Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

The front doors banged open. It was Mark.

There was blood on his arm, too, soaking through the light blue sleeve of his sweater. Behind him was a chatter of voices, but he was only looking at Cristina. His light hair was disarrayed, his blue and gold eyes burning like banners.

Cristina thought she had never seen anything so beautiful.

He ran down the steps—he was barefoot—and caught at her hand, pulling her against him. The moment their bodies slammed together, Cristina felt the ache inside her vanish.

“It’s a binding spell,” Mark whispered into her hair. “Some kind of binding spell, tying us together.”

“The girls at the revel—one tied our wrists together and the other laughed—”

“I know.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. She could feel his heart pounding. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll fix it.”

She nodded and closed her eyes, but not before she saw that several others had spilled out onto the front step and were staring at them. In the center of the group was Kieran, his elegant face pale and set, his eyes unreadable.

*   *   *

The tickets they had bought were first class, so Emma and Julian had a compartment to themselves. The gray-brown of the city had been left behind, and they were rolling through green fields, studded with wildflowers and copses of green trees. Charcoal stone farmers’ walls ran up and down the hills, dividing the land into puzzle pieces.

“It looks a bit like Faerie,” said Emma, leaning against the window. “You know, without the rivers of blood or the high-body-count dance parties. More scones, less death.”

Julian glanced up. He had his sketchbook on his knees and a black box of colored pencils on the seat next to him. “I think that’s what it says on the front gate of Buckingham Palace,” he said. He sounded calm, entirely neutral. The Julian who had snapped at her in the entryway of the Institute was gone. This was polite Julian, gracious Julian. Putting-up-a-front-for-strangers Julian.

There was absolutely no way she could handle interacting only with that Julian for however long they were in Cornwall. “So,” she said. “Are you still angry?”

He looked at her for a long moment and set his sketchbook aside. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What I said—that was unacceptable and cruel.”

Emma stood up and leaned against the window. The countryside flew by: gray, green, gray. “Why did you say it?”

“I was angry.” She could see his reflection in the window, looking up at her. “I was angry about Mark.”

“I didn’t know you were that invested in our relationship.”

“He’s my brother.” Julian touched his own face as he spoke, unconsciously, as if to connect with those features—the long cheekbones and eyelashes—that were so like Mark’s. “He’s not—he gets hurt easily.”

“He’s fine,” she said. “I promise you.”

“It’s more than that.” His gaze was steady. “When you were together, at least I could feel like you were both with someone I cared about and could trust. You loved someone I loved too. Is that likely to happen again?”

“I don’t know what’s likely to happen,” she said. I know you have nothing to worry about. I wasn’t in love with Mark. I’ll never be in love with anyone again who isn’t you. “Just that there are things we can and can’t control.”

“Em,” he said. “This is me we’re talking about.”

She turned away from the window, pressed her back to the cold glass. She was looking at Julian directly, not just his reflection. And though his face betrayed no anger, his eyes at least were open and honest. It was real Julian, not pretend Julian now. “So you admit you’re a control freak?”

He smiled, the sweet smile that went straight to Emma’s heart because it recalled for her the Julian of her childhood. It was like sun, warmth, the sea, and the beach all rolled up in one punch to the heart. “I admit nothing.”

“Fine,” she said. She didn’t have to say she forgave him and knew he forgave her; they both knew it. Instead she sat down in the seat opposite him and gestured toward his art supplies. “What are you drawing?”

He picked up the sketchbook, turning it so she could see his work—a gorgeous rendition of a stone bridge they’d passed, surrounded by the drooping boughs of oak trees.

“You could sketch me,” said Emma. She flung herself down onto her seat, leaning her head on her hand. “ ‘Draw me like one of your French girls.’ ”

Julian grinned. “I hate that movie,” he said. “You know I do.”

Emma sat up indignantly. “The first time we watched Titanic, you cried.”

“I had seasonal allergies,” Jules said. He’d started to draw again, but his smile still lingered. This was the heart of her and Julian, Emma thought. This gentle joking, this easy amusement. It almost surprised her. But this was what they always returned to, the comfort of their childhood—like birds returning and returning in migratory patterns toward their home.