“No, but—” Kit paused. He’d been about to say it didn’t make any sense to give your messages to a dead raven, but something about the look on Ty’s face silenced him.
“It actually makes more sense for them to have just left the messages in a hiding place,” said Ty. “One they could both get to easily.” He crossed the grass to the statue of the boy with the bird on his wrist.
A little jolt went through Kit. He didn’t know much about birds, but this one was carved out of glossy black stone. And it looked a lot like drawings he’d seen of ravens.
Ty reached around to run his fingers over the stone bird. There was a clicking noise, and a squeak of hinges. Kit hurried over to see Ty prying open a small opening in the bird’s back. “Is there anything in there?”
Ty shook his head. “It’s empty.” He reached into his pocket, retrieved a folded-up piece of paper, and dropped it into the opening before sealing it back up again.
Kit stopped in his tracks. “You left a message.”
Ty nodded. He’d folded up the drawing and put it in his pocket. His hand swung free at his side, the witchlight in it: Its light was dimmed, the moon providing enough illumination that they could both see.
“For Annabel?” said Kit.
Ty hesitated. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said finally. “It was just an idea I had.”
“It was smart,” said Kit. “Really smart—I don’t think anyone else would have guessed about the statue. I don’t think anyone else could have.”
“But it might not matter,” said Ty. “In which case I would have failed. And I’d rather no one know.” He began to murmur under his breath, the way he did sometimes.
“I’ll know.”
Ty paused in his murmuring. “I don’t mind,” he said, “if it’s you.”
Kit wanted to ask him why not, wanted to ask badly, but Ty looked as if he wasn’t sure he knew the answer himself. And he was still murmuring, the same soft stream of words that was somewhere between a whisper and a song. “What are you saying?” Kit asked finally, not sure if it was all right to ask, but unable to help his curiosity.
Ty glanced up at the moon through his lashes. They were thick and dark, almost childlike. They gave his face a look of innocence that made him look younger—a strange effect, at odds with his almost frighteningly sharp mind. “Just words I like,” he said. “If I say them to myself, it makes my mind—quieter. Does it bother you?”
“No!” Kit said quickly. “I was just curious what words you liked.”
Ty bit his lip. For a moment, Kit thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all. “It’s not the meaning, just the sound,” he said. “Glass, twin, apple, whisper, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt.” He glanced away from Kit, a shivering figure in his too-large hoodie, his black hair absorbing moonlight, giving none of it back.
“Whisper would be one of mine, too,” said Kit. He took a step toward Ty, touched his shoulder gently. “Cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns.”
“Blackthorns,” said Ty, with a dazzling smile, and Kit knew, in that instant, that whatever he’d been telling himself about running away for the past few days had been a lie. And maybe it had been that lie that Livvy had been responding to, when she’d snapped at him outside the magic store that day—the kernel inside his own heart that had told him he might still be leaving.
But he knew now that he could reassure her. He wasn’t leaving the Shadowhunters. He wasn’t going anywhere. Because where the Blackthorns were, was his home now.
22
T
HE
M
OST
U
NHOLY
When Emma woke the next morning, she found she had managed not to tie herself in a knot around Julian while sleeping. Progress. Maybe because she’d spent all night having terrible dreams where she saw her father again, and he peeled off his face to reveal that he was Sebastian Morgenstern underneath.
“Luke, I am your father,” she muttered, and heard Julian laugh softly. She staggered off to find her gear so she wouldn’t have to watch him getting up adorably sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. She changed in the office while Julian showered and dressed; they met up for a quick breakfast of toast and juice, and were off to find Annabel.
It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky by the time they made it to Porthallow Church—apparently what was close for piskies wasn’t what humans would call nearby. Though Emma kept hearing the high voice of the piskie in her head. Killing close, it had said. Whatever that meant, she didn’t like the sound of it.
The church had been built on a cliff over a headland. The sea spread out in the distance, a carpet of matte blue. Clouds brushstroked across the sky, like a ball of cotton someone had picked apart and scattered. The air was full of the hum of bees and the scent of late wildflowers.
The area around the church was overgrown, but the building itself was in decent shape despite having been abandoned. The windows had been carefully boarded up, and a KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY: YOU ARE TRESPASSING sign was nailed to the front door. Some small distance from the church was a little graveyard, its gray, rain-washed tombstones barely visible among the long grass. The church’s single square tower was cast in lonely relief against the sky. Emma adjusted Cortana on her back and glanced over at Julian, who was frowning down at her phone.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Wikipedia. ‘Porthallow Church is located above the sea, on the cliff-top at Talland near Polperro in Cornwall. The altar of the church is said to date from the time of King Mark, of Tristan and Isolde fame, and was built at the junction of ley lines.’ ”
“Wikipedia knows about ley lines?” Emma took her phone back.
“Wikipedia knows about everything. It might be run by warlocks.”
“You think that’s what they do all day in the Spiral Labyrinth? Run Wikipedia?”
“I admit it seems like a letdown.”
Tucking the phone in her pocket, Emma indicated the church. “So this is another convergence?”
Julian shook his head. “A convergence is where every ley line in the area links up. This is a junction—two ley lines crossing. Still a powerful place.” In the bright sunshine he drew a seraph blade from his belt, holding it against his side as they approached the church entrance.
“Do you know what you’re going to say to Annabel?” Emma whispered.
“Not a clue,” Julian said. “I guess I’ll—” He broke off. There was something in his eyes: a troubled look.
“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.
They’d reached the church doors. “No,” Julian said, after a long moment, and though Emma could tell he didn’t mean it, she let it slide. She drew Cortana from her back, just in case.
Julian shouldered the doors open. The small lock holding them shut burst apart, and they were inside, Julian a few steps ahead of Emma. It was pitch-black inside the abandoned church. “Arariel,” he murmured, and his seraph blade lit like a small bonfire, illuminating the interior.
A stone arcade ran along one side of the church, the pews nestled between the arches. The stone was carved with delicate designs of leaves. The nave and the transept, where the altar was usually located, were deep in shadow.
Emma heard Julian draw in his breath. “This is where Malcolm raised Annabel,” he said. “I remember it from the scrying glass. This is where Arthur died.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Julian lowered his head. “Ave atque vale, Arthur Blackthorn.” His voice was full of sorrow. “You died bravely and for your family.”
“Jules . . .” She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he had already straightened up, any sorrow he felt cloaked beneath the mantle of being Nephilim.