A Deeper Love (Ghosts of the Shadow Market 5)

I repeat, Zachariah said calmly, though his grip on the staff was firm now, I ask of Shadowhunters. That is very much my business.

“Then you do so at your peril.”

A blade flashed in the faerie’s hand. He swung at Zachariah, who moved at once, rolling to the ground and coming up next to the faerie, striking his arm and knocking the sword free.

The whistling of the bombs had stopped. That meant they were right overhead.

Then, they fell. Three of them clanked down on the stones at the opening of the archway and began spitting their phosphorescent flames. This distracted the faerie for just a moment, and Zachariah took the opportunity to dash around to the other side of the horseshoe and out the other side. He had no desire to continue this fight, to cause problems between the Silent Brothers and the fey. Zachariah had no idea why the faerie had become so violent. Hopefully he would simply return from whence he came. Zachariah slipped onto the Borough High Street, dodging the falling cylinders. But he had barely begun his flight when the faerie was behind him. Zachariah spun, his staff ready.

I have no quarrel with you. Let us go our separate ways.

Below the hawk mask, the faerie’s teeth were gritted. He sliced out with his sword, ripping the air in front of Brother Zachariah, slashing his cloak. Zachariah leapt and spun, his staff wheeling through the air to slam against the sword. As they fought, the canisters landed closer and closer, coughing fire. Neither flinched.

Brother Zachariah took care not to injure the faerie, only to block the attack. His purpose must remain secret, but the faerie was coming with increasing force. He slashed upward with his sword, meaning to cut Zachariah’s throat—and Zachariah smashed it from his hands, sending it flying across the road.

Let us finish with this. Call it a fair fight ended. Walk away.

The faerie was out of breath. Blood trickled from a wound at his temple.

“As you wish,” he said. “But take my warning.”

He turned to go. Brother Zachariah loosened his grip on his staff for just a moment. The faerie turned back, a short blade in his hand, aimed at Zachariah’s heart. With the speed of the Silent Brothers he whirled away, but he could not move fast enough. The blade sunk deep into his shoulder and came out the other side.

The pain. The wound immediately began to hiss as if acid was dissolving Zachariah’s flesh. Pain and numbness ran down his arm, causing him to drop his staff. He staggered back, and the faerie retrieved his sword and advanced toward him.

“You have interfered with the fey for the last time, Grigori,” he said. “Our people are our people, and our enemies, our enemies. They will never be yours!”

The incendiaries landed around them now, clanking loudly against pavement and cobblestone, flashing light and licking flames at the buildings. Zachariah tried to get away, but his strength was fading. He could not run—he could only stagger drunkenly. This was no normal wound. There was poison flooding his body. The faerie was coming at him, and he would not get away.

No. Not without seeing Tessa one more time.

He looked down and saw one of the incendiaries that had fallen from the sky. This one had not detonated.

Brother Zachariah used the last of his strength to spin around, swinging out with the canister. Small bombs were still falling. Several more dropped nearby. The canister flew through the air and struck the faerie in the chest. It cracked apart, and the faerie shrieked as the iron inside was released. Zachariah fell to his knees as the iron flame burned.

The hospital was rumbling.

At St. Bart’s, the upper floors of the hospital were considered too unsafe to use. The activity was all on the lower level and in the basement, where doctors and nurses ran to attend the injured and sick. The fire wardens were being brought in, their skin covered in soot, gasping for air. There were injuries from the attacks—the burns, the crushings, the people cut through with exploding glass or struck by debris. Plus, all the normal business of London went on—people still had babies and became ill and had normal accidents. But the war multiplied incidents. People fell or crashed in the dark. There were heart attacks as bombs came down. There were so many people who needed help.

From the moment they arrived, Catarina and Tessa ran from one end of the hospital to the other, tending to the injured as they came in, fetching supplies, carrying bloodied bowls of water, wrapping and removing bandages. Being a Shadowhunter, Tessa could easily cope with some of the grislier aspects of the job, like the fact that no matter how hard you tried to keep your apron clean, you would be covered in blood and grime within minutes. No amount of washing got it out. No sooner would you scrub it off your arms than another patient would come in and your skin would be covered again. Through it all, the nurses strove to maintain an air of calm competence. You moved quickly, but not hastily. You spoke loudly when you needed assistance, but you never screamed.

