“Do you know why I came to you?” she said.

“I do not,” Adaon said grimly.

“In London, I followed Kieran from the Institute because I didn’t trust him,” she said. “I thought he was on his way to betray us. It turned out he was on his way to speak to you.”

Adaon’s frown didn’t budge.

“I realized as the two of you talked that he was right to trust you, that you were the only one of his brothers who cared for him,” said Cristina. “He said that you gave him Windspear. You are the only member of his family who he speaks of with any affection at all.”

Adaon threw up a hand as if to ward off her words. “Enough! I don’t want to hear more.”

“You need to hear it.”

“I do not need the Nephilim to tell me about Kieran!”

“You do,” said Cristina. “Guards are taking Kieran to your father right now, as we speak. He will certainly be killed if we do nothing.”

Adaon didn’t move. If Cristina hadn’t seen him swallow, she would have thought he was a statue. An angry, towering statue. “Helping him would be a true betrayal of my father.”

“If you don’t help, then it will be a true betrayal of your brother,” said Cristina. “Sometimes you cannot be loyal to everyone.”

Adaon leaned his big hands on the back of a chair. “Why did you come here?” he said. “Why did you bring me this news? It is possible my father will spare him. He is well liked by the people.”

“You know your father will kill him for just that reason,” said Cristina. Her voice shook. “Before the Hunt no one in Kieran’s life ever loved or cared for him at all, save you. Are you really going to abandon him now?”

15

TURRETS AND SHADOWS

“Sebastian’s son,” Emma whispered. “He had a son.”

They had taken shelter in a room that looked like a disused food pantry. Bare shelves lined the walls, and empty baskets littered the floor. Emma thought of the fruit and bread they had certainly once held, and tried to ignore the gnawing of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches the day before.

“There have always been rumors that Sebastian had an affair with the Queen,” Julian said. He was sitting with his back against a wall of the pantry. His voice sounded remote, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. He’d sounded like that since they’d left the throne room. Emma didn’t know if it was a side effect of the potion or of seeing Annabel and letting her go. “But he only died five years ago.”

“Time passes differently in Faerie,” said Emma. “Ash seems maybe thirteen.” She scowled. “He looks like Sebastian. I remember seeing Sebastian in the Institute. He was so . . .” Vicious. Cold. Inhuman. “Blond.”

Julian didn’t look up. His voice was like ice. “You should have let me end her.”

“Julian, no.” Emma rubbed at her temples; her head was aching. “You would absolutely have been killed if you tried.”

“Emma—”

“No!” She dropped her hands. “I hate Annabel too. I hate her for standing there alive when Livvy’s dead. I hate her for what she did. But there are more important things at stake right now than our revenge.”

Julian raised his head. “You lived for revenge for years. All you thought about was revenge for your parents.”

“I know. And then I got my revenge, and it did nothing for me. It left me feeling empty and cold.”

“Did it?” His eyes were cold and hard as blue-green marbles.

“Yes,” Emma insisted. “Also, then Malcolm came back from the dead as a sea monster, so . . .”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t kill Annabel because she’ll come back as a sea monster?”

“I’m just pointing out the futility of my murdering Malcolm,” said Emma. “And you know who ended up killing him in the end? Annabel.”

There was a long silence. Julian ran his fingers through his hair; Emma wanted to crawl across the room to him on her hands and knees, to beg him to go back to being the Julian he used to be. But maybe that was impossible. Maybe Livvy’s death had fallen like a scythe between that Julian and this one, killing any possibility that he might transform, like the swan princes in the fairy tale, back into the thoughtful, considering boy she loved, with secrets in his heart and paint on his hands.

“So what are you saying?” he asked at last.

“No one would blame you for killing Annabel,” said Emma. “But sometimes we have to put aside what we want right now for something bigger. You taught me that. The old you.”

“Maybe,” said Julian. He yanked down his sleeve, and Emma saw again what she had seen in the clearing—the peculiar rust-splashed cloth tied around his right wrist.

