Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

Stuffed inside were a jumble of boy’s clothes, a bunch of jeans and shirts, and a few books, spare steles, unactivated seraph blades, a balisong not unlike Cristina’s, and some photographs. And something else, something that shone so brightly that she thought for a moment it was a witchlight—but the illumination was less white than that. It glowed with a dim, deep gold color, like the surface of the ocean. Before she knew it, her hand was on it—

She felt herself jerked off her feet, as if she were being sucked into a Portal. She yanked her hand back, but she was no longer touching anything. She was no longer in her room at all.

She was underground, in a long corridor dug out of the earth. The roots of trees grew down into the space, like the curling ribbon on expensively wrapped gifts. The corridor stretched away on either side of her into shadows that deepened like no shadows above ground.

Dru’s heart was pounding. A terrible sense of unreality choked her. It was as if she’d traveled through a Portal, but with no idea where she’d gone, with no sense of familiarity. Even the air in the place smelled like something strange and dark, some kind of scent she’d never breathed before.

Dru reached automatically for the weapons at her belt, but there was nothing there. She’d come here completely unprepared, in only jeans and a black T-shirt with cats on it. She choked back a hysterical laugh and moved to press herself against the wall of the underground corridor, keeping to the depth of the shadows.

Lights appeared at the end of the hall. Dru could hear high, sweet voices in the distance. Their chatter was like the chatter of birds. Faeries.

She moved blindly in the other direction, and nearly fell backward when the wall gave way behind her and became a curtain of fabric. She stumbled through and found herself in a large stone room.

The walls were squares of green marble, veined with thick black lines. Some of the squares were carved with golden patterns—a hawk, a throne, a crown divided into two pieces. There were weapons in the room, ranged around on the surfaces of different tables—swords and daggers of copper and bronze, hooks and spikes and maces of all sorts of metal except iron.

There was also a boy in the room. A boy her age, maybe thirteen. He had turned around when she came in, and now he stared at her in astonishment.

“How dare you come into this room?” His voice was sharp, imperious.

He wore rich clothing, silk and velvet, heavy leather boots. His hair was white-blond, the color of witchlight. It was cut short, and a pale band of metal encircled it at his brow.

“I didn’t mean to.” Dru swallowed. “I just want to get out of here,” she said. “That’s all I want.”

His green eyes burned. “Who are you?” He took a step forward, snatching a dagger up off the table beside him. “Are you a Shadowhunter?”

Dru raised her chin and stared back at him. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And why are you so rude?”

To her surprise, he smiled, and there was something familiar about it. “I’m called Ash,” he said. “Did my mother send you?” He sounded hopeful. “Is she worried about me?”

“Drusilla!” said a voice. “Dru! Dru!”

Dru looked around in confusion: Where was the voice coming from? The walls of the room were starting to darken, to melt and merge. The boy in the rich clothes with his sharp faerie’s face looked at her in confusion, raising his dagger, as more holes began to open around her: in the walls, in the floor. She shrieked as the ground gave way beneath her and she fell into darkness.

The whirling air caught her again, the cold spinning almost-Portal, and then she slammed back to reality on the floor of her bedroom. She was alone. She gasped and choked, trying to pull herself to her knees. Her heart felt as if it was going to rip its way out of her chest.

Her mind spun—the terror of being underground, the terror of not knowing if she’d ever return home, the terror of an alien place—and yet the images slipped away from her, as if she were trying to hold on to water or wind. Where was I? What happened?

She raised herself to her knees, feeling sick and nauseated. She blinked away the dizziness—there were green eyes in the back of her vision, green eyes—and saw that Jaime’s duffel bag was gone. Her window was propped open, the floor damp below the window. He must have come in and out while she was . . . gone. But where had she been? She didn’t remember.

“Dru!” The voice came again. Mark’s voice. And another impatient knock on her door. “Dru, didn’t you hear me? Emma and Jules are back.”

*   *   *

“There,” Diana said, checking the bandage on Gwyn’s arm one last time. “I wish I could give you an iratze, but . . .”

She let her voice trail off, feeling silly. She was the one who had insisted they go to her rooms in Alicante so she could bandage his wound, and Gwyn had been quiet ever since.