Lord of Shadows

“It was for my benefit.” Cristina felt odd and shivery and hot, but refused to show it. She sat with her hands in her lap and smiled at Kieran. “It would have seemed rude not to watch.”

At that Mark, who had been looking furious, laughed. “She understands you, Kier.”

“It was very well-done kissing,” she said. “But we should talk practically now, about the spell.”

Kieran was still staring at Cristina. He looked at most people with disgust or fury or consideration, but when he looked at Cristina, he seemed bewildered, as if he were trying to put her together like a puzzle and couldn’t.

Abruptly, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. The door slammed behind him. Mark looked after him, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone aggravate him like that,” he said. “Not even me.”

*

Diana had hoped to see Jia the moment she arrived in Idris, but the bureaucracy of the Clave was worse than she had recalled. There were forms to fill out, messages to be given and carried up the chain of command. It didn’t help that Diana refused to state her business: For the delicate matter of Kieran and what was happening in Faerie, Diana didn’t dare trust the information to anyone other than the Consul herself.

Her small apartment in Alicante was above the weapons shop on Flintlock Street that had been in her family for years. She’d closed it up when she went to live in Los Angeles with the Blackthorns. Impatience jittering her nerves, she went downstairs into the store and threw open the windows, letting in light, making the dust motes dance in the bright summer air. Her sore arm still ached, though it had nearly healed.

The shop was musty inside, dust on the formerly bright blades and rich leather of sheaths and ax handles. She took down a few of her favorite weapons and put them aside for the Blackthorns.

The children deserved new weapons. They’d earned them.

When a knock came on the door, she’d successfully managed to distract herself and was sorting sword blades by the hardness of the metal. She set down one of her favorites—a weapon of Damascus steel—and went to open the door.

Smirking on the doorstep was Manuel, who Diana had last seen fighting sea demons on the front lawn of the Institute. He was out of his Centurion gear, wearing a fashionable black sweater and jeans, his hair gelled into curls. He smiled sideways at her.

“Miss Wrayburn,” he said. “I’ve been sent to bring you up to the Gard.”

Diana locked up the store and fell in beside Manuel as he made his way up Flintlock Street toward the northern part of Alicante. “What are you doing here, Manuel?” she asked. “I thought you’d be in Los Angeles.”

“I was offered a post at the Gard,” he said. “I couldn’t pass up the chance for advancement. There are plenty of Centurions still in Los Angeles, guarding the Institute.” He looked at Diana sideways; she said nothing. “It’s a pleasure to see you in Alicante,” Manuel went on. “The last time we were together, I believe, you were fleeing for London.”

Diana gritted her teeth. “I was taking the children who were in my charge to safety,” she said. “They’re all fine, by the way.”

“I assumed I would have heard if it had been otherwise,” said Manuel airily.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said. “Jon Cartwright.”

Manuel was silent. They had reached the gate to the path leading up to the Gard. Once it had closed only with a latch. Now Diana watched as Manuel passed his hand over it and it clicked open.

The path was as rough as it had been when Diana was a child, snaked with the roots of trees. “I didn’t know Jon well,” said Manuel as they began the climb. “I understand his girlfriend, Marisol, is very upset.”

Diana said nothing.

“Some people cannot manage their grief as Shadowhunters should,” added Manuel. “It’s a shame.”

“Some people do not show the empathy and tolerance a Shadowhunter should,” said Diana. “That’s also a shame.”

They had reached the upper part of the path, where Alicante spread out before them like a map, and the demon towers rose to pierce the sun. Diana remembered walking this path with her sister, when they were both children, and her sister’s laughter. She missed her so much sometimes it felt as if her heart were being clutched by talons.

In this place, she thought, looking out over Alicante, I was lonely. In this place I had to hide the person I knew I was.

They reached the Gard. It rose up above them, a mountain of gleaming stone, sturdier than ever since its rebuilding. A path lined with witchlights led to the front gate. “Was that a jab at Zara?” Manuel looked amused. “She’s very popular, you know. Especially since she killed Malcolm. Something the Los Angeles Institute couldn’t manage.”

Shocked out of her reverie, Diana could only stare at him. “Zara didn’t kill Malcolm,” she said. “That’s a lie.”

“Is it?” Manuel said. “I’d like to see you prove that.” He grinned his beaming grin and walked away, leaving Diana to stare after him, squinting her eyes in the sunlight.

*

“Let me see your wrist,” Cristina said to Mark. They were sitting side by side on the infirmary bed. His shoulder was warm against hers.

He drew his sweater up and held his arm out silently. Cristina folded back her bandage and put her wrist against his. They looked in silence at their identical wounds.

“I know nothing about this kind of magic,” said Mark. “And we cannot go to the Clave or the Silent Brothers. They can’t know we were in Faerie.”

“I’m sorry about Kieran,” she said. “That he’s angry.”

Mark shook his head. “Don’t be—it’s my fault.” He took a deep breath. “I am sorry I was angry with you, in Faerie, after the revel. People are complicated. Their situations are complicated. I know why you hid Julian’s feelings from me. I know you and Emma had little choice.”

“And I am not angry at you now,” she hastened to assure him. “About Kieran.”

“I am changed,” said Mark, “because of you. Kieran can sense that my feelings for him have altered in some way, though he doesn’t know why. And I cannot tell him.” He looked up at the ceiling. “He is a prince. Princes are spoiled. They cannot bear to be thwarted.”

“He must feel so alone,” said Cristina. She remembered the way she had felt with Diego, that what they’d had once had was gone, and she couldn’t understand how to get it back. It had been like trying to catch smoke that had dissolved into the air. “You are his only ally here, and he cannot understand why his connection to you feels broken.”

“He did swear to you,” said Mark. He ducked his head, as if he were ashamed of what he was saying. “It is possible that if you order him to do something, he’ll have to do it.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Cristina.”

“No, Mark,” she said firmly. “I know this binding spell affects you, too. And upsetting Kieran affects the chances he’ll testify. But I won’t force him into anything.”

“Aren’t we already?” Mark said. “Lying to him about the situation so he’ll talk to the Clave?”

Cristina’s fingers crept to her injured wrist. The skin felt odd under her fingertips: hot and swollen. “And after he testifies? You’ll tell him the truth, right?”

Mark rose to his feet. “By the Angel, yes. What do you take me for?”

“Someone in a difficult situation,” said Cristina. “As we all are. If Kieran doesn’t testify, innocent Downworlders may die; the Clave may sink further into corruption. I understand the need for deception. That doesn’t mean I like it—or that you do either.”

Mark nodded, not looking at her. “I had better search for him,” he said. “If he’ll agree to be helpful, he’s our best way to fix this.” He indicated his wrist.

Cristina felt a slight ache inside. She wondered if she had hurt Mark; she hadn’t meant to. “Let’s see what kind of range this has,” she said. “How far from each other we can go without it hurting.”

Mark stopped in the doorway. The clean, sharp planes of his face looked cut from glass. “It already hurt me to be away from you,” he said. “Perhaps that was meant to be the joke.”