She put a hand on his arm, stilling his movement. “What is that?”

“It’s Livvy’s blood,” he said. “I tore a strip off the shirt I was wearing when she died and tied it on my wrist. I’ll take it off when I kill Annabel. Not before.”

“Julian—”

He pulled his sleeve back down. “I understand what you’re saying. I just don’t see why I should be the one to stop.”

His voice was toneless. Emma felt cold all over. It was like looking at someone bleeding from a mortal wound who didn’t seem to know or understand that they were hurt.

“Anyway,” Julian said. “We need to go find Ash.”

I failed, Emma thought. There was something else I should have said, something that would have convinced him, and I failed. “Why do we need to find Ash?”

“You heard the King. Ash is the weapon. The one that Clary and Jace came to find.”

“He’s part of a weapon,” Emma said. “The King is poisoning his own land, and Brocelind Forest, too. He thinks he can use Ash to make the poison even more deadly, to destroy more of Idris.”

“That’s the impression I got, yeah. But the King needs the Black Volume to make that second part work.”

“Then aren’t we better off going after the Black Volume?”

“Which one?” Julian said. “Annabel has the real one. The Queen has the copy—well, the King has it at the moment, but it’s hers. That splits our goal—unless we pull Ash out of the equation.” Julian’s hair tumbled around his face in the darkness; Emma could see the thin scratches all over his skin where the thorns of the hedge had cut him. “Both of his bargains hinge on Ash—Annabel wants Ash, and so does the Queen. Taking Ash will buy us time and prevent the King from a making a deal.”

“I’m not hurting a little kid, Julian,” Emma said flatly. “If that’s what you mean by ‘pull Ash out of the equation,’ I’m not doing it.”

“We don’t have to hurt him,” Julian said. “Kidnapping him should work just fine.”

Emma sighed. “And then what?”

“We offer Annabel a trade—the Black Volume for Ash. She’d do anything for him.”

Emma wondered if she ought to point out how strange that was. She decided not to—this Julian didn’t understand why anyone felt strongly about anything.

“Then we kill her and take the book,” he finished.

“What about the Queen?”

“If the King doesn’t have Ash, she’s got no reason to trade the Black Volume, and she won’t. Meanwhile we get to the falls, head back to Idris with Ash and the original Black Volume, and Dearborn’s plan is shot. We walk into the Council with both those things and we’ll be heroes. The Clave won’t let the Cohort touch us.”

“Ash isn’t a thing,” said Emma.

“The King called him a weapon,” said Julian.

Emma changed tack. “We don’t know how to find Ash in the tower.”

“I know you saw those guards in the corridor, just like I did,” Julian said. “And later in the throne room. They’re Ash’s guards. We know where his room is. We’ve seen it.” His eyes were glittering with determination. “I need you with me, Emma.”

“Then promise me something,” she said. “Promise we’ll take Ash to Jia, not Dearborn.”

“Fine,” said Julian. “I don’t care about what happens to Sebastian Morgenstern’s son.”

Real Julian would have cared, Emma thought. Real Julian would have cared about any child, because he loved his own so much. He would have seen Tavvy in Ash, and Dru, and Ty, no matter who Ash’s father was.

“So will you come with me?” he said.

I will, she thought. Because someone has to protect Ash from you, and protect you from yourself.

She rose to her feet. “I’m with you,” she said.

*

“Hello?” Ty moved forward into the darkness of the cave, his witchlight shining in his hand. He looked like a painting to Kit, with the illumination bright on his dark hair and pale skin. “Shade? Are you here?”

Kit had his own witchlight in his pocket, but Ty’s stone was casting plenty of light, picking out the cracks in the granite walls, the wooden table scored with old marks of knives and fire, the letters on its surface flaring briefly into life: Fire wants to burn.

They’d left Dru back at the Institute; she’d gone humming off to bed, and Kit had been pleased that they’d made her happy. She’d done well with Barnabas, too. Kit had been right: She had plenty of con artist in her.