Lord of Shadows

“Faerie,” Ty said in an unusually subdued voice. “Hard to get maps of it, since the geography tends to change, but I looked at quite a few when Mark was missing.”

The tap-tap of heels on the floor announced the arrival of the shopkeeper. To Kit’s surprise, she was familiar—dark-skinned and bronze-haired, dressed today in a plain black sheath dress. Hypatia Vex.

“Nephilim,” she said with a sigh. “I hate Nephilim.”

“I take it this isn’t one of those places where the customer is always right,” Livvy said.

“You’re not Sallows,” said Ty. “You’re Hypatia Vex. We met you yesterday.”

“Sallows died years ago,” said Hypatia. “Killed by Nephilim, as it happens.”

Awkward, Kit thought.

“We have a list of things we need.” Livvy pushed a paper across the counter. “For Magnus Bane.”

Hypatia raised an eyebrow. “Ah, Bane, your great defender. What a pest that man is.” She took the paper. “Some of these will take at least a day to prepare. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Do we have a choice?” said Livvy, with a winsome smile.

“No,” said Hypatia. “And you’ll pay in gold. I’m not interested in mundane money.”

“Just tell us how much,” said Ty, and she reached for a pen and began scribbling. “And also—there’s something I want to ask you.”

He looked over at Kit and Livvy. Livvy got the hint first, and drew Kit outside the shop until they were standing in the street. The sun was warm on his hair and skin; he wondered what mundanes saw when they looked at the shop. Maybe a dusty convenience store or a place that sold tombstones. Something you’d never want to go into.

“How long are you planning on being friends with my brother?” Livvy said abruptly.

Kit jumped. “I—what?”

“You heard me,” she said. Her eyes were much bluer than the Thames. Ty’s eyes were really more the river’s color.

“People don’t really think about friendship that way,” said Kit. “It depends how long you know the person—how long you’re in the same place.”

“It’s your choice,” she said, her eyes darkening. “You can stay with us as long as you want to.”

“Can I? What about the Academy? What about learning to be a Shadowhunter? How am I supposed to catch up with you when you’re all a million years ahead of me?”

“We don’t care about that—”

“Maybe I care about that.”

Livvy spoke in a steady voice. “When we were kids,” she said, “the Ashdowns used to come over to play. Our parents thought we should see more kids outside our family, and Paige Ashdown was about my age, so she got shoved together with me and Ty. And once he was talking to us about what he was obsessed with—it was cars back then, before Sherlock. And she said sarcastically that he ought to come over and tell her all about it because it was so interesting.”

“What happened?”

“He went over to her house to talk to her about cars, and she wasn’t there, and when she came home, she laughed at him and told him to go away, she hadn’t meant it, and was he stupid?”

Kit felt a slow boil of fury toward a girl he’d never met. “I’d never do that.”

“Look,” Livvy said. “Since then, Ty’s learned so much about the way people say things they don’t mean, about tone not matching expression, all that. But he trusts you, he’s let you in. He might not always remember to apply that stuff to you. I’m just saying—don’t lie to him. Don’t lead him on.”

“I haven’t—” Kit began, when the bell rang and the shop door opened. It was Ty, pulling his hood up against the gentle breeze.

“All done,” he said. “Let’s get back.”

If he noticed any atmosphere of tension, he didn’t say anything, and all the way home, they talked about unimportant things.

*

The piskies sat in an unhappy line on a row of stones at the edge of the cottage garden. After pulling them out of the pit, Emma and Jules had offered them food, but only one had accepted, and was currently facedown in a bowl of milk.

The tallest of the faerie creatures spoke in a piping voice. “Malcolm Fade? Where is Malcolm Fade?”

“Not here,” said Julian.

“Gone to visit a sick relative,” said Emma, gazing at the piskies in fascination.

“Warlocks don’t have relatives,” said the piskie.

“No one gets my references,” Emma muttered.

“We’re friends of Malcolm’s,” said Julian, after a moment. If Emma didn’t know him, she would have believed him. His face was entirely guileless when he lied. “He asked us to look after the place while he was away.”

The piskies whispered to each other in small, high voices. Emma strained her ears but couldn’t understand them. They weren’t speaking a gentry language of Faerie, but something much more simple and ancient-sounding. It had the murmur of water over rocks, the sharp acidity of green grass.

“Are you warlocks too?” said the tallest of the piskies, breaking away from the group. His eyes were marled with gray and silver, like Cornwall rock.

Julian shook his head and held his arm out, turning it so the Insight rune on his forearm was visible, stark against his skin. “We’re Nephilim.”

The piskies murmured among themselves again.

“We’re looking for Annabel Blackthorn,” said Julian. “We want to take her home where she’ll be protected.”

The piskies looked dubious.

“She said you knew where she was,” said Julian. “You’ve been talking to her?”

“We knew her and Malcolm years ago,” said the piskie. “It is not often a mortal lives so long. We were curious.”

“You might as well tell us,” said Emma. “We’ll let you go if you do.”

“And if we don’t?” said the smallest piskie.

“We won’t let you go,” said Julian.

“She’s in Porthallow Church,” said the smallest piskie, speaking up for the group. “It’s been empty these many years. She knows it and feels safe there, and there are few tallfolk in the area on most days.”

“Is Porthallow Church near here?” Julian demanded. “Is it close to the town?”

“Very close,” said the tallest piskie. “Killing close.” He raised his thin, pale hands, pointing. “But you cannot go today. It is Sunday, when the tallfolk come in groups to study the graveyard beside the church.”

“Thank you,” said Julian. “You’ve been very helpful, indeed.”

*

Dru pushed the door of her bedroom open. “Jaime?” she whispered.

There was no answer. She crept inside, shutting the door after her. She was carrying a plate of scones that Bridget had made. When she’d asked for a whole plate of them, Bridget had giggled at something it seemed clear only she remembered, then sharply told Dru not to eat them all or she’d get fatter.

Dru had long ago learned not to eat much in front of people she didn’t know, or seem as if she was hungry, or put too much food on her plate. She hated the way they looked at her if she did, as if to say, oh, that’s why she’s not thin.

But for Jaime, she’d been willing to do it. After he’d made himself at home in her room—flinging himself across her bed as if he’d been sleeping there for days, then bolting up and asking if he could use the shower—she’d asked if he was hungry and he’d lowered his eyelashes, smiling up at her. “I didn’t want to impose, but . . .”

She’d hurried off to the kitchen and didn’t want to return empty-handed. That was something a scared thirteen-year-old might do, but not a sixteen-year-old. Or however old he thought she was. She hadn’t been specific.

“Jaime?”

He came out of the bathroom in jeans, pulling his T-shirt on. She caught a glimpse of a black tattoo—not a Mark, but words in Roman letters—snaking across flat brown skin before the T-shirt covered his stomach. She stared at him without speaking as he approached her and grabbed a scone. He winked at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said faintly.