Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices 2)

"When am I not hungry?" She went over to the table and rooted in her bag for her phone. Several texts from Cristina. Most were about how Cristina was FINE and Emma had NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT and she should STOP TEXTING BECAUSE MAGNUS WAS GOING TO FIX THE BINDING SPELL. Emma sent her a worry face and scrolled down.

"Any word on piskie-catching techniques?" Julian asked.

"Not yet."

Julian didn't say anything. Emma stripped down to her boy shorts and tank top. She saw Julian glance away from her, though it wasn't anything he'd never seen before--her clothes covered more than a bikini. She grabbed up her towel and soap. "I'm going to shower."

Maybe she was imagining his reaction. He just nodded and went over to the kitchen, firing up the stove. "No pancakes," he said. "They don't have the right stuff to make them."

"Surprise me," Emma said, and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, scrubbed clean, her hair tied into two damp braids that dripped onto her T-shirt, Julian had set the table with breakfast--toast, eggs, hot chocolate for her and coffee for him. She slid gratefully onto a chair.

"You smell like eucalyptus," he said, handing her a fork.

"There's eucalyptus shower gel in the bathroom." Emma took a bite of eggs. "Malcolm's, I guess." She paused. "I've never really thought of serial killers as having shower gel."

"No one likes a filthy warlock," said Julian.

Emma winked. "Some might disagree."

"No comment," Julian said, spreading peanut butter and Nutella on his toast. "We got a reply to our question." He held up her phone. "Instructions on how to catch piskies. From Mark, but probably really from Kieran. So first, breakfast, and afterward--piskie hunting."

"I am so ready to hunt down those tiny adorable creatures and give them what for," said Emma. "SO READY."

"Emma . . ."

"I may even tie bows on their heads."

"We have to interrogate them."

"Can I get a selfie with one of them first?"

"Eat your toast, Emma."

*

Everything sucked, Dru thought. She was lying under the desk in the parlor, arms crossed behind her head. A few feet above her she could see where a message, blurred over time and the years, had been scratched into the wood.

It was quiet in the room, only the clock ticking. The quiet was both a reminder of how lonely she was, and a relief. No one was telling her to go take care of Tavvy, or asking her if she'd play demons and Shadowhunters for the millionth time. No one was demanding she deliver messages or ferry papers back and forth in the library. No one was talking over her, and not listening.

No one was telling her she was too young. In Dru's opinion, age was a matter of maturity, not years, and she was plenty mature. She'd been eight years old when she'd defended her little brother's crib with a sword. She'd been eight when she'd seen Julian kill the creature that wore her father's face, when she'd run through the capital city of Idris as it fell apart in flames and blood.

And she'd stayed calm only a few days ago when Livvy had come to tell her that Uncle Arthur had never run the Institute; it had always been Julian. She'd been very matter-of-fact about it, as if it were no big deal, and she'd glossed over the fact that Diana hadn't even bothered to invite Dru to the meeting where she'd apparently broken this news. As far as Livvy was concerned, it seemed, the news was useful primarily for guilting Dru into further babysitting.

It wasn't so much that she hated looking after Tavvy. She didn't. It was more that she felt she deserved some credit when she made an effort. Not to mention, she'd put up with Great-Aunt Marjorie calling her fat for two months over the summer, and she hadn't murdered her, which in Dru's opinion was an epic sign of maturity and self-restraint.

She glanced down at her own round body and sighed. She had never been thin. Most Shadowhunters were--working out for fourteen hours a day tended to have that effect--but she had always been curved and rounded no matter what she did. She was strong and muscular, her body was fit and capable, but she'd always have the hips, breasts, and softness that she did. She was resigned to it. Unfortunately, the Great-Aunt Marjories of the world weren't.

There was a clunk. Something in the room had fallen. Dru froze. Was someone else in here with her? She heard a soft voice swearing--not in English, but in Spanish. It couldn't be Cristina, though. Cristina never swore, and besides, the voice was masculine.

Diego? Her crush-harboring heart skipped a beat, and she popped up from behind the desk.

