Lady Midnight

Emma nodded. They’d already put concealing makeup on her Voyance and parabatai runes back at the Institute. She’d even done what she could to cover up the small scars that showed where runes had been and then vanished.

Some runes were permanent and some temporary. Voyance, which looked like an open eye and helped you see through glamours, was permanent. So were wedding and parabatai runes. Temporary runes disappeared slowly as they were used up—healing iratzes, for instance, vanished with varying speed depending on the seriousness of the wound. A Sure-Footedness rune might last the duration of a climb up a mountain. To get the absolute best results, when going into battle, a rune ought to be as new as possible.

Jules rolled his sleeve up and held his arm out to Emma. “The honors?” he said.

She took a stele from the trunk and ran it over his bare forearm. Sure-Strike, Swiftness, and Courage. When she was done, she lifted her hair and turned, offering her bare back to Julian. “If you put the runes between my shoulder blades, my hair should cover them,” she said.

Julian didn’t say anything. She felt him hesitate, and then the lightest touch of his hand on her back, steadying her. He was breathing quickly. Nerves, she thought. It was a strange situation they were walking into, and he was worried for Mark.

He started on the second rune, and Emma felt a slight biting sting as the stele moved. She frowned. Usually, though runes could sting or burn when applied, runes placed on you by your parabatai didn’t hurt. In fact they were almost pleasant—it was like being wrapped in the protection of friendship, the sense that someone else had sealed their dedication to you onto your skin.

Strange for it to hurt.

Julian finished, stepping back, and Emma let her hair fall. She turned and drew a quick Agility rune on Cristina’s shoulder, under the strap of her dress. Then she looked at Mark.

He shook his head, just as he had every time a rune had been offered to him before. “No runes,” he said tightly.

“It’s fine,” Julian said before anyone else could speak. “He doesn’t have Marks on him, besides the Voyance, and that’s covered in makeup. He looks normal.”

“Normal-ish,” said Emma. “His ears and his eyes—”

Cristina stepped forward and reached up to muss Mark’s hair, spilling the curls down to cover his pointed ears. “There’s nothing we can do about the eyes, but—”

“Mundanes have heterochromia too,” said Jules. “The main thing is, Mark, try to act normal.”

Mark looked affronted. “Do I ever not?”

No one answered that, not even Cristina. After sliding a pair of daggers into the shoulder harness under his shirt, Julian slammed the trunk closed, and they headed across the street.

The doors of the theater were thrown open. Light spilled out onto the dark pavement. Emma could hear laughter and music, smell the mingled scents of perfume and wine and smoke.

At the door a young woman in a slinky red dress was taking tickets and stamping hands. Her hair was done up in forties-style Victory roll curls, and her lips were blood red. She wore ivory satin gloves that reached her elbows.

Emma recognized her immediately. She’d seen her at the Shadow Market, winking at Johnny Rook. “I’ve seen her before,” she whispered to Jules. “Shadow Market.” He nodded and tucked his hand around Emma’s. She jolted slightly, both at the sudden heat around her palm and in surprise.

She glanced over at him, saw the look on his face as he smiled at the familiar-looking ticket girl. A little bored, a little arrogant, a lot entitled. Someone who wasn’t worried about getting inside at all. He was playing a role, and taking her hand was part of it, that was all there was to it.

He held out their ticket. “Mr. Smith, plus three guests,” he said.

There was a slight commotion behind them as Mark opened his mouth, doubtless to ask who Mr. Smith was, and Cristina stomped on his foot.

The ticket girl smiled, her red lips curving up into a bow, and slowly tore the ticket in half. If she recognized Emma, she didn’t show it. “Mr. Smith,” she said. “Hold out your hand.”

Julian offered his free hand, and the ticket girl stamped it with red-black ink. The stamp was an odd little symbol, lines of water underneath a flame. “The performance is running a bit late tonight. You’ll find your row and seat numbers have appeared on your ticket. Please don’t sit in anyone else’s seat.” Her gaze went to Mark—a sharp, intent, assessing gaze. “And welcome,” she said. “I believe you will find the Followers a . . . sympathetic group.”

Mark looked baffled.

Hands stamped and ticket torn, the four of them trailed into the theater. The moment they crossed the threshold, the music rose to deafening levels, and Emma recognized it as the kind of big-band jazz ensemble her father had loved. Just because I play the violin doesn’t mean I don’t like dancing, she remembered him saying, swinging her mother into an impromptu fox-trot in the kitchen.

Julian turned to her. “What is it?” he asked gently.

Emma wished he couldn’t read her moods quite so perfectly. She glanced away to hide her expression. Mark and Cristina were behind them, looking around. There was a concession stand, selling popcorn and candy. A sign reading DANCE HALL/THEATER hung over the stand, pointing left. People in fancy dress were moving excitedly down the hallway.

“Nothing. We should go that way,” Emma said, and tugged on Julian’s hand. “Follow the crowd.”