but on Mark. "I didn't mean to make you angry. I thought you had a good time that night, in the kitchen, when Julian left you in charge--"
"I had a good time. We all had a good time. I also set fire to the stove and covered your little brother in sugar. That's not how things are supposed to be all the time. That's not how--" Mark broke off, leaned back against the wall. He was shaking. "What on earth would make you think I was qualified to be Tavvy's guardian? Or Dru's? You and Livvy, you're older, but that doesn't mean you don't need a parent. Julian's your parent."
"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."
Emma disappeared from the narrow field of Kit's vision. He could see
only the other woman. She had a sweet and gentle face, and she looked at him with surprising affection. "I'm Tessa Gray," she said. "Get up, Christopher."
Kit blinked. No one ever called him Christopher. No one but his father, when his father was angry. The thought of Johnny stabbed through him, and he stared over at the place where his father's body lay crumpled.
To his surprise, there were two people there. A tall man with dark hair, wielding a sword-headed cane, had joined Emma, and the two of them were laying about themselves, slicing the demons to ribbons. Green ichor sprayed into the air like a geyser.
"My father," Kit said, licking his dry lips and tasting blood. "He . . ."
"You must grieve later. Right now you are in great danger. More of those things may come, and worse things as well."
He looked at her through the haze. His mouth tasted bitter. "Are you a Shadowhunter?"
"I am not," Tessa Gray said with a surprising firmness. "But you are." She reached her hand down toward him. "Come now," she said. "On your feet, Christopher Herondale. We've been looking for you a long time."
"Say something," Emma said. "Please."
But the boy in the passenger seat next to her didn't speak. He was looking out the window toward the ocean; they had made it all the way to the coast highway without Kit saying a word.
"It's all right," Tessa said from the backseat of the car. Her voice was gentle, but then, her voice was always gentle. "You don't need to speak, Christopher."
"No one calls me that," said Kit.
Emma jumped a little. Kit spoke in a monotone, staring out the window. She knew he was a little younger than she was, but more from his demeanor than anything else. He was quite tall, and his moves back at his house, fighting the Mantid demons, had been impressive.
He wore bloody jeans and a blood-soaked T-shirt that had probably once been blue. The ends of his pale blond hair were sticky with ichor and blood.