Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices #2)(113)

"I don't want to do either of those things," said Diana after a moment.

Gwyn looked crestfallen.

"But I will go out with you," she said, blushing. "Preferably to a nice restaurant. Bring flowers, and not the helmet."

The Blackthorns burst into giggling applause. Kit leaned against the wall with Kieran, who was shaking his head in bemusement. "And thus was the proud leader of the Hunt felled by love," he said. "I hope there will be a ballad about it someday."

Kit watched Gwyn, who was ignoring the applause as he readied his horses to leave.

"You don't look like the other Blackthorns," said Kieran after a moment. "Your eyes are blue, but not like the ocean's blue. More of an ordinary sky."

Kit felt obscurely insulted. "I'm not a Blackthorn," he said. "I'm a Herondale. Christopher Herondale."

He waited. The name Herondale seemed to produce an explosive reaction in most denizens of the supernatural world. The boy with the ocean hair, though, didn't bat an eye. "Then what are you doing here, if you are not family?" he asked.

Kit shrugged. "I don't know. I don't belong, that's for sure."

Kieran smiled a sideways faerie smile. "That makes two of us."

* * *

They eventually gathered in the parlor, the warmest room in the house. Evelyn was already there, muttering by the fire burning in the grate; even though it was late summer, London had a damp, chill edge to it. Bridget brought sandwiches-tuna and sweet corn, chicken and bacon-and the newcomers tucked into them as if they were wildly starving. Julian had to eat awkwardly with his left hand, balancing Tavvy on his lap with the other.

The parlor had aged better than a lot of the other rooms in the Institute. It had cheerful flowered wallpaper, only slightly discolored, and gorgeous antique furniture someone had clearly picked out with care-a lovely rolltop desk, a delicate escritoire, plush velvet armchairs and sofas grouped around the fireplace. Even the fire screen was made of delicate wrought iron, patterned with wing-spread herons, and when the fire shone through it, the shadow of the birds was cast against the wall as if they were flying by.

Kieran alone didn't seem thrilled with the sandwiches. He poked at them suspiciously and then pulled them apart, eating only the tomatoes, while Julian explained what had happened in Faerie: their journey to the Unseelie Court, the meeting with the Queen, the blight on the Unseelie Land. "There were burned places, white as ash, like the surface of the moon," Mark said, eyes dark with distress. Kit tried his best to hang on to the story, but it was like trying to ride a roller coaster with faulty brakes-phrases like "scrying glass," "Unseelie champion," and "Black Volume of the Dead" kept hurling him off track. 

"How much time passed for them?" he whispered finally to Ty, who was wedged in beside him and Livvy on a love seat too small for the three of them.

"It sounds like a few less days than passed for us," said Ty. "Some time slippage, but not much. Cristina's necklace seems to have worked."

Kit whistled under his breath. "And who's Annabel?"

"She was a Blackthorn," said Ty. "She died, but Malcolm brought her back."

"From the dead?" said Kit. "That's-that's necromancy."

"Malcolm was a necromancer," pointed out Ty.

"Shut up." Livvy elbowed Kit, who was lost in thought. Necromancy wasn't just a forbidden art at the Shadow Market, it was a forbidden topic. The punishment for raising the dead was death. If the Shadowhunters didn't catch you, other Downworlders would, and the way you died would not be pretty.

Bringing back the dead, Johnny Rook had always said, warped the fabric of life, the same way making humans immortal did. Invite in death, and death would stay. Could anyone bring back the dead and have it work? Kit had asked him once. Even the most powerful magician?

God, Johnny had said, after a long, long pause. God could do that. And those who raise the dead may think they are God, but soon enough they will find out the lie they have believed.

"The head of the Los Angeles Institute is dead?" Evelyn exclaimed, dropping the remains of her sandwich on a likely very expensive antique table.

Kit didn't really blame her for her surprise. The Blackthorns didn't act like a family in grief over the death of a beloved uncle. Rather they seemed stunned and puzzled. But then, they had behaved around Arthur almost as if they were strangers.

"Is that why he wanted to stay behind in Los Angeles?" Livvy demanded, her cheeks flushed. "So he could sacrifice himself-for us?"

"By the Angel." Diana had her hand against her chest. "He hadn't replied to any of my messages, but that wasn't unusual. Still, for Zara not to notice-"