But she couldn’t stop. There was something about it—illicit, nerve-racking—as if Julian were a dangerous stranger. Her gaze slipped over him: his hair, soft and dark and thick, curling where it touched the nape of his neck; his hips and collarbones made elegant arches under his skin; his runes described whorls and spirals across his chest and biceps. His parabatai rune seemed to glow under the sun. Around his wrist was the same knotted rag of red-brown cloth.
He looked up at that moment and saw her. He lowered the parchment he was holding, angling it to cover the thing on his wrist. “Come here,” he called, “and look at the map,” and turned away, reaching for his shirt. By the time she’d gotten near him, he’d pulled it on and the rag was covered.
He handed over the map and she forgot everything else. She stared at it as he knelt down, unpacking the food from one of the rucksacks.
The parchment showed a sketch of Faerie—the Thorn Mountains, various lakes and streams, and the Courts of Seelie and Unseelie. It also showed a bright red dot that seemed to be trembling slightly, as if it weren’t a part of the page.
“The dot is us,” Julian said, putting out sandwiches. “I figured the map out—it shows where we are in relation to the Courts. No real map would work here. The landscape of Faerie always shifts, and the Unseelie Court moves around. But since this shows where we are and where the Unseelie Court is, as long as we keep walking toward it we should be all right.”
Emma sat down on the grass across from him and picked up a sandwich. They were both cheese, lettuce, and tomato—not her favorite but she didn’t care, since she was hungry enough to eat pretty much anything.
“And what about Jace and Clary? We said to Simon and Isabelle that we’d look for them.”
“We only have four days,” Julian said. “We have to find the Black Volume first, or Horace will destroy our lives.”
And the kids’ lives. And Helen’s and Aline’s. And even Cristina’s, because she knew our secret and she didn’t tell. Emma knew it was all true, and Julian was being practical. Still, she wished he seemed more regretful that they couldn’t look for their friends yet.
“But we can look for them if we find the book?” said Emma.
“If we still have time left on Horace’s clock,” said Julian. “I don’t see why not.”
“Four days isn’t that much time,” said Emma. “Do you think this plan could work? Or is Horace just trying to get us killed?”
“Be a pretty elaborate way to kill us,” said Julian. He took a bite out of his sandwich and looked meditatively into the distance. “He wants the Black Volume. You heard him. I don’t think he cares how he gets it, and we’ll probably have to watch our step. But as long as we have it in our hands . . .” He pointed at the map. “Look. Bram’s Crossroads.”
The fact that their extraction point actually existed made Emma feel slightly better.
“I wish I knew what he was going to do with the Black Volume,” Emma muttered.
“Probably nothing. He wants it so the faeries can’t have it. It would be a political coup for him. The Consul couldn’t get it, now he does, he gets to hold it up at the next Council meeting and praise himself.”
“He’ll probably say Zara found it,” Emma said—and then paused, staring at Julian. “You’re eating lettuce,” she said.
“Yes?” He was leaning over the map, his fingers keeping it flat.
“You hate lettuce.” She thought of all the times he’d eaten lettuce in front of the kids to be a good example and then complained to her later that it tasted like crunchy paper. “You’ve always hated it.”
“Have I?” He sounded puzzled. He rose to his feet, starting to gather up their things. “We should head out. This time we travel by daylight. Too much weird stuff abroad in Faerie at night.”
It’s just lettuce, Emma told herself. Not that important. Still, she found herself biting her lip as she bent to pick up her rucksack. Julian was strapping his crossbow to his back; his rucksack went across the other shoulder.
From the woods came a cracking noise, the kind a breaking branch might make. Emma whirled around, her hand at her hip, feeling for the hilt of a knife. “Did you hear that?”
Julian tightened the strap of his crossbow. They stood there for long moments, on their guard, but there was no second sound, and nothing appeared. Emma wished fiercely for a Vision or Hearing rune.
“It could have been nothing,” Julian said, finally, and though Emma knew he wasn’t really trying to comfort her, just trying to get them on the road, it still seemed like something the Julian she knew would say.
In silence they headed away from the clearing, which moments ago had been bright with sunlight and now seemed ominous and full of shadows.
8
LONG-FORGOTTEN BOWERS
Diana hurried toward the canal house on Princewater Street, the cool morning wind lifting her hair. She felt shot through with adrenaline, tense at the prospect of spilling her history to Emma and Jules. She’d kept it hugged so close to herself for so many years, telling Gwyn had been like cracking open her ribs to show her heart.
She hoped the second time would be easier. Emma and Julian loved her, she told herself. They would—
She stopped dead, the heels of her boots clacking on the cobblestones. The cheerfully painted blue canal house rose in front of her, but it was surrounded by a ring of Council guards. Not just Council guards, in fact. Quite a few of them were young Centurions. Each was armed with an oak bo staff.
She glanced around. A few Shadowhunters hurried by, none of them glancing at the house. She wondered how many of them knew Jules and Emma were even still in Alicante—but then, the Inquisitor had planned to make an example of their testimony. They’d have to know eventually.
At the top of the steps was Amelia Overbeck, who had been giggling with Zara at the funeral. Annoyance sped up Diana’s stride, and she pushed past the first ring of guards and ascended the steps.
Amelia, who had been leaning against the door talking to a girl with long orange-red hair, turned to Diana with a brittle smirk. “Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “Is there something you want?”
“I’d like to see Julian Blackthorn and Emma Carstairs,” said Diana, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.
“Gosh,” said Amelia, clearly enjoying herself. “I just don’t think so.”
“Amelia, I have every right,” said Diana. “Let me
by.”
Amelia slewed her gaze toward the redhead. “This is Diana Wrayburn, Vanessa,” she said. “She thinks she’s very important.”
“Vanessa Ashdown?” Diana looked more closely: Cameron’s cousin had left for the Academy as a spindly teen, and was almost unrecognizable now. “I know your cousin Cameron.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “He’s boring. Emma’s whipped puppy. And no, don’t think you can get into the house by making nice with me. I don’t like the Blackthorns or anyone who pals around with them.”
“Great news, since you’re supposed to be protecting them,” said Diana. Her adrenaline was coiling into rage. “Look, I’m going to open this door. If you want to try to stop me—”
“Diana!”
Diana turned, pushing hair out of her face: Jia was standing outside the ring of guards, her hand raised as if in greeting.
“The Consul.” Vanessa’s eyes bugged out. “Oh sh—”
“Shut up, Vanessa,” hissed Amelia. She didn’t look worried or afraid of Jia, just annoyed.
Diana pushed her way down the steps and to Jia’s side. Jia wore a silk blouse and trousers, her hair held back with a jeweled clip. Her mouth was an angry slash. “Don’t bother,” she said in a low voice, placing her hand on Diana’s elbow and guiding her away from the crowd of hooting guards. “I heard them say Emma and Julian were with the Inquisitor.”
“Well, why didn’t they just tell me that?” Diana snapped, exasperated. She glanced back over her shoulder at Vanessa Ashdown, who was giggling. “Vanessa Ashdown. My mother used to say some people had more hair than sense.”
“She does seem to aptly prove that theory,” said Jia dryly. She had stopped some distance from the house, where a small stone bank inclined into the canal. It was thick with moss, bright green under the silver water that slopped up the side. “Look, Diana, I need to talk to you. Where can we not be overheard?”
Diana looked at Jia closely. Was it her imagination, or when the Consul glanced at the Centurions surrounding the small canal house, did she look—afraid?