Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

Barnabas waved him away. His eyes had a fanatical gleam to them. “But setting an example does,” he said. “Let the Nephilim know what it is like to find the crumpled bodies of your children dead on your doorstep and for there to be no restitution and no justice.”

“Don’t do this—” Livvy began.

“Finish them,” said Barnabas, and his pack of werewolves, as well as a few of the onlookers, sprang toward them.

*   *   *

Outside the cottage, the lights of Polperro gleamed like stars against the dark hillsides. The sweep of the sea was audible, the soft sound of ocean rising and falling, the lullaby of the world.

It had certainly worked on Emma. Despite Julian’s best efforts with the tea, she had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, Malcolm’s diary open beside her, her body curled like a cat’s.

She had been reading out loud to him from the diary before she’d fallen asleep. From the very beginning, when Malcolm had been found alone, a confused child who couldn’t remember his parents and had no idea what a warlock was. The Blackthorns had taken him in, as far as Julian could tell, because they thought a warlock might be useful to them, a warlock they could control and compel. They had explained to him his true nature, and none too gently at that.

Of all the family, only Annabel had shown kindness to Malcolm. They had explored the cliffs and caves of Cornwall together as children, and she had shown him how they could exchange messages secretly using a raven as a carrier. Malcolm wrote lyrically of the seaside, its changes and tempests, and lyrically of Annabel, even when he did not know his own feelings. He loved her quick wit and her strong nature. He loved her protectiveness—he wrote of how she had defended him angrily to her cousins—and over time he began to marvel at not just the beauty of her heart. His pen skipped and stuttered as he wrote of her soft skin, the shape of her hands and mouth, the times when her hair came out of its plaits and floated around her like a cloud of shadow.

Julian had almost been glad when Emma’s voice had trailed off, and she’d lain down—just to rest her eyes, she said—and fallen almost instantly asleep. He had never thought he would sympathize with Malcolm or think of the two of them as alike, but Malcolm’s words could have been the story of the ruination of his own heart.

Sometimes, Malcolm had written, someone you have known all your life becomes no longer familiar to you, but strange in a marvelous way, as if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty. Annabel, you have taken my life, my life as dull as the edge of an unused blade, you have taken it apart and put it back together in a shape so strange and marvelous I can only wonder . . .

There was a loud thud, a sound as if a bird had flown into the glass of one of the windows. Julian sat up straight, reaching for the dagger he’d placed on the low table next to the sofa.

The thud came again, louder.

Julian rose to his feet. Something moved outside the window—the flash of something white. It was gone, and then there was another thud. Something thrown against the glass, like a child throwing pebbles at a friend’s window to get their attention.

Julian glanced at Emma. She had rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed.

He went to the door and turned the knob slowly, trying to prevent it from squeaking. It opened, and he stepped out into the night.

It was cool and dark, the moon dangling over the water like a pearl on the end of a chain. Around the house was uneven ground that fell away almost sheerly on one side to the ocean. The surface of the water was darkly transparent, the shape of rocks visible through it as if Julian was looking through black glass.

“Julian,” said a voice. “Julian Blackthorn.”

He turned. The house was behind him. Ahead of him was Peak Rock, the tip of the cliff, and dark grass growing out of gaps between the gray stones.

He raised his hand, the witchlight rune-stone in it. Light rayed out, illuminating the girl standing in front of him.

It was as if she’d stepped out of his own drawing. Dark hair, straight as a pin, an oval face like a sad Madonna, framed by the hood of an enormous cloak. Beneath the cloak he could see thin, pale ankles and cracked shoes.

“Annabel?” he said.

*   *   *