Lady Midnight (37 page)

“They’ll never know you had anything to do with it,” she said. “But I saw you flirting with Belinda at the Shadow Market. She’s got to know.”

Rook shook his head. “She doesn’t.”

“Huh,” Emma said. “Okay, which of them does?”

“None of them. The leader’s identity is totally secret. I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. The Guardian could be either, you know?”

“If I find out you’re hiding something you know from me, Johnny,” Emma said in a cold voice, “there will be consequences. Diana knows I’m here. You won’t be able to get me in trouble with the Clave. But I could get you in trouble. Serious trouble.”

“Emma, forget it,” Julian said in a bored voice. “He doesn’t know anything. Let’s take the
adamas
and go.”

“They get two days,” Rook said in a thin, angry voice. “When their numbers get picked. They get two days before the kill has to happen.” He glared at them both, as if somehow this was their fault. “It’s sympathetic magic. The energy of the death of a supernatural creature powers the spell that makes them all stronger. And the leader—he shows up for the kill. That much I know. If you’re there for the death, you’ll see him. Or her. Whoever it is.”

“The Guardian shows up at the murder?” Emma said. “To harvest the energy?”

“So if we shadow Sterling, if we wait for someone to attack him, we’ll see the Guardian?” Julian said.

“Yeah. That should work. I mean, you’re crazy to want to be there at some big dark-magic party, but I guess it’s your business.”

“I guess it is,” Julian said. His phone buzzed again.
LIVVY WON’T TELL ME ANYTHING. SHE’S LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ROOM. HELP.

A tendril of worry uncurled in Julian’s stomach. He told himself he was being stupid. He knew he worried about his siblings too much. Ty had probably wandered off after an animal, was petting a squirrel or cuddling a stray cat. Or he might have shut himself away with a book, not wanting to socialize.

Julian thumbed out a response:
GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK FOR HIM IN THE BACK GARDEN.

“Still texting?” said Rook, a mocking tone to his voice. “I’m guessing you have a pretty rich social life.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Julian. “My phone’s almost out of battery.”

The phone whirred again.
HEADED OUTSIDE
, it said, and then the screen went black. He shoved it into his pocket as an enormous crash sounded from downstairs, and after it, the sound of a bitten-off cry.

“What the hell?” said Rook.

The shock in his voice was real; Emma must have heard it too, because she was already moving toward the steps that led downstairs. Rook shouted after them, but Julian knew it would take him a moment to free himself from his protection circle. Without another glance at Rook, he darted after Emma.

*   *   *

Kit Rook pressed himself into the shadow of the stairwell. Voices filtered down from upstairs, along with dim sunlight. His father always sent him down into the cellar when they had visitors. Especially the kind of visitors that had him running for his chalk so he could draw a protection circle.

Kit could only see shadows moving upstairs, but he could hear two voices. Young voices, to his surprise. A boy’s and a girl’s.

He had a pretty good idea what they were, and it wasn’t
Downworlders. He’d seen the look on his father’s face when they’d knocked on the door. Rook hadn’t said anything, but he wore that expression for only one thing: Shadowhunters.

Nephilim.
Kit felt the slow burn of anger start in his stomach. He’d been sitting on the sofa watching TV and now he was crouched in the basement like a thief in his own home because Shadowhunters thought they had the right to legislate magic. To tell everyone what to do. To—

A figure hurtled at him out of the shadows. It hit him hard in the chest and he staggered back and slammed into the wall behind him, breath knocked out of his body. He gasped as light flared up around him—pale white light, held in the cup of a human hand.

Something sharp kissed the base of Kit’s throat. He sucked in air and raised his eyes.

He was staring right at a boy his own age. Ink-black hair and eyes the color of the edge of a knife, eyes that darted away from his as the boy scowled. He had a long, thin, black-clad body and pale skin Marked all over with the runes of the Nephilim.

Kit had never been this close to a Shadowhunter. The boy had one hand on his glowing light—it wasn’t a flashlight or anything electronic; Kit knew magic when he saw it—and the other gripped a dagger whose point rested against Kit’s throat.

Kit had imagined before what he’d do if a Nephilim ever grabbed him. How he’d stomp on their feet, break their bones, snap their wrists, spit in their faces. He did none of those things, thought of none of those things. He looked at the boy with the knife to his throat, the boy whose black eyelashes feathered down against his cheekbones as he glanced away from Kit, and he felt something like a shock of recognition pass through him.

