Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

“What’s the difference?” Emma protested. “Julian. Don’t—”

“Necromancy happened in that church. It tore open a hole between dimensions that let a demon through. It could have ripped us to shreds.”

“Didn’t know!” the piskie whined.

“Who didn’t know?” Julian demanded. “Because I’ll bet anything you did.”

The piskie went limp, boneless. Julian pinned it with a knee. “The lady said to tell you to go there. She said you were dangerous. Would kill faeries.”

“I might now,” said Julian.

“It’s all right, Jules,” Emma said. She knew the piskie wasn’t the innocent, childlike creature it appeared to be. But something about seeing it twist and whimper made her feel sick.

“It’s not all right. You were hurt,” Julian said, and the cold tone in his voice made her remember the look on his face when Anselm Nightshade was led away. Julian, you scared me a little, she’d said at the time.

But then, Nightshade had been guilty. Clary had said so.

“Leave him alone!” It was another one of the piskies, wavering palely in the grass. A female piskie, judging from clothes and hair length. She waved her hands ineffectually at Julian. “He doesn’t know anything!”

Julian didn’t move. He stared icily down at the faerie. He looked like a statue of an avenging angel, something blank and pitiless.

“Don’t come near us again,” he said. “Speak of this to no one. Or we will find you, and I will make you pay.”

The piskie nodded jerkily. Julian stood up, and the piskies vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.

“Did you have to scare them so much?” Emma said, a little hesitantly. Julian still had that frighteningly blank expression on his face, as if his body was here but his mind was a million miles away.

“Better scared than making trouble.” Julian turned to her. A little of the color was coming back to his skin. “You need an iratze.”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t hurt that much, and besides, I want to clean it first.” Iratzes could heal skin over any wound, but sometimes that meant sealing in infection or dirt.

Concern flickered in his eyes. “Then we should go back to the cottage. But first, I need your help with something.”

Emma thought of the broken altar, the spilled blood, and groaned. “Don’t say cleaning up.”

“We’re not going to clean the church up,” said Julian. “We’re going to burn it down.”

*   *   *

Whoever was holding Cristina was strong, stronger than a mundane human.

“Now step forward, and do as I say,” said the voice behind her, breathless but low and confident. She found herself shoved ahead into the center of the park. She was hauled toward the fountain, and the two faeries standing there. Both of them stared—Kieran at her, his brother a little above her head.

“Erec,” Adaon said, sounding weary. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you.” Erec’s voice echoed behind Cristina. She remembered him with a flare of hate, remembered him in Faerie, Julian’s knife against his throat as his was against her own now. “I was curious as to your purpose here. And I wanted to see our little brother, too.”

“Let her go,” Kieran said, with a gesture toward Cristina. He didn’t meet her eyes. “She’s nothing to do with this. Just a Shadowhunter spying without my knowledge.”

“You said she’s nothing to do with you,” Erec sneered. “Not that you don’t care.” Hot silver pain flashed at Cristina’s throat. She felt the warmth of blood. She stiffened her spine, refusing to flinch.

“Leave her be.” Kieran’s face was a pale mask of rage. “Do you want the Nephilim after you, Erec? Are you a fool? I know you’re a torturer—you used to torture me.” He took a step toward Cristina and Erec. “Do you remember? You made these.” He shoved his loose black sleeves up, and Cristina saw the long scars on his arms. “And the ones on my back.”

“You were a soft child,” said Erec. “Too soft to be the son of a King. Kindness has no place in the court of a broken crown.” He chuckled. “Besides, I come with news. Father has sent the Seven.”

Kieran paled even further. “Mannan’s Seven? Sent them where?”

“Here. To the mundane world. They are tasked to retrieve the Black Volume, now that the death of Malcolm Fade is known. They will find it, and before you do.”

“The Black Volume is nothing to do with me,” said Kieran.

“But it is to do with our father,” said Adaon. “He has wanted it since the First Heir was stolen.”

“Longer than he has hated the Nephilim?” Kieran said.

Erec spat. “Those Nephilim you love so. They are a doomed race. You are wasting yourself, Kieran, when you could be much more.”

“Let him be, Erec,” Adaon said. “What do you imagine Father would do if Kieran came home, besides kill him?”

“If Father was still alive to kill anyone.”

“Enough scheming!” roared Adaon. “Enough, Erec!”