Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices #2)(118)
Kieran inhaled. "There is something wrong between us, is there not? Mark, please tell me what it is. I sense the distance but do not understand its cause."
"You don't remember, but we had an argument. About me staying with my family. It's why I gave you my elf-bolt necklace back."
Kieran looked bewildered. "But I always knew you might stay with your family. I did not want it, but I must have come to accept it. I remember waking in the Unseelie Court. I do not remember feeling any anger toward you."
"It wasn't a bad fight." Mark swallowed. "But I wasn't expecting this-you, in my world. All the complications of these politics."
"You don't want me here?" Kieran's face didn't change, but his hair was suddenly streaked with white where it curled against his temples.
"It's not that," Mark said. "In the Wild Hunt, I thought I might die any night. Every night. I wanted everything, always, and risked anything, because no one depended on me. And then there was you, and we depended on each other, but . . ." He thought of Cristina. Her words came to him, and he couldn't help using them, though it almost felt like a betrayal. Cristina, who he had kissed with joyous abandon for those few moments near the revel, before he had realized what she thought of him . . . someone she would only kiss when drunk or out of her mind . . .
"I have always needed you, Kieran," he said. "I have needed you to live. I've always needed you so much, I never had a chance to think about whether we were good for each other or not."
Kieran sat up. He was silent, though Mark saw-to his relief-that the white streaks in his hair had gone back to their more normal blue-black color. "That is honest," he said finally. "I cannot fault you there."
"Kieran-"
"How much time do you need?" Kieran had drawn himself up, and he was all proud prince of Faerie now. Mark thought of the times he'd seen Kieran at revels, at a distance; seen the smaller faeries scatter in front of him. Girls and boys who hung on his arms, hoping for a word or look, because the favor of even a disgraced prince was currency. And Kieran, granting neither those words nor those looks, because his words and looks were all for Mark. All for what they had between them when the Wild Hunt was looking away . . .
"Maybe a few days," Mark said. "If you can be patient for that long."
"I can be patient for a few days."
"Why did you choose Cristina?" Mark said abruptly. "When you had to swear fealty to one of us. Why her? Did you do it to unsettle me?"
Kieran grinned. "Not everything is, as they say, about you, Mark." He leaned back; his hair was very black against the stark white linens. "Shouldn't you be going?"
"Don't you want me to stay here?" Mark said. "With you?"
"While you weigh my merits as if I were a horse you were considering buying? No," Kieran said. "Go back to your own room, Mark Blackthorn. And if loneliness keeps you from your rest, do not seek me out. Surely there must be a rune for sleeplessness."
There wasn't, but Mark didn't feel like it would be a good idea to say so. Kieran's eyes were glittering dangerously. Mark left, wondering if he'd made a horrible mistake.
* * *
Cristina's room in the London Institute was much like the rooms she'd seen in pictures of other Institutes all over the world: plainly furnished with a heavy bed, wardrobe, dresser, and desk. A small bathroom, clean, with a shower that she'd already used. Now she lay on the lumpy mattress, the blankets pulled up to her chest, her arm aching.
She wasn't sure why. She'd loved every moment of flying with the Wild Hunt; if she'd injured herself somehow, she had no memory of it. Not when she'd mounted the horse, or when they'd ridden, and surely she'd recall pain like that? And how could she have hurt herself any other way?
She rolled to the side and reached to touch her witchlight, on the nightstand table. It flared to a soft glow, illuminating the room-the enormous English bed, the heavy oak furniture. Someone had scrawled the initials JB+LH into the paint by the window.
She stared down at her right arm. Around her wrist was a band of paler skin, slightly reddened at the edges, like the scar left by a fiery bracelet.
* * *
"You'll be all right?" Diana said. It was half declaration, half question.
Diana, Julian, and Emma stood in the entryway of the London Institute. The Institute doors were open and the dark courtyard was visible; it had rained earlier, and the flagstones were washed clean. Julian could see the arch of the famous metal gate that closed off the Institute, and the words worked into it: WE ARE DUST AND SHADOWS.