A yelp of shock burst from her. The other person in the room also yelped, and sat down hard on the arm of the chair.

It wasn't Diego. It was a Shadowhunter boy about Julian's age, tall and rangy, with a shock of black hair that contrasted with his brown skin. He was covered in Marks, and not just Marks but tattoos, too--words ran up and down his forearms and snaked across his collarbone.

"What--what's going on?" Dru demanded, brushing dust bunnies out of her hair. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

She thought about screaming. Any Shadowhunter could come into any Institute, of course, but usually they at least rang the bell.

The boy looked alarmed. He held up a hand as if to forestall her, and she saw the gleam of the ring on his finger, carved with a pattern of roses. "I--" he began.

"Oh, you're Jaime," she said, relief going through her in a whoosh. "Diego's brother, Jaime."

The boy's face clouded. "You know my brother?"

He had a slight accent, more noticeable than Diego's or Cristina's. It lent a richness to the texture of his voice.

"Sort of," Dru said, and cleared her throat. "I live in the Los Angeles Institute."

"One of the Blackthorns?"

"I'm Drusilla." She stuck out her hand. "Drusilla Blackthorn. Call me Dru."

He gave a dry sort of chuckle and shook her hand. His was warm. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."

Dru felt herself blush. Jaime wasn't as perfectly handsome as Perfect Diego--his nose was a little too big, his mouth too wide and mobile--but his eyes were a brilliant sparkling brown, his lashes wickedly long and black. And there was something about him, a sort of energy that Diego didn't have, handsome as he was.

"Cristina must have told you terrible things about me," he said.

She shook her head, drawing her hand back. "She hasn't said much about you to me at all."

Cristina wouldn't have, Dru thought. She wouldn't think of Dru as old enough to confide in, to share her secrets with. Dru only knew what the other girls had dropped in casual conversation.

Not that she'd admit that to Jaime.

"That's very disappointing," he said. "If I were her, I wouldn't be able to stop talking about me." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Do you want to sit down?"

Feeling slightly flustered, Dru sat beside him.

"I'm going to confide in you," he said. It seemed like an announcement, as if he'd made up his mind on the spot and felt it was important to publicize as soon as possible.

"Really?" Dru wasn't sure anyone had ever confided in her before. Most of her siblings considered her too young, and Tavvy had no secrets.

"I came here to see Cristina, but she can't know I'm here quite yet. I need to communicate with my brother first."

"Is Diego all right?" Dru said. "The last time I saw him--I mean, I heard he was all right after the fight with Malcolm, but I haven't seen him or heard from him, and he and Cristina--"

She clammed up.

He laughed softly. "It's all right, I know. Ellos terminaron."

"They broke up," she translated. "Yes."

He looked surprised. "You speak Spanish?"

"I'm learning it. I'd like to go to the Mexico City Institute for my travel year, or maybe to Argentina to help rebuild."

She saw his long eyelashes sweep down as he winked. "Not eighteen yet, then?" he said. "It's all right. Neither am I."

Not even close. But Drusilla just smiled nervously. "What were you going to confide?"

&n

bsp; "I'm in hiding. I can't tell you why, only that it's important. Please do not tell anyone I'm here until I can talk to Cristina."

"You haven't committed a crime or something, have you?"

He didn't laugh. "If I said no, but I might know who did, would you believe me?"

He was watching her intently. She probably shouldn't help him, she thought. After all, she didn't know him, and from the few things Diego had said about him, it had been clear he thought Jaime was trouble.

On the other hand, here was someone willing to trust her, to put their plans and safety in her hands rather than shutting her out because she was too young, or because she should be looking after Tavvy.

She exhaled and met Jaime's eyes. "All right," she said. "How were you planning on not being seen until you can talk to Cristina?"

His smile was blinding. She wondered how she'd ever thought he wasn't as good-looking as Diego.

"That's where you can help me," he said.

*

Having climbed up the side of the cottage and onto the roof, Emma reached out to help Julian up after her. He declined the hand, though, flipping himself easily up onto the shingled surface.