Lady Midnight (45 page)

“This place has ambiance?” said Emma.

“Emma, focus,” said Cristina. She turned to Sterling. “We’re not here to torture you. We’re here to help you. We keep telling you that.”

“Keep telling yourselves that,” he hissed, and yanked a clump of bills from his pocket. He tossed them onto the bar. “Bye, Jimmy,” he said to the bartender. “See you again never.”

He stalked to the door and stiff-armed it open. Emma and Cristina dashed after him.

Emma was only too pleased to be back outside. Sterling was already hurrying down the street, his head down. The sun had fully set, and the streetlights were on, filling the air with a yellow sodium glow. Cars rushed by on Pico.

Sterling was moving
fast.
Cristina called out to him, but he didn’t turn around, just hunched down inside his suit jacket and moved more quickly. Suddenly he veered to the left, between two buildings, and disappeared.

Emma cursed under her breath and broke into a run. Excitement prickled up her veins. She loved running, the way it blanked her mind, the way it made her forget everything but the breath rushing in and out of her lungs.

The mouth of an alley loomed up to her left. Not a garbage alley—this one was nearly as wide as a street and ran along the back of a long line of apartment buildings with cheap stucco balconies that faced out over the backstreet. A gray concrete drain ran down the center.

Partway down the alley Sterling’s gray Jeep was parked. He was leaning against the driver’s side door, trying to jerk it open. Emma sprang onto his back, yanking him away from the car. He spun around, stumbled, and hit the ground.

“Dammit!” he yelped, pulling himself up onto his knees. “I thought you said you were here to help me!”

“In a larger sense, yes,” said Emma. “Because it’s our job. But nobody calls me ‘blondie’ and keeps their kneecaps.”

“Emma,” Cristina said warningly.

“Get up,” Emma said, reaching out a hand to Sterling. “Come with us. But if you call me ‘blondie’ again, I’ll rip your knees off and turn them into tiny hubcaps, ’kay?”

“Stop yelling at him, Emma,” said Cristina. “Casper—Mr.
Sterling—we need to stay with you, all right? We know you’re in danger and we want to help you.”

“If you want to help me, you’ll get away from me,” Sterling shouted. “I need to be left
alone
!”

“So you can end up drowned and burned, covered in markings, with your fingerprints sanded off?” Emma said. “That’s what you want?”

Sterling gaped at her. “What?”

“Emma!” Emma realized Cristina was looking up. A shape was slipping along the roof—a man in dark clothes, a dangerous, familiar shadow. Emma’s heart thumped in her chest.

“Get
up
!” She grabbed Sterling’s hand, yanking him to his feet. He struggled, then sagged against her, his mouth open, as the dark shape on the roof leaped down, landing on a jutting balcony. Emma could see him more clearly now: a man in black, a dark hood pulled up to hide his face.

There was a crossbow in his right hand. He raised it. Emma gave Sterling a shove that almost knocked him off his feet.

“Run!”
she shouted.

Sterling didn’t move. He was gaping at the figure in black, a look of total disbelief on his face.

Something whizzed by Emma’s ear—a crossbow bolt. Senses heightened, she heard the loud
snick
as Cristina’s butterfly knife snapped open, and the whir as it flew through the air. She heard the man in black yell, and the crossbow fell from his hand. It crashed into the alley, and a moment later the man in black followed, landing with a harsh thud on Sterling’s back.

Sterling went sprawling. The man in black, crouched over him, raised his hand; something silvery flashed between his fingers. A knife. He brought it down—

And Cristina careened into him, knocking him sideways. He went sprawling, and Sterling staggered to his feet and ran for his
car. He half-fell into it, gasping. Emma raced after him, but the car was already gathering speed, hurtling down the alley.

She spun back around just as the man in black sprang up. Emma was on him in seconds, flinging him up against the stained wall of the apartment building.

He tried to pull away, but Emma had her fist knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. “You shot Julian,” she said. “I should kill you right here.”

“Emma.” Cristina was on her feet. Her gaze was fixed on the man in black. “Find out who he is first.”

Emma grabbed his hood with her free hand and yanked it down, revealing—

A boy. Not a man, she thought, jolted, definitely a boy—maybe a year older than her—with tangled dark hair. His jaw was set and his black eyes snapped with anger.

Cristina gasped.
“Dios mío, ¡no puedo creer que seas tú!”

“What?” Emma demanded, looking from the boy to Cristina and back again. “What’s going on?”

“Emma.” Cristina looked stunned, as if she’d had the breath knocked out of her. “This is Diego. Diego Rocio Rosales, meet Emma Carstairs.”

*   *   *

The air outside the Institute was strong and bracing, smelling of sage and salt. Julian could hear the low hum of cicadas filling the air, softening the noise of Diana slamming the truck door shut. She came around the side of the truck and paused when she saw Julian standing on the front steps.

“Jules,” she said. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you that,” he said. “Are you leaving? Again?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, but several curls escaped, caught by the escalating wind. She wore dark clothes, not gear but black jeans and gloves and boots. “I have to go.”

