Julian was breathing hard, as if he’d been running flat out for miles. The dampness of the air stuck his shirt to his chest as he leaned back against the wall of the Institute. “Why did you come to the attic?” he said.
“I’m sorry.” She spoke stiffly. She hated being stiff around Jules. They’d rarely had a fight that didn’t end in a casual apology or joking. I had this feeling, that you needed me, and I couldn’t not come. “I understand if you’re angry—”
“I’m not angry.” Lightning sizzled out over the water, briefly whitening the sky. “That’s the hell of it, I can’t be angry, can I? Mark doesn’t know a thing about you and me, he isn’t trying to hurt me, none of it’s his fault. And you, you did the right thing. I can’t hate you for that.” He pushed off from the wall, took a restless few paces. The energy of the pent-up storm seemed to crackle off his skin. “But I can’t stand it. What do I do, Emma?” He raked his hands through his hair; the humidity was making it curl into ringlets that clung to his fingers. “We can’t live like this.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ll go away. It’s only a few months. I’ll be eighteen. We’ll take our travel years away from each other. We’ll forget.”
“Will we?” His mouth twisted into an impossible smile.
“We have to.” Emma had begun to shiver; it was cold, the clouds above them roiling like the smoke of a scorched sky.
“I should never have touched you,” he said. He’d drawn closer to her, or maybe she’d moved closer to him, wanting to take his hands, the way she always had. “I never thought what we had could break so easily.”
“It’s not broken,” she whispered. “We made a mistake—but being together wasn’t the mistake.”
“Most people get to make mistakes, Emma. It doesn’t have to ruin their whole lives.”
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him. Still feel him, inches away from her, the heat of his body, the scent of cloves that clung to his clothes and hair. It was making her insane, making her knees shake as if she’d just staggered off a roller coaster. “Our lives aren’t ruined.”
His arms went around her. She thought for a moment of resisting, but she was so tired—so tired of fighting what she wanted. She hadn’t thought she’d ever get this, Jules in her arms again, all lean muscle and taut tension, strong painter’s hands smoothing down her back, his fingers tracing letters, words, on her skin.
I A-M R-U-I-N-E-D.
She opened her eyes, appalled. His face was so close it was almost a blur of light and shadow. “Emma,” he said, his arms leashing her, pulling her closer.
And then he was kissing her; they were kissing each other. He drew her against him; he fit her body to his, curves and hollows, muscles and softness. His mouth was open over hers, his tongue running gently along the seam of her lips.
Thunder exploded around them, lightning shattering against the mountains, blazing a path of dry heat across the inside of Emma’s eyelids.
She opened her mouth under his, pressed up against him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He tasted like fire, like spice. He ran his hands down her sides, over her hips. Drew her more firmly against him. He was making a low sound in his throat, a sort of anguished wanting sound.
It felt like forever. It felt like no time at all. His hands molded the shape of her shoulder blades, the curve of her body beneath her rib cage, thumbs arching over the crests of her hips. He lifted her up and against him as if they could fit into each other’s empty spaces, as words spilled from his mouth: frantic, hurried,
“Emma—I need you, always, always think about you, I was wishing you were with me in that goddamned attic and then I turned around and you were there, like you heard me, like you’re always there when I need you . . . .”
Lightning forked again, illuminating the world: Emma could see her hands on Julian’s shirt hem—what the hell was she thinking, was she planning for them both to strip down on the Institute’s front porch? Reality reasserted itself; she pushed away, her heart slamming against her chest.
“Em?” He looked at her, dazed, his eyes sleepy and hot and wanting. It made her swallow hard. But his words echoed in her head: He’d wanted her, and she’d come as if she’d heard him call—she’d felt that wanting, known it, not been able to stop herself.
All these weeks of insisting to herself that the parabatai bond was weakening, and now he was telling her they’d just practically read each other’s minds.
“Mark,” she said, and it was just one word but it was the word, the most brutal reminder of their situation. The sleepy look left his eyes; he whitened, aghast. He raised a hand as if he meant to say something—explain, apologize—and the sky seemed to rip down the middle.
They both turned to stare as the clouds directly above them parted. A shadow grew in the air, darkening as it neared them: the figure of a man, massive and bound in armor, bareback on a red-eyed, foaming brindled horse—black and gray, like the storm clouds overhead.
Julian moved as if to thrust Emma behind him, but she wouldn’t budge. She simply stared as the horse came to a neighing, pawing stop at the foot of the Institute steps. The man looked up at them.
His eyes, like Mark’s, were two different colors, in his case blue and black. His face was terrifyingly familiar. It was Gwyn ap Nudd, the lord and leader of the Wild Hunt. And he did not look pleased.
7
S
EAS
W
ITHOUT A
S
HORE
Before Julian or Emma could speak, the front door of the Institute slammed open. Diana was there, with Mark just behind her, still in his training clothes. Diana, in a white suit, looked as beautiful and formidable as always.
Gwyn’s towering brindled horse reared as Mark approached the top of the steps. Catching sight of Emma and Jules as they strode toward him, Mark looked more than a little surprised. Emma’s cheeks felt as if they must be burning, though when she looked at Julian, he seemed unruffled, cool as always.
They joined Mark just as Diana swept to the top of the steps. The four Shadowhunters stared down at the Hunter—his horse’s eyes were blood-red, and so was the armor that Gwyn wore: tough crimson leather, torn here and there by claw marks and the rips made by weapons.
“Because of the Cold Peace, I cannot bid you welcome,” Diana said. “Why are you here, Gwyn Hunter?”
Gwyn’s ancient gaze glided up and down Diana; there was no malice in it or arrogance, only the faerie appreciation for something beautiful. “Lovely lady,” he said, “I do not think we have met.”
Diana looked momentarily nonplussed. “Diana Wrayburn. I’m the tutor here.”
“Those who teach are honored in the Land Under the Hill,” said Gwyn. Under his arm he carried a massive helmet decorated with a stag’s antlers. His hunting horn lay across the pommel of his saddle.
Emma boggled. Was Gwyn hitting on Diana? She didn’t know faeries did that, exactly. She heard Mark make an exasperated noise.
“Gwyn,” he said, “I give you fair greetings. My heart is gladdened to see you.”
Emma couldn’t help wondering if any of that was true. She knew Mark had complicated feelings for Gwyn. He’d spoken of them sometimes, during the nights in her room, head on his hand. She had a clearer picture of the Wild Hunt now than she’d ever had before, of its delights and horrors, of the strange path Mark had been forced to make for himself between the stars.
“I would that I could say the same,” said Gwyn. “I bring dark news from the Unseelie Court. Kieran of your heart—”
“He is not of my heart any longer,” interrupted Mark. It was a faerie expression, “of my heart,” the closest they might come to saying “girlfriend” or “boyfriend.”