Lady Midnight (The Dark Artifices 1)

Inside the gap, Emma could see the dim gleam of the rock corridor leading into the cave's heart.

Gripping her witchlight, Emma plunged into the convergence.

Night had nearly fallen--the sky was shading from blue to indigo, the first stars twinkling out above the distant mountains. Cristina sat with her legs up on the dashboard of the truck, her eyes fixed on the two-story ranch house that belonged to Casper Sterling.

The Jeep she recognized was parked in the court in front of the house, under an old-growth olive tree. A low wall ran around the property; the neighborhood, just beside Hancock Park, was full of expensive but not particularly showy houses. Sterling's was closed, shuttered and dark. The only evidence she had that he was home was the car in the driveway.

She thought of Mark, then wished she hadn't. She was doing that a lot these days--thinking of Mark and then regretting it. She had worked hard to return her life to normal after she left Mexico. No more romances with brooding and troubled men, no matter how handsome.

Mark Blackthorn wasn't brooding or troubled exactly. But Mark Blackthorn belonged to Kieran and the Wild Hunt. Mark Blackthorn had a divided heart.

He also had a soft, husky voice, startling eyes, and a habit of saying things that turned her world backward. And he was an excellent dancer, from what she'd seen. Cristina rated dancing highly. Boys who could dance well, kissed well--that was what her mother always said.

A dark shadow ran across the roof of Sterling's house.

Cristina was up and out of the car in seconds, her seraph blade in her hand. "Miguel," she whispered, and it blazed up. She was heavily glamoured enough that she knew no mundane could see her, but the blade provided precious light.

She moved forward carefully, her heart pounding. She remembered what Emma had told her about the night Julian had been shot: the shadow on the roof, the man in black. She eased up to the house itself. The windows were dark, the curtains motionless. Everything was still and silent.

She moved toward the Jeep. She slipped her stele out of her pocket just as a shape dropped to the ground beside her with an oomph. Cristina leaped out of the way as the shadow unfolded; it was Sterling, dressed in what Cristina imagined mundanes thought gear looked like. Black pants, black boots, a tailored black jacket.

He stared at her, and his face turned slowly purple. "You," he snarled.

"I can help you," Cristina said, keeping her voice and her blade steady. "Please let me help you."

The hatred in his eyes startled her. "Get away," he hissed, and yanked something out of his pocket.

A gun. A handgun, small caliber, but enough to make Cristina step back. Guns were something that rarely entered Shadowhunter life; they belonged to mundanes, to their world of ordinary human crime.

But they could still spill Shadowhunter blood and split Shadowhunter bones. He backed away, pointing the gun at her, until he reached the end of his driveway. Then he turned and ran.

Cristina bolted after him, but by the time she'd reached the end of the driveway, he was disappearing around the corner of the street. Apparently he hadn't exaggerated--weres really were faster than humans. Faster, even, than Shadowhunters.

Cristina muttered a mild curse and trudged back to the Jeep. She drew her stele from her belt with her free hand and, crouching down, carefully marked a small tracking rune into the side of the vehicle, just above the wheel.

It wasn't a total disaster, she thought, trudging back to the truck. As Emma had said, they were still within the two-day window before the "hunt" began. And having put a tracking rune on Sterling's car was sure to help. If they just stayed away from his house, let him think they'd given up, hopefully he'd get careless and start driving.

Only when she climbed into the truck and slammed the door behind her did she see that her phone was flashing. She'd missed a call. She picked it up and her heart fell into her stomach.

Diego Rocio Rosales.

She dropped the phone as if it had turned into a scorpion. Why, why, why would Diego call her? She'd told him never to speak to her again.

Her hand stole to the charm at her throat and she clutched it, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Give me the strength not to call him back.

"Are you feeling better, Uncle?" Julian said.

Arthur, slumped behind the desk in his office, looked up with faded, distant eyes.

"Julian," he said. "I need to talk to you."

"I know. You said." Julian leaned back against a wall. "Do you remember what it was about?"

He felt exhausted, scraped out, hollow as a dry bone. He knew he should regret what he'd said in the kitchen about Mark. He knew he should be sympathetic to his uncle. But he couldn't dredge up the emotion.

He didn't really remember leaving the kitchen: He recalled handing Tavvy off, as much as you could hand off a sugarcoated seven-year-old; he recalled them all promising they would clean up their dinner of cheese and chocolate and brownies and burned things. Even Dru, once she'd stopped throwing up into the sink, had sworn she'd scrub the floor and get the ketchup off the windows.

Not that Julian had realized until that moment that there was ketchup on the windows.

He'd nodded and gone to leave the room, and then stopped to look around for Emma. But at some point Emma had left with Cristina. Presumably they were somewhere talking about Cameron Ashdown. And there was nothing Julian wanted less than to join in on that.

He didn't know when that had happened, that the thought of Cameron made him not want to see Emma. His Emma. You always wanted to see your parabatai. They were the most welcome face in the world to you. There was a wrongness about not wanting it, as if the earth had suddenly started spinning in the other direction.

"I don't think I do," Arthur said after a moment. "There was something I wanted to help with. Something about the investigation. You are still investigating, aren't you?"

"The

murders? The ones the faerie convoy came to us about? Yes."

"I think it was about the poem," Arthur said. "The one Livia was reciting in the kitchen." He rubbed at his eyes, obviously tired. "I was passing by and I heard it."

"The poem?" Julian echoed, confused. "'Annabel Lee'?"

Arthur spoke in his deep, rumbling voice, sounding out the lines of poetry as if they were the lines of a spell.

"But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we--

Of many far wiser than we--

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee--"

"I know the poem," Julian interrupted. "But I don't--"

"'Those who were older,'" Arthur said. "I've heard the phrase before. In London. I can't remember what it was in connection with." He picked up a pen from the desk, tapped it against the wood. "I'm sorry. I just--I can't remember."

"Those Who Are Older," murmured Julian. He remembered Belinda, back at the theater, smiling with her blood-red lips. May Those Who Are Older grant us all good fortune, she'd said.

An idea bloomed in the back of Julian's mind, but, elusive, disappeared when he tried to chase it.

He needed to go to his studio. He wanted to be alone, and painting would unlock his thoughts. He turned to go and only paused when Uncle Arthur's voice cut through the dusty air.

"Did I help you, boy?" he said.

"Yes," said Julian. "You helped."

When Cristina returned to the Institute, it was dark and silent. The entryway lights were off, and only a few windows glowed--Julian's studio, the bright spot of the attic, the square that was the kitchen.

Frowning, Cristina went directly there, wondering if Emma had returned yet from her mysterious errand. If the others had managed to clean up the mess they'd made.

At first glance the kitchen seemed deserted, only a single light on. Dishes were piled in the sink, and though someone had clearly scrubbed the walls and counters, there was still food crusted onto the stove, and two large trash bags, stuffed full and half-spilling their contents, propped against the wall.