Tessa was stationed by the door, directing the orderlies as they brought in a dozen new patients. They were bringing in groups of fire wardens now, some walking wounded, others on stretchers.

“Over there,” Tessa said as the orderlies carried in burn victims. “To Sister Loss.”

“I’ve got one asking for you, sister,” said the orderly, setting down a stretcher with a figure on it wrapped tight in a gray blanket.

“Coming,” Tessa said. She hurried to the stretcher and bent down. The blanket was pulled partway over the man’s face.

“You’re all right,” Tessa said, pulling back the blanket. “You’re all right now. You’re at hospital. You’re here at St. Bart’s…”

It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. The marks on his skin were not all wounds. And his face, though covered in soot and streaked with blood, was more familiar to her than her own.

Tessa, Jem said, the echo deep inside her head like the memory of a bell ringing.

Then he went limp.

“Jem!” It couldn’t be. She seized at his hand, hoping she was dreaming—that the war had addled her sense of reality completely. But the slim, scarred hand in hers was familiar, even limp and without strength. This was Jem, her Jem, dressed in the bone-colored robes of a Silent Brother, the marks on his neck pulsing as his heart pumped furiously. His skin burned under her touch.

“He’s in a bad way,” the orderly said. “I’ll fetch the doctor.”

“No,” Tessa said quickly. “Leave him with me.”

Jem was glamoured, but he could not be examined. No mundane doctor could do anything about his injuries, and they would be shocked at his runes, his scars, even his blood.

She tore away the parchment robes. It took her only a moment to find the source of the trauma—a massive wound in his shoulder that went clean through. The wound was black with a silvery edge, and his tunic was saturated with blood all the way down to his waist. Tessa scanned the hallway. There were so many people, she could not immediately see Catarina. She could not scream.

“Jem,” she said into his ear. “I am here. I am getting help.”

She stood up, as calmly as she could, and hastily made her way through the chaos of the hall, her heart beating so fast she felt like it might come up her throat and through her mouth. She found Catarina working on the burned man, her hands on his wounds. Only Tessa could see the snow-white glow emanating from under the blanket as she worked.

“Sister Loss,” she said, trying to control her voice. “I need you at once.”

“Just a moment,” Catarina said.

“It cannot wait.”

Catarina looked over her shoulder. Then the glow stopped. “You should feel better in a moment,” she said to the man. “One of the other sisters will be over very soon.”

“I feel better already,” the man said, feeling his arm in wonder.

Tessa hurried Catarina back to Jem. Catarina, seeing Tessa’s taut expression, asked no questions; she onl

y bent down and peeled the blanket back.

She looked up at Tessa. “A Shadowhunter?” Catarina said in a low voice. “Here?”

“Quickly,” Tessa said. “Help me move him.”

Tessa took the end of the stretcher and Catarina the other side, and they moved Jem down the hallway. There was another explosion, closer. The building pulsed from the impact. The lights swung and went out for a moment, causing cries of alarm and confusion. Tessa froze in place, assuring herself that the ceiling wasn’t about to come down and bury them all. After a moment, the lights came back on, and movement continued.

“Come on,” Tessa said.

There was a small room at the end of the hall that was used for the nurses’ tea breaks and naps, or when they could not return home because of bombings. They set Jem’s stretcher gently on the empty cot on the side of the room. Jem was lying quietly, his features still, his breathing jagged. The color was draining from his skin.

“Hold the light,” Catarina said. “I need to examine this.”

Tessa pulled a witchlight from her pocket. It was safer and more reliable, but she could only use it in private. Catarina grabbed a pair of shears and cut away the cloth around the tunic to expose the wound. The veins on Jem’s chest and his arm had turned black.

“What is that?” Tessa said, her voice shaking. “It looks very bad.”

“I haven’t seen this in a long time,” Catarina said. “I think it’s a cataplasm.”

“What is that?”

“Nothing good,” Catarina said. “Be patient.”

She must be mad, Tessa thought. Be patient? How could she be patient? This was Jem, not some nameless patient under a gray blanket.