Queen of Air and Darkness

Page 29

Diana hurried toward the canal house on Princewater Street, the cool morning wind lifting her hair. She felt shot through with adrenaline, tense at the prospect of spilling her history to Emma and Jules. She’d kept it hugged so close to herself for so many years, telling Gwyn had been like cracking open her ribs to show her heart.

She hoped the second time would be easier. Emma and Julian loved her, she told herself. They would—

She stopped dead, the heels of her boots clacking on the cobblestones. The cheerfully painted blue canal house rose in front of her, but it was surrounded by a ring of Council guards. Not just Council guards, in fact. Quite a few of them were young Centurions. Each was armed with an oak bo staff.

She glanced around. A few Shadowhunters hurried by, none of them glancing at the house. She wondered how many of them knew Jules and Emma were even still in Alicante—but then, the Inquisitor had planned to make an example of their testimony. They’d have to know eventually.

At the top of the steps was Amelia Overbeck, who had been giggling with Zara at the funeral. Annoyance sped up Diana’s stride, and she pushed past the first ring of guards and ascended the steps.

Amelia, who had been leaning against the door talking to a girl with long orange-red hair, turned to Diana with a brittle smirk. “Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “Is there something you want?”

“I’d like to see Julian Blackthorn and Emma Carstairs,” said Diana, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

“Gosh,” said Amelia, clearly enjoying herself. “I just don’t think so.”

“Amelia, I have every right,” said Diana. “Let me by.”

Amelia slewed her gaze toward the redhead. “This is Diana Wrayburn, Vanessa,” she said. “She thinks she’s very important.”

“Vanessa Ashdown?” Diana looked more closely: Cameron’s cousin had left for the Academy as a spindly teen, and was almost unrecognizable now. “I know your cousin Cameron.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “He’s boring. Emma’s whipped puppy. And no, don’t think you can get into the house by making nice with me. I don’t like the Blackthorns or anyone who pals around with them.”

“Great news, since you’re supposed to be protecting them,” said Diana. Her adrenaline was coiling into rage. “Look, I’m going to open this door. If you want to try to stop me—”

“Diana!”

Diana turned, pushing hair out of her face: Jia was standing outside the ring of guards, her hand raised as if in greeting.

“The Consul.” Vanessa’s eyes bugged out. “Oh sh—”

“Shut up, Vanessa,” hissed Amelia. She didn’t look worried or afraid of Jia, just annoyed.

Diana pushed her way down the steps and to Jia’s side. Jia wore a silk blouse and trousers, her hair held back with a jeweled clip. Her mouth was an angry slash. “Don’t bother,” she said in a low voice, placing her hand on Diana’s elbow and guiding her away from the crowd of hooting guards. “I heard them say Emma and Julian were with the Inquisitor.”

“Well, why didn’t they just tell me that?” Diana snapped, exasperated. She glanced back over her shoulder at Vanessa Ashdown, who was giggling. “Vanessa Ashdown. My mother used to say some people had more hair than sense.”

“She does seem to aptly prove that theory,” said Jia dryly. She had stopped some distance from the house, where a small stone bank inclined into the canal. It was thick with moss, bright green under the silver water that slopped up the side. “Look, Diana, I need to talk to you. Where can we not be overheard?”

Diana looked at Jia closely. Was it her imagination, or when the Consul glanced at the Centurions surrounding the small canal house, did she look—afraid?

“Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I know exactly what to do.”

*

She was climbing a spiral staircase that seemed to reach toward the stars. Cristina didn’t remember how she had found the staircase, nor did she recall her destination. The staircase rose from darkness and soared into the clouds; she kept the material of her long skirts clutched in her hands so she wouldn’t trip over them. Her hair felt dense and heavy, and the scent of white roses thickened the air.

The stairs ended abruptly and she stepped out in wonder onto a familiar rooftop: She was perched atop the Institute in Mexico City. She could see out over the city: El ángel, shining gold atop the Monumento a la Independencia, Chapultepec Park, the Palacio de Bellas Artes lit up and glowing, the bell-shaped towers of the Guadalupe Basilica. The mountains rising behind it all, cupping the city as if in an open palm.

