Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

Emma bit her lip. If Mark and Cristina wanted to date, she’d give them her blessing. She’d stage some kind of breakup with Mark; their “relationship” had already done a lot of what it needed to do. Julian could barely look at her anymore, and that was what she’d wanted—wasn’t it?

He didn’t seem happy about the idea that she and Mark might be over, though. Not even a little bit. If he was even thinking about that. There had been a time when she could always tell what Julian had on his mind. Now, she could read only the surface of his thoughts: His deeper feelings were hidden.

Diego looked from Mark to Cristina and stood up, shoving back his chair. He walked out of the room. After a moment, Emma dropped her napkin onto her plate and followed.

He had stomped all the way to the back door and out into the parking lot before he noticed she was following him—a sure sign he was upset, given Diego’s level of training. He turned to face her, his dark eyes glittering. “Emma,” he said. “I understand you wish to scold me. You have for days. But this is not a good time.”

“And what would be a good time? You want to pencil it into your day planner under Never Going to Happen?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I thought. Come on.”

She stalked around the side of the Institute, Diego reluctantly following. They reached a spot where a small mound of dirt rose between cacti, familiar to Emma from long experience. “You stand there,” she said, pointing. He gave her a disbelieving look. “So we won’t be seen from the windows,” she explained, and he grouchily did as she’d asked, crossing his arms across his muscular chest.

“Emma,” he said. “You do not and cannot understand, and I cannot explain to you—”

“I bet you can’t,” she said. “Look, you know I haven’t always been your biggest fan, but I thought a lot better of you than this.”

A muscle twitched in his face. His jaw was rigid. “As I said. You cannot understand, and I cannot explain.”

“It would be one thing,” Emma said, “if you’d just been two-timing, which I still would think was despicable, but—Zara? You’re the reason she’s here. You know we aren’t— You know Julian has to be careful.”

“He should not worry too much,” said Diego tonelessly. “Zara is only interested in what profits her. I do not think she has any interest in Arthur’s secrets, only in getting attention from the Council for completing this mission successfully.”

“Easy for you to assume.”

“I have reasons for everything I do, Emma,” he said. “Maybe Cristina does not know them now, but one day she will.”

“Diego, everyone has reasons for everything they do. Malcolm had reasons for what he did.”

Diego’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Do not compare me to Malcolm Fade.”

“Because he was a warlock?” Emma’s voice was low, dangerous. “Because you think like your fiancée does? About the Cold Peace? About warlocks, and faeries? About Mark?”

“Because he was a murderer.” Diego spoke through his teeth. “Whatever else you think of me, Emma, I am not a senseless bigot. I do not believe Downworlders are lesser, to be registered or to be tortured—”

“But you admit Zara does,” said Emma.

“I have never told her anything,” he said.

“Maybe you can understand why I’m wondering how you could prefer her to Cristina,” Emma said.

Diego tensed—and shouted. Emma had forgotten how fast he could move, despite his bulk: He leaped back, cursing and kicking out with his left foot. Muttering in pain, he kicked off his shoe. Columns of ants marched over his ankle, scurrying up his leg.

“Oh, dear,” said Emma. “You must have stood on a red-ant hill. You know, accidentally.”

Diego slapped the ants away, still cursing. He’d kicked away part of the top of the mound of dirt, and ants were pouring out of it.

Emma stepped back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “They’re not poisonous.”

“You tricked me into standing on an anthill?” He had shoved his foot back into his shoe, but Emma knew he’d have itchy bites for a few days unless he used an iratze.

“Cristina made me promise not to touch you, so I had to get creative,” Emma said. “You shouldn’t have lied to my best friend. Desgraciado mentiroso.”

He stared at her.

Emma sighed. “I hope that meant what I think it meant. I’d hate to have just called you a rusty bucket or something.”

“No,” he said. To her surprise, he sounded wearily amused. “It meant what you thought it meant.”

“Good.” She stalked back toward the house. She was almost out of earshot when he called after her. She turned and saw him standing where she’d left him, apparently heedless of the ants or the hot sun beating down on his shoulders.

“Believe me, Emma,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear him, “no one hates me more than I hate myself right now.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked. Emma didn’t shout, but she knew the words carried. He looked at her for a long moment, silently, before she walked away.

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