Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices 3)

It wasn’t really a surprise, but it still felt like a blow. “Don’t tell me. Her trial will be held as soon as the Mortal Sword is ‘reforged,’??” Diana said bitterly.

He bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Exactly, exactly.” He set the teapot down. “An unfortunate situation. And one you could find yourself in—unless you’re willing to make a bargain with me.”

“What kind of bargain?”

He handed her a teacup; mechanically, Diana took it. “The next Council meeting will be a difficult one, as the Clave is brought to understand that future decisions must be arrived at without the Consul. A transition of power is always difficult, wouldn’t you say?”

Diana stared at him stonily.

“Let me be clear,” Horace said, and though his expression was easy and friendly, there was no friendliness in his eyes. “Take my side at the next Council meeting. You have influence over people. The L.A. Institute, the New York Institute—many Institutes will listen to you. If you back me as the next Consul, a replacement for Penhallow, so will they.”

“People listen to me because I don’t compromise my values,” Diana said. “They know when I say something, I believe it. I could never believe you would make a good Consul.”

“Is that so?” The false friendliness had vanished from his face. “Do you think I care about your values, Diana Wrayburn? You’ll stand by my side, because if you don’t, I will reveal your secret to the Clave.”

Diana’s throat tightened. “What secret?”

Horace rose to his feet, his expression thunderous. “For all your talk of values, I know you have a secret. I know you’ve refused to become head of the Los Angeles Institute all these years—letting a madman run it—I know you carry a shadow with you, Diana Wrayburn, and I know what it is. I know you submitted yourself to mundane medical treatment in Bangkok.”

Stunned and furious, Diana was silent. How did he know? Her mind raced: The Clave considered a Shadowhunter who let mundane doctors look at their blood, learn their secrets, a traitor. Never mind that Catarina had covered up all her unusual test results. Horace would blame her anyway.

“And let me tell you this,” said Horace. “I will use that information to the fullest unless you do as I say. You will be torn from those Blackthorns you love so dearly. Imprisoned, perhaps, alongside other traitors.”

“Unless what?” Diana said dully.

“Unless you agree to stand by my side at the next meeting and declare that Jia is incompetent and that I should be the next Consul. Do you understand?”

Diana felt as if she were seeing herself through the wrong end of a telescope, a tiny figure with Horace looming vastly over her. “I understand.”

“And do you agree to throw your support behind the Cohort?”

“Yes.” She got to her feet. She was very conscious of her torn and dirty clothes—the Cohort had not been gentle with her or Jia, though they had surrendered quietly.

Horace opened his mouth, perhaps to call for the guards to take her away. Moving more swiftly than she would have thought possible, Diana seized the Inquisitor’s sword from the belt at his waist and swung it.

Horace screamed. He staggered back, still screaming, and fell to his knees; there was blood all over his robes. His arm was hanging at a strange angle.

Guards burst into the room, but Diana had already run to the window and thrown it open. She hurled herself onto the roof, skidding nearly to the edge before she arrested her fall by catching at the slate tiles.

The guards were at the window. She scrambled to her feet and raced across the roof, looking for an overhang she could swing down from. A shadow passed across the moon, obscuring the demon towers. She heard the sound of hoofbeats, and she knew.

As the guards crawled through the window, she hurled herself from the roof.

“Diana!” Gwyn banked Orion, turned, reached out to catch her. She landed awkwardly, hurling her arms around his neck. Strong hands wrapped her waist; she glanced back once and saw the pale faces of the guards watching from the roof of the Gard as they sailed into the night.

* * *

Dru flipped off the TV in the middle of The Deadly Bees, which was unusual because it was one of her favorite bad movies. She’d even bought a pair of gold bee earrings at Venice Beach once so she could wear them while she watched the death-by-stinger scenes.

She was too restless to sit still, though. The excitement she’d felt outside the 101 Coffee Shop still prickled the back of her neck. It had been so much fun being teamed up with Kit and Ty, laughing with them, in on their plans.

She swung her legs off the sofa and headed barefoot out into the hallway. She’d painted the toenails on one foot acid green, but she didn’t feel like sticking around to do the other one. She felt like finding Livvy and curling up with her on her bed, laughing at out-of-date mundane magazines.