He thought,
How beautiful.

Kit blinked. Though the other boy wasn’t looking directly at him, he seemed to note the movement. In a harsh whisper, he
demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here? You’re too young to be Johnny Rook.”

His voice was lovely. Clear and low, with a rasp to it that made him sound older than he was. A rich boy’s voice.

“No,” said Kit. He felt dazed and puzzled, as if a bright camera flash had gone off in his eyes. “I’m not.”

The boy still wasn’t looking directly at Kit. As if Kit weren’t worth looking at. Kit’s dazed feeling was starting to fade, to be replaced by anger.

“Go on,” Kit said, challenging. “Figure it out.”

The boy’s expression clouded, then cleared. “You’re his son,” he said. “Johnny Rook’s son.”

And then his lip did curl, just the slightest curl of contempt, and anger boiled up in Kit. He jerked aside fast, away from the dagger, and kicked out. The other boy spun, but Kit caught him with a glancing blow. He heard a cry of pain. The light tumbled from the boy’s hand, winking out, and then Kit was being shoved up against the wall again, a hand scrabbling to fist itself in his shirt, and the dagger was back at his throat, and the other boy was whispering, “Be quiet, be quiet, be
quiet
,” and then the room was full of light.

The other boy froze. Kit looked up to see two other Shadowhunters standing on the cellar steps: a boy with blazing blue-green eyes and the blond girl he had seen at the Shadow Market the week before. They were both staring—not at him, but at the boy gripping his shirt.

The boy winced but held his ground, defiance chasing alarm across his face.
Aha
, Kit thought with dawning realization.
You’re not supposed to be down here, are you?

“Tiberius Blackthorn,” said the boy with blue-green eyes. “What on earth are you doing?”

*   *   *

Emma stood and gawked at Ty, completely brought up short. It was as if the Institute had suddenly appeared in the middle of Johnny Rook’s cellar: The sight of Ty was familiar, and yet totally incongruous.

Ty looked rumpled and more frazzled than she’d seen him in years, though his grip on his dagger was steady. Diana would have been pleased. She would probably not have been pleased that he was pointing it at the throat of a mundane boy—he looked about fifteen, and oddly familiar. She’d seen him before, Emma realized, at the Shadow Market. His hair was a mass of blond tangles; his shirt was clean but ragged, his jeans worn to a faded pallor. And he looked ready to punch Ty in the face, which was unusual for a mundane in his position. Most of them were much more unsettled by a knife to the throat.

“Ty,” Julian said again. He looked furious—fury with an edge of panic. “Ty, let go of Johnny Rook’s son.”

The blond boy’s eyes widened. “How did you—how do you know who I am?” he demanded.

Julian shrugged. “Who else would you be?” He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you know something about the Lottery at the Midnight Theater?”

“Jules,” Emma said. “He’s just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” the boy protested. “And my name is Kit.”

“We’re trying to help,” Julian said. The blond boy—Kit—scowled. Julian softened his voice. “We’re trying to save lives.”

“My father told me that’s what Shadowhunters always say.”

“Do you believe everything he says?”

“He was right this time, wasn’t he?” Kit pointed out. His gaze slid to Emma; she remembered noticing that he had the Sight. She’d thought he was Rook’s assistant, though, not his son. They looked nothing alike. “You said it.”

“I meant—” Julian began.

“I don’t know anything about a lottery,” Kit snapped. He glanced at Tiberius. What was odder, perhaps, was that Ty was looking at him. Emma remembered Ty, years ago, saying,
Why do people say “look at me” when they mean “look at my eyes”? You could be looking at any part of a person and you’re still looking at them.
But he was looking curiously at Kit’s eyes as if they reminded him of something.

“Kit!” The voice was a roar. Emma heard skidding footsteps on the stairs, and Johnny Rook appeared. One of his sleeves was singed. Emma had never seen him look so furious. “Leave my son
alone
!”

Ty steadied his grip on the knife, straightening his spine. He faced Johnny Rook without a speck of fear. “Tell us about the Lottery,” he said.

Kit winced. Emma could see it, even in the gloom. Ty didn’t seem frightening to her, but then, she’d cuddled him when he was three years old. But fear was clear in Johnny Rook’s face: As far as he was concerned, Nephilim had snuck a Shadowhunter into his basement to murder his son.