A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the rooftop: slender and masculine, hands looped behind his back. She knew before he turned that it was Mark: No one else had hair like that, like gold hammered to airy silver. He wore a long belted tunic, a dagger thrust through the leather strap, and linen trousers. His feet were bare as he came toward her and took her in his arms.

His eyes were shadowed, hooded with desire, his movements as slow as if they were both underwater. He drew her toward him, running his fingers through her hair, and she realized why it had felt so heavy: It was woven through with vines on which grew full-blown red roses. They fell around Mark as he cradled her with his other arm, his free hand running from her hair to her lips to her collarbones, his fingers dipping below the neckline of her dress. His hands were warm, the night cool, and his lips on hers were even warmer. She swayed into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck, where the fine hairs were softest, straying down to touch his scars. . . .

He drew back. “Cristina,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

She turned in his arms and saw Kieran. He was in velvet where Mark was in plain linen, and there were heavy gold rings on his fingers, his eyes shimmering and black-rimmed with kohl. He was a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

One of Mark’s arms went around Cristina. The other reached for Kieran. And Cristina reached for him too, her hands finding the softness of his doublet, gathering him toward both her and Mark, enfolding them in the dark velvet of him. He kissed Mark, and then bent to her, Mark’s arms around her as Kieran’s lips found hers. . . .

“Cristina.” The voice pierced through Cristina’s sleep, and she sat up instantly, clutching her blankets to her chest, wide-eyed with shock. “Cristina Mendoza Rosales?”

It was a woman’s voice. Breathless, Cristina looked around as her bedroom came into focus: the Institute furniture, bright sunlight through the window, a blanket loaned to her by Emma folded at the foot of the bed. There was a woman sitting on the windowsill. She had blue skin and hair the color of white paper. The pupils of her eyes were a very deep blue. “I got your fire-message,” she said as Cristina stared at her, dazed. What did I just dream?

Not now, Cristina. Think about it later.

“Catarina Loss?” Cristina had wanted to talk to the warlock, granted, but she hadn’t expected Catarina to just appear in her bedroom, and certainly not at such an awkward moment. “How did you get in here . . . ?”

“I didn’t. I’m a Projection.” Catarina moved her hand in front of the bright surface of the window; sunlight streamed through it as if it were stained glass.

Cristina tugged discreetly at her hair. No roses. Ay. “What time is it?”

“Ten,” said Catarina. “I’m sorry—I really thought you’d be awake. Here.” She made a gesture with her fingers, and a paper cup appeared at Cristina’s bedside.

“Peet’s Coffee,” Catarina said. “My favorite on the West Coast.”

Cristina hugged the cup to her chest. Catarina was her new favorite person.

“I really wondered if I’d hear from you.” Cristina took a sip of coffee. “I know it was a weird question.”

“I wasn’t sure either.” Catarina sighed. “In a way, this is warlock business. Shadowhunters don’t use ley lines.”

“But we do use warlocks. You’re our allies. If you are getting sick, then we owe it to you to do something.”

Catarina looked surprised, then smiled. “I wasn’t—it’s good to hear you say that.” She glanced down. “It’s been getting worse. More and more warlocks are affected.”

“How is Magnus Bane?” said Cristina. She hadn’t known Magnus for long, but she’d liked him a great deal.

She was startled to see tears in Catarina’s eyes. “Magnus is—well, Alec takes good care of him. But no, he’s not well.”

Cristina set her coffee down. “Then please let us help. What would a sign of ley line contamination be? What can we look for?”

“Well, at a place where the ley lines have been compromised, there would be increased demon activity,” said Catarina.

“That’s something we can definitely check.”

“I can look into it myself. I’ll send you a marked map via fire-message.” Catarina stood up, and the sunlight streamed through her transparent white hair. “But if you’re going to investigate an area with increased demon activity, don’t go alone. Take several others with you. You Shadowhunters can be so careless.”

“We’re not all Jace Herondale,” said Cristina, who was usually the least careless person she knew.

“Please. I’ve taught at Shadowhunter Academy. I—” Catarina began to cough, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes widened.

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