The pain of remembering Livvy changed from moment to moment; sometimes a dull, aching one, sometimes a sharp flash as of being stuck with a hot needle. If Julian or Emma were here, she could have talked to them about it, or even Mark. As she passed the big staircase leading down to the entryway, she could hear the sound of voices from the Sanctuary. Helen’s, friendly and calm, and Aline’s, sharp and authoritative. She wondered if she would have gone to either of them even if they hadn’t been so busy. Dru couldn’t really imagine it.

She thought of tonight, though, giggling in the back of the car with Kit and Ty, and the desert wind in her hair. It carried the smell of white oleander even in the center of Hollywood. The night had filled the gnawing urge to do something inside her that she hadn’t even realized was there.

She reached the twins’ bedrooms. Ty and Livvy had always had bedrooms directly across from each other; the door of Livvy’s room was shut tight and had been since they’d returned from Idris.

Dru laid her hand on it, as if she could feel her sister’s heartbeat through the wood. Livvy had painted her door red once, and the flaking paint was rough against Dru’s fingers.

In a horror movie, Dru thought, this was when Livvy would burst out half-rotted, clawing at Dru with her dead hands. The idea didn’t frighten her at all. Maybe that was why she liked horror movies, Dru thought; the dead never stayed dead, and those left behind were too busy wandering unwisely around in the woods to have time to grieve or feel loss.

She left Livvy’s door and went over to Ty’s. She knocked, but there was music playing in the room and she couldn’t hear a reply. She pushed the door open and froze.

The radio was on, Chopin blasting, but Ty wasn’t there. The space was freezing. All the windows were wide open. Dru almost tripped getting across the room to slam the largest window shut. She looked down and saw that Ty’s books were scattered over the floor, no longer in neat rows determined by subject and color. His desk chair lay in pieces, his clothes were scattered everywhere, and there were smears of dried blood on his sheets and pillowcases.

Ty. Oh, Ty.

Dru closed the door as hastily as she could without slamming it, and hurried off down the hallway as if a monster from one of her old movies were chasing her.

* * *

They stopped outside the prison, where the dead body of the guard lay draped over the wooden chest Emma had noticed earlier. Adaon grimaced and used the tip of his boot to shove the guard’s body aside. It hit the bloodstained flagstones with a thump. To Emma’s puzzlement, Adaon knelt and shoved the chest open, the hinges groaning and squeaking.

Her puzzlement vanished quickly. The chest was full of weapons—longswords, daggers, bows. Emma recognized the sword the Riders had taken from her, and Julian’s as well. She craned her neck to stare, but she didn’t see the medallion anywhere among the confiscated items.

Adaon seized up a number of swords. Jace held out his hand for one.

“Come to papa,” he crooned.

“I can’t believe you have a beard,” Emma noted, momentarily diverted.

Jace touched his bristly cheek. “Well, it

has been a week, at least. I expect it makes me look manly, like a burnished god.”

“I hate it,” said Emma.

“I like it,” said Clary loyally.

“I don’t believe you,” said Emma. She stuck out her hand toward Adaon. “Give me my sword. Jace can use it to shave.”

Adaon glared at all of them. “You shall bear no blades. You cannot be armed if you are meant to be prisoners. I will carry the swords.” He swung them up over his shoulder as if they were a bunch of kindling. “Now, come.”

They marched ahead of Adaon, through the now-familiar dank underground corridors. Julian was silent, lost in thought. What did he feel? Emma wondered. He loved his family, still, but he had said it was different now. Did that mean he wasn’t terrified for Mark?

Emma moved closer to Cristina. “How did you end up finding Adaon?” she whispered. “Did you just click your ruby heels together and demand to be taken to the Unseelie King’s hottest son?”

Cristina rolled her eyes. “I saw Adaon in London, with Kieran,” she whispered. “He seemed to care about Kieran. I took a chance.”

“And how did you get to him?”

“I’ll tell you later. And he is not the hottest Unseelie prince. Kieran is the hottest,” Cristina said, and blushed beet red.

Emma eyed Adaon’s muscles, which were bunching spectacularly under his tunic as he balanced the swords. “I thought Kieran was at the Scholomance?”

Cristina sighed. “You missed a lot. I will tell you everything, if we—”

“Survive?” Emma said. “Yeah. I have a lot to tell you, too.”