“I’ll give you Casper Sterling’s address,” he said as Kit stared at him, looking bewildered. Clearly he had rarely seen his father so shaken. “I’ve got it, okay? He’s got a bunch of identities, he isn’t easy to find, but I know where he lives. All right? Good enough? Let my son
go
!”

Ty lowered the knife and stepped back. He kept it in his hand, his eyes on Kit as the other boy rubbed ruefully at the dent in his throat. “Dad, I—” Kit started.

“Be quiet, Kit,” Johnny Rook snapped. “I’ve told you. Don’t say anything in front of Nephilim.”

“We’re on the same side,” Julian said in his calmest voice.

Johnny Rook whirled on him. His face was red, his throat working. “Don’t you dare tell me what side I’m on, you know nothing,
nothing—
”

“Enough!”
Emma shouted. “By the Angel, what are you so frightened of?”

Johnny slammed his mouth shut. “I’m not frightened,” he said through his teeth. “Just get out,” he said. “Get out, and don’t ever come here again. I’ll text you the address but after that, don’t call, don’t ask me for favors. We’re done, Nephilim.”

“Fine,” Emma said, gesturing for Ty to come toward her and Julian. “We’ll go. Ty—”

Ty slid the knife he’d been holding into his belt and darted up the steps. Julian turned and went after him. The boy at the bottom of the stairs didn’t watch them go; his eyes were fixed on his father.

He wasn’t much younger than Emma—maybe by a year or two—but she felt a sudden inexplicable surge of protectiveness toward Johnny Rook’s son. If he had the Sight, then all of Downworld was open to him: terrifying and inexplicable. In his own way he was like Tiberius, living in a world he saw differently than everyone else.

“Fine, Johnny,” Emma said again, loudly. “But if you change your mind, you have my number in your phone. Under Carstairs.”

Johnny Rook glared at her.

“Call me,” Emma said again, and this time she looked directly at Kit. “If you ever need anything.”

“Get OUT.”
Rook looked as if he were going to explode or have a heart attack, so with a last look over her shoulder, Emma went.

*   *   *

Emma found Ty out by the car. Clouds had gathered, scudding in quick bursts across the sky. Ty was leaning against the trunk, the wind ruffling his black hair. “Where’s Jules?” she asked as she got close.

“Over there.” He pointed. “I got into the house with an Open rune. I broke the lock on the basement door. He’s fixing it.”

Emma glanced over toward Johnny Rook’s and saw Jules’s lean, long figure outlined by the stuccoed wall. She opened the trunk
of the car, unbuckling her weapons belt. “How did you get here, anyway?”

“I hid in the backseat. Under that blanket.” Ty pointed. Emma could see the edge of a pair of headphones peeking out from under the quilt’s fuzzy edge. “You think Julian’s mad at me?” With the knife put away, he looked very young, his gray eyes clear and open, fixed on the clouds overhead.

“Ty.” Emma sighed. “He’s going to murderate you.”

Julian was heading back toward them. Ty said, “That’s a neologism.”

Emma blinked. “It’s a what?”

“A word you made up. Shakespeare made up words all the time.”

Emma smiled at him, oddly touched. “Well, ‘murderate’ isn’t exactly Shakespeare.”

Ty braced himself as Julian walked directly up to him, not breaking stride, his jaw set, his blue-green eyes as dark as the deep part of the ocean.

He reached Ty and caught hold of him, pulling him into a fierce hug. He pressed his face down into his little brother’s black hair as Ty stood, frozen and astonished at Julian’s lack of anger.

“Jules?” he said. “Are you all right?”

Julian’s shoulders shook. He held his little brother tighter, as if he could crush Ty into himself, into a place where he’d always be safe. He put his cheek against Ty’s curls, squeezing his eyes shut, his voice muffled. “I thought something happened to you,” he said. “I thought Johnny Rook might—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. Ty put his arms carefully around Julian. He patted his back, gently, with his slender hands. It was the first time Emma had seen Ty comfort his older brother—almost the first time she’d ever actually seen Julian let someone else take care of him.

*   *   *

They were silent on the long highway drive back to the Institute; silent as the clouds cleared away, blown inland by the ocean air. The sun was low on the water as they drove up the Pacific Coast Highway. They were silent as they got out of the car and Julian finally really spoke.