Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

* * *

It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.

The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.

“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.

Dearborn straightened up. “?‘Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—”

“I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.”

“Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.

“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.”

“The Clave has changed,” said Emma.

“Not all change is for the worse,” said Horace. “This has been a long time coming.”

Julian swung his feet up, planting his boots on Horace’s desk. Emma blinked. Julian had always been rebellious at heart, but rarely openly. He smiled like an angel and said, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?”

Horace’s eyes glinted. There was anger in them, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “You two have really fucked up,” he said. “More than you know.”

Emma was jolted. Shadowhunter adults, especially those in positions of authority, rarely swore in front of anyone they considered children.

“What do you mean?” she said.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a black leather notebook. “Robert Lightwood’s notes,” he said. “He took them after every meeting he had. He took them after the meeting he had with you.”

Julian went white; he clearly recognized the notebook. Robert must have written in it after Emma had left his office with Manuel.

“I know what you told him about your relationship,” Dearborn said with relish. “Parabatai in love. Disgusting. And I know what you wanted from him. Exile.”

Though the color had left his face, Julian’s voice was steady. “I still think you should tell us what you want from us.”

“To fall in love with your parabatai is, shall we say, a breach of contract. The contract you’ve made as Nephilim, with the Clave. It desecrates our holiest of holy bonds.” He set the notebook back in its drawer. “But I am not an unreasonable man. I’ve come up with a mutually beneficial solution to all our little problems. And a few of the big ones.”

“Solutions aren’t usually mutually beneficial when one party has all the power,” said Julian.

Dearborn ignored him. “If you agree to be sent on a mission to the Land of Faerie, if you promise to find and to kill Annabel Blackthorn there and bring back the Black Volume of the Dead, I’ll honor the terms Robert set out. Exile and secrecy. No one will ever know.”

“You can’t be sure she’s in Faerie—” Julian began.

“You have got to be kidding,” Emma said at the same time.

“My sources say she’s in the Unseelie Court, and no, I am not ‘kidding,’?” said Dearborn. “I would swear it on the Mortal Sword, if Carstairs hadn’t broken it.”

Emma flushed. “Why do you want the Black Volume? Planning on raising some dead?”

“I have no interest in some warlock’s pitiable book of necromantic amusements,” said Horace, “save keeping it out of the hands of Annabel Blackthorn and the King of Unseelie. Do not even consider trying to fob me off with imitations or fakes. I will know, and I will punish you. I want the Black Volume in the control of Nephilim, not Downworlders.”

“You must have older, more capable people who can do this?” said Julian.

“This mission must be carried out with the utmost secrecy,” Dearborn snapped. “Who has a better reason to keep it a secret than you?”

“But time works differently in Faerie,” said Julian. “We could wind up coming back ten years from now. That won’t help you much.”

“Ah.” Dearborn sat back. There was a pile of cloth behind him, in one corner of the room: Emma realized with a jolt that it was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren, thrown away like so much trash. Strange for a man who claimed to value Nephilim history. “A long time ago, three medallions were given to the Clave by the Fair Folk. They prevent time slippage in Faerie. One is missing, but you’ll be given one of the remaining two. You can return it when you yourselves come back.”

A medallion? Emma remembered Cristina’s necklace, its power to control time in Faerie. One of them is missing. . . .

“And how are we supposed to get back?” Emma said. “It’s not as if returning from Faerie is easy for a human.”

“You will use the map we give you to locate a place called Bram’s Crossroads,” said Horace. “There you will find a friend ready to bring you home.” He steepled his fingers together. “I will conceal the fact that you are not in Alicante by placing guards around the Princewater house. The word will be that you are under house arrest until the matter of the Mortal Sword is cleared up. But I must insist that you find the book and return within four days. Otherwise I may assume you decided to strike out on your own, in which case I will have no choice but to reveal your secret.”

“What makes you think we can do this in four days?” said Julian.

“Because you have no choice,” Horace replied.

Emma exchanged a look with Julian. She suspected his feelings, such as they were, mirrored her own—suspicion and helplessness. They couldn’t trust Horace Dearborn, but if they didn’t agree to this plan, he would destroy their lives. Their Marks would be stripped. They would never see the other Blackthorns again.

“There’s no need for you to look so untrusting,” said Dearborn. “We are in this together. None of us want Annabel Blackthorn or the Unseelie King to possess such a powerful item as the Black Volume.” He gave a yellowish smile. “Besides, Julian, I thought you’d be pleased. This is your chance to kill Annabel Blackthorn and take her precious book from her. I would have thought you’d want revenge.”

Unable to bear the way the Inquisitor was looking at Julian, Emma stood up. “I want Cortana,” she said. “It was my father’s before mine, and it has belonged in my family since before Jem and Cordelia Carstairs. Give it back to me.”

“No,” Horace said, his thin mouth flattening. “We are still investigating how it managed to shatter the Mortal Sword. We will furnish you with weapons, food, a map, and all the gear you need, but not Cortana.”

“Seraph blades don’t work in Faerie,” said Julian. “Neither will our

runes.”

Dearborn snorted. “Then you’ll be given daggers and swords and crossbows. You know we have every weapon you might need.” He rose to his feet. “I don’t care what you use to kill Annabel Blackthorn. Just kill her. You brought that bitch to us. It’s your responsibility to rid us of her.”

Julian slid his boots off the desk. “When are we supposed to be leaving?”

“And how will we get there?” said Emma.

“That’s for me to know,” said Dearborn. “As for when you leave, it might as well be now. It’s not as if you have anything you need to be doing in Alicante.” He gestured toward the door, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. “Go home and retrieve whatever personal items you require. And don’t waste time. Guards will be coming to get you shortly. Be ready.”

“Fine,” Emma said. She strode over to the corner and picked up the tapestry of Alec. “But I’m keeping this.”

It was surprisingly heavy. Dearborn raised his eyebrows but said nothing as she staggered out of the room clutching it.

* * *

“Where are we going?” Kit said. He was holding the bag of potato chips, salt and grease on his fingers. It was a weird breakfast, but he’d had weirder in his life. Besides, the ocean breeze was lifting his hair off his forehead, the beach was deserted, and he and Ty were walking into a golden haze of sand and sunshine. Despite everything, his mood was lifting.

“Remember that cave?” Ty said. “The one we were in when we saw Zara talking to Manuel?”

“Yeah,” Kit said, and almost added, when we were with Livvy, but he knew that was what Ty meant by “we.” It was a word that for him would always include Livvy. The shadow of memory fell over Kit’s good mood: He remembered that night, Livvy laughing, Ty holding up a starfish—the salt air had tangled his usually straight hair, and his eyes had echoed the silver color of the moon. He had been smiling, his real, shining Ty-smile. Kit had felt closer to the two of them than he had ever felt to anyone else. “Wait—why are we going there?”

They had reached the part of the beach where long fingers of pocked granite reached out into the ocean. The waves rushed in from the sea, slamming against the rocks, whipping themselves up into white-silver spray.