“The Unseelie King didn’t hate Shadowhunters in 1812,” said Magnus. “At least, not that much.”
“And Malcolm told Emma that when he went to the Unseelie King after he found out that Annabel wasn’t dead, he thought the King might kill him, because he disliked warlocks,” said Cristina. “He wouldn’t have a reason to dislike warlocks if he’d worked with Malcolm before, would he?”
Magnus stood up. “All right, enough guesswork,” he said. “We have two duties to carry out today. First, we shouldn’t lose sight of the binding spell on Mark and Cristina. It’s more than just a nuisance, it’s a danger to them both.”
Mark couldn’t help glancing at Cristina. She was looking down at the table, not at him. He remembered the night before, the warmth of her body beside him in bed, her breath in his ear.
He came back to reality with a start, realizing that a discussion of where they were going to get the ingredients for an anti-binding spell was underway. “Given what happened at the Shadow Market yesterday,” Magnus added, “none of us will be welcomed back there again. There is, however, a shop here in London that sells what I need. If I give you the address, can Kit, Ty, and Livvy find it?”
Livvy and Ty clamored their agreement, clearly thrilled to have a mission. Kit was quieter, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. Somehow, this youngest Herondale had become so attached to the twins, even Magnus thought of them as a team.
“Do you really think it’s wise for them to go?” Mark interrupted. “After what happened yesterday, with them sloping off to the Shadow Market and practically getting Livvy killed?”
“But, Mark—” Ty protested.
“Well,” said Magnus, “you and Cristina should stay inside the Institute. Binding spells are dangerous, and you shouldn’t be too far away from each other. Alec’s the Institute head; he should stay here, and anyway—the owner of the shop has a certain, let’s say, history with me. Better I don’t go.”
“I could go,” said Dru, in a small voice.
“Not by yourself, Dru,” said Mark. “And these three”—he indicated Kit, Ty, and Livvy—“will just get you in trouble.”
“I can put a tracking spell on one of them,” said Magnus. “If they wander off the path they’re supposed to follow, it’ll make an awful noise mundanes can hear.”
“Delightful,” said Mark as the twins protested. Kit didn’t say anything—he rarely complained. Mark suspected he was silently plotting to get even instead, possibly with everyone he’d ever met.
Magnus examined a large blue ring on his finger. “We’ll do library research. More about the history of the Black Volume. We don’t know who created it, but perhaps who owned it in the past, what it was used for, anything that might point to who Malcolm was working with in 1812.”
“And remember what Julian and Emma asked us for help with,” said Cristina, tapping the phone in her pocket. “It should only take a few minutes to look it up . . . .”
Mark couldn’t help staring at her. She was tucking her dark hair behind her ears, and as she did, the sleeve of her sweater slipped down and he saw the red mark on her wrist. He wanted to go to her, to kiss the mark, to take her pain onto himself.
He looked away from her, but not before he caught the edge of a glance from Kieran. Ty and Livvy and Kit were getting out of their chairs, excitedly chattering, eager to go on their trip. Dru was sitting with her arms crossed. And Magnus was looking between Cristina, Mark, and Kieran thoughtfully, his cat eyes slow and considering.
“We shouldn’t need to look it up at all,” Magnus said. “We have a primary source right here. Kieran, what do you know about catching piskies?”
* * *
Emma woke late in the morning, surrounded by warmth. Light was breaking through the unshaded windows and making patterns on the walls like dancing waves. Through the window she could see flashes of blue sky and blue water: a holiday view.
She yawned, stretched—and went still as she realized why she was so warm. She and Julian had somehow wrapped themselves around each other during the night.
Emma froze in horror. Her left arm was thrown across Julian’s body, but she couldn’t just remove it. He had turned toward her, his own arms curved around her back, securing her. Her cheek brushed the smooth skin of his collarbone. Their legs were tangled together as well, her foot resting on his ankle.
She began to slowly detangle herself. Oh God. If Julian woke up it would be so awkward, and everything had been going so well. Their conversation on the train—finding the cottage—talking about Annabel—everything had been comfortable. She didn’t want to lose that, not now.
She edged sideways, slipping her fingers out of his—closer to the edge of the bed—and went over the side with an ungainly tumble. She landed with a thump and a scream that woke Julian, who peered over the side of the bed in confusion.
“Why are you on the floor?”
“I’ve heard rolling out of bed in the morning helps you build up resistance to surprise attacks,” Emma said, lying sprawled on the hardwood.
“Oh yeah?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What does screaming ‘holy crap!’ do?”
“That part’s optional,” she said. She got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. “So,” she said. “What’s for breakfast?”
He grinned his low-key grin and stretched. She didn’t look at where his shirt rode up. There was no reason to sail down Sexy Thoughts River to the Sea of Perversion when it wasn’t going to go anywhere. “You hungry?”
“When am I not hungry?” She went over to the table and rooted in her bag for her phone. Several texts from Cristina. Most were about how Cristina was FINE and Emma had NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT and she should STOP TEXTING BECAUSE MAGNUS WAS GOING TO FIX THE BINDING SPELL. Emma sent her a worry face and scrolled down.
“Any word on piskie-catching techniques?” Julian asked.
“Not yet.”
Julian didn’t say anything. Emma stripped down to her boy shorts and tank top. She saw Julian glance away from her, though it wasn’t anything he’d never seen before—her clothes covered more than a bikini. She grabbed up her towel and soap. “I’m going to shower.”
Maybe she was imagining his reaction. He just nodded and went over to the kitchen, firing up the stove. “No pancakes,” he said. “They don’t have the right stuff to make them.”
“Surprise me,” Emma said, and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, scrubbed clean, her hair tied into two damp braids that dripped onto her T-shirt, Julian had set the table with breakfast—toast, eggs, hot chocolate for her and coffee for him. She slid gratefully onto a chair.
“You smell like eucalyptus,” he said, handing her a fork.
“There’s eucalyptus shower gel in the bathroom.” Emma took a bite of eggs. “Malcolm’s, I guess.” She paused. “I’ve never really thought of serial killers as having shower gel.”
“No one likes a filthy warlock,” said Julian.
Emma winked. “Some might disagree.”
“No comment,” Julian said, spreading peanut butter and Nutella on his toast. “We got a reply to our question.” He held up her phone. “Instructions on how to catch piskies. From Mark, but probably really from Kieran. So first, breakfast, and afterward—piskie hunting.”
“I am so ready to hunt down those tiny adorable creatures and give them what for,” said Emma. “SO READY.”
“Emma . . .”
“I may even tie bows on their heads.”
“We have to interrogate them.”
“Can I get a selfie with one of them first?”
“Eat your toast, Emma.”
* * *
Everything sucked, Dru thought. She was lying under the desk in the parlor, arms crossed behind her head. A few feet above her she could see where a message, blurred over time and the years, had been scratched into the wood.