Lady Midnight

They made their way back toward the entryway in silence, a silence pierced as they reached the landing by the sound of someone shouting. Together, they were brought up short at the top of the stairs.

“Does your vision match mine, brother?” Mark asked.

“If you mean am I seeing what you’re seeing . . . ?” Julian hazarded. “Then yes, if you mean that the foyer is full of Chihuahuas.”

“It’s not just Chihuahuas,” said Ty, who was sitting on the top step, enjoying the spectacle. “It’s a number of different small dogs of various breeds.”

Julian snorted. The foyer was, indeed, full of small dogs. They yipped and barked and surged. “Don’t worry about the dogs,” he said. “Nightshade likes to stash them in the entryway when he meets with Uncle Arthur.”

“Nightshade?” Mark’s eyebrows went up. “Anselm Nightshade? The head of the Los Angeles vampire clan?”

“Yep,” Julian said. “He comes around sometimes. He and Arthur get along surprisingly well.”

“And the dogs . . . ?”

“He likes dogs,” said Ty. One of the Chihuahuas had fallen asleep by the front door, all four paws in the air. “That dog looks dead.”

“It isn’t dead. It’s relaxing.” Ty seemed amused; Julian ruffled his brother’s hair. Ty leaned into it, catlike. “Where are Emma and Cristina?”

“They went to bring the car around,” said Ty. “And Livvy went back to her room. Why can’t I come with you?”

“Too many of us will look suspicious,” Julian said. “You’ll have to stay here—guard the Institute.”

Ty looked unconvinced. He frowned after them as Mark and Julian hurried out the front doors. The car was pulled up in front of the Institute, the engine idling.

Emma pushed the passenger-side door open and whistled. “Mark. You look amazing.”

Mark glanced down at himself, surprised. A surge of prickly heat ran up the insides of Julian’s wrists. Cristina was in the backseat, also looking at Mark. Julian couldn’t read her expression.

Emma patted the seat beside her. In the dimness of the car, she was a shadow: white dress, golden hair, like a faded illustration in a children’s picture book. “Hop in, Jules. You’re mine—my navigator.”

You’re mine. He slid into the seat beside hers.

“Right turn here,” Julian said, pointing.

“You’d think the Institute could afford to have reliable GPS installed in this stupid car,” Emma muttered, slewing the wheel to the right. She’d tried to program it when they’d gotten into the Toyota, but it had refused to turn on. Once, the GPS had only spoken in a heavy German accent for weeks. Julian had decided it was possessed.

Cristina squeaked and subsided. Emma could see her in the rearview mirror. She was subtly leaning away from Mark; it wasn’t anything that someone who didn’t know her well could have spotted. Mark didn’t seem to have noticed. He was staring out his open window, blond hair ruffled, humming tunelessly.

“Slow down, speed racer,” Julian said as someone behind Emma honked.

“We’re late,” she said. “The show is supposed to start in ten minutes. If some people hadn’t decided that ‘semiformal’ meant ‘seminaked’—”

“Why are you calling me ‘some people’?” Mark inquired. “I am only one person.”

“This is weird,” Julian observed, turning back to look straight ahead. “There’s nobody around on this street.”

“There are houses,” Cristina pointed out.

“They’re all dark.” Julian’s gaze scanned the road. “A little early, don’t you think, for everyone to have gone to bed?” He pointed. “There’s the theater.”

He was right. Emma could see lights, hot neon and electricity, up ahead, the arrow shape of a sign: THE MIDNIGHT THEATER. The Hollywood Hills glittered in the distance as if they’d been dusted with starlight. Everything else was dark, even the streetlights.

As they neared the theater, the sides of the street became more thickly packed with parked cars. Expensive ones—BMWs, Porsches, Italian sports cars whose names Emma couldn’t remember. She pulled into a spot across from the theater and killed the engine.

“Are we ready?” She swung around to look into the backseat. Cristina winked at her. Mark nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Julian was already out of the car, opening the trunk. He rummaged through the weapons and steles, reaching out to Cristina with a pair of slim throwing knives. “Need these?”

Cristina slipped the strap of her dress aside. Clipped to her bra was one of her butterfly knives, the etched rose gleaming on the handle. “I came prepared.”

“I didn’t.” Mark reached out to take the two sheathed knives, and unbuttoned his jacket to slide them into his belt. He reached up to his throat, touching the arrowhead that hung around his neck.

Arrested, Julian watched him. His blue-green eyes were dark, uncertain. Emma could read the look on his face: He didn’t know if his brother was ready to go into potential danger. Didn’t like it. Didn’t see another way.

“Okay,” Julian said. “Weapons hidden, any runes you want to put on now, put them in places no one will see them. Permanent runes, check to make sure they’re covered up. We can’t risk running into a situation where we’ll be recognized by anyone with the Sight.”