Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices #2)(170)

"I haven't-" Kit began, when the bell rang and the shop door opened. It was Ty, pulling his hood up against the gentle breeze.

"All done," he said. "Let's get back."

If he noticed any atmosphere of tension, he didn't say anything, and all the way home, they talked about unimportant things.

* * *

The piskies sat in an unhappy line on a row of stones at the edge of the cottage garden. After pulling them out of the pit, Emma and Jules had offered them food, but only one had accepted, and was currently facedown in a bowl of milk.

The tallest of the faerie creatures spoke in a piping voice. "Malcolm Fade? Where is Malcolm Fade?"

"Not here," said Julian.

"Gone to visit a sick relative," said Emma, gazing at the piskies in fascination.

"Warlocks don't have relatives," said the piskie.

"No one gets my references," Emma muttered.

"We're friends of Malcolm's," said Julian, after a moment. If Emma didn't know him, she would have believed him. His face was entirely guileless when he lied. "He asked us to look after the place while he was away."

The piskies whispered to each other in small, high voices. Emma strained her ears but couldn't understand them. They weren't speaking a gentry language of Faerie, but something much more simple and ancient-sounding. It had the murmur of water over rocks, the sharp acidity of green grass.

"Are you warlocks too?" said the tallest of the piskies, breaking away from the group. His eyes were marled with gray and silver, like Cornwall rock.

Julian shook his head and held his arm out, turning it so the Insight rune on his forearm was visible, stark against his skin. "We're Nephilim."

The piskies murmured among themselves again.

"We're looking for Annabel Blackthorn," said Julian. "We want to take her home where she'll be protected."

The piskies looked dubious.

"She said you knew where she was," said Julian. "You've been talking to her?" 

"We knew her and Malcolm years ago," said the piskie. "It is not often a mortal lives so long. We were curious."

"You might as well tell us," said Emma. "We'll let you go if you do."

"And if we don't?" said the smallest piskie.

"We won't let you go," said Julian.

"She's in Porthallow Church," said the smallest piskie, speaking up for the group. "It's been empty these many years. She knows it and feels safe there, and there are few tallfolk in the area on most days."

"Is Porthallow Church near here?" Julian demanded. "Is it close to the town?"

"Very close," said the tallest piskie. "Killing close." He raised his thin, pale hands, pointing. "But you cannot go today. It is Sunday, when the tallfolk come in groups to study the graveyard beside the church."

"Thank you," said Julian. "You've been very helpful, indeed."

* * *

Dru pushed the door of her bedroom open. "Jaime?" she whispered.

There was no answer. She crept inside, shutting the door after her. She was carrying a plate of scones that Bridget had made. When she'd asked for a whole plate of them, Bridget had giggled at something it seemed clear only she remembered, then sharply told Dru not to eat them all or she'd get fatter.

Dru had long ago learned not to eat much in front of people she didn't know, or seem as if she was hungry, or put too much food on her plate. She hated the way they looked at her if she did, as if to say, oh, that's why she's not thin.

But for Jaime, she'd been willing to do it. After he'd made himself at home in her room-flinging himself across her bed as if he'd been sleeping there for days, then bolting up and asking if he could use the shower-she'd asked if he was hungry and he'd lowered his eyelashes, smiling up at her. "I didn't want to impose, but . . ."

She'd hurried off to the kitchen and didn't want to return empty-handed. That was something a scared thirteen-year-old might do, but not a sixteen-year-old. Or however old he thought she was. She hadn't been specific.

"Jaime?"

He came out of the bathroom in jeans, pulling his T-shirt on. She caught a glimpse of a black tattoo-not a Mark, but words in Roman letters-snaking across flat brown skin before the T-shirt covered his stomach. She stared at him without speaking as he approached her and grabbed a scone. He winked at her. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said faintly.

He sat on the bed, scattering crumbs, black hair damp and curling with the humidity. She placed the scones carefully on the top of the dresser. By the time she turned back around, he was asleep, head pillowed on his arm.

She perched herself on the nightstand table for a moment, her arms around herself. She could see Diego in the colors and curves of Jaime's face. It was as if someone had taken Diego and sharpened him, made all his angles more acute. A tattoo of more script looped around one brown wrist and disappeared up Jaime's shirtsleeve; she wished she knew enough Spanish to translate it.