He took a step down. “How long will you be gone for?”

“I don’t know.”

“So we shouldn’t depend on you.” The heaviness in Julian’s chest felt like more than he could bear. He wanted to lash out, kick something. He wanted Emma, to talk to, to reassure him. But he couldn’t think about Emma.

“Believe it or not,” Diana said, “I’m doing my best for you.”

Julian looked down at his hands. His sea-glass bracelet glowed on his wrist. He remembered the gleam of it under the water the night before, as he swam down toward Emma. “What do you expect me to tell them?” he said. “If they ask me where you are.”

“Make something up,” Diana said. “You’re good at that.”

Anger surged up in him—if he was a liar, and a good one, it was because he had never had a choice.

“I know things about you,” Julian said. “I know you left for your travel year, went to Thailand, and didn’t come back until after your father died.”

Diana paused, one hand on the truck door. “Have you been
investigating
me, Julian?”

“I know things because I have to know them,” Julian said. “I need to be careful.”

Diana yanked the door open. “I came here,” she said, softly, “knowing it was a bad idea. Knowing that caring about you children was tying myself to a fate I couldn’t control. I did it because I saw how much you cared about each other, you and your brothers and sisters, and it meant something to me. Try to believe that, Julian.”

“I know you understand about brothers and sisters,” said Julian. “You
had
a brother. He died in Thailand. You never talk about him.”

She got into the truck, slammed the door shut after her, the window still open. “I don’t owe you answers, Julian,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“It’s all right,” he said. He suddenly felt enormously tired.
“They won’t ask where you are, anyway. They don’t really expect you to be around.”

He saw Diana cover her face with her hands. A moment later, the truck started up. Lights illuminated the front of the Institute, sweeping over the sandy grass as the truck rumbled down the hill.

Julian stood where he was for a long time. He wasn’t sure how long. Long enough for the sun to go down entirely, for the glow to fade from the hills. Long enough for him to turn to go back inside, straightening his shoulders, preparing himself.

That was when he heard the noise. He spun around and saw them: a vast crowd, coming up the road toward the Institute.

19

C
HILLING AND
K
ILLING

“Cristina,” Diego breathed, staring past
Emma.
“Pensé que eras tú, pero no estaba seguro. ¿Qué haces aquí? ¿Por qué estabas tratando de proteger a este hombre?”

“Diego?” Not understanding a word of what he’d said, Emma examined the boy again, noting the Marks that decorated his neck, disappearing down into the collar of his shirt. He was a Shadowhunter, all right. “
This
is Perfect Diego?”

“Emma,”
Cristina said, her cheeks flushing. “Let him go.”

“I’m not letting him go.” Emma glared at Perfect Diego, who glared right back, his black eyes flaring. “He shot Julian.”

“I didn’t know you were Nephilim,” Perfect Diego snapped. “You were wearing long sleeves and jackets. I couldn’t see your runes.” His English was perfect, perhaps unsurprisingly, considering his nickname.

“Weren’t they in gear?” Cristina demanded. She was still looking at Perfect Diego incredulously.

“Just the jackets.” Emma shoved Perfect Diego hard against the wall; he winced. “I guess they look like regular jackets from a distance. Not that that’s an excuse.”

“You were wearing jeans. I’d never seen you before. You were
going through the dead girl’s purse. Why wouldn’t I think you were one of the killers?”

Emma, not wanting to acknowledge that he had a point, shoved him harder against the wall. “Do you know who I am now?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Oh, indeed, Emma Carstairs.”

“So you know I could rip all your internal organs out at once, thread some string through them, and turn them into Christmas tree decorations without batting an eyelash?”

His eyes flashed. “You could try.”

“Stop it, both of you,” said Cristina. “We don’t have time for this. We have to find Sterling.”

“She’s right,” said Diego. “Now either let go of me or kill me, because we are wasting time. I know where Sterling will be. He has a meeting with a witch from the Shadow Market. We must get there soon—he is fast, as half wolves are.”

“Is the witch going to kill him?” Emma let go of Diego, who went to gather up his crossbow. Cristina’s butterfly knife had stuck point-down into the side of it. Diego snorted and pulled it free. He handed it to her. She took it silently.

Diego whirled around and began striding down the alley. “If that is a joke, it’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke,” said Cristina. “We have been trying to protect him.”

“What?”
Diego turned the corner into a blind alley, where a chain-link fence closed them off from the street beyond. He climbed it expertly, dropping lightly to the ground on the other side. Emma scrambled up after, and Cristina next. Diego appeared to be fiddling with his weapons belt, but Emma could tell he was watching Cristina out of the corner of his eye, making sure she landed safely. “Why would you protect a murderer?”

“He’s not a murderer,” Cristina said. “He is a victim. And he’s very unpleasant, but this is our job.”

They had turned onto a dead-end street lined with houses. Crabgrass and cactus grew on overgrown lawns. Diego moved with purpose toward the end of the street.

“Didn’t you understand?” Diego shook his head, his dark hair flying. “Why everyone must stay away from him? I can’t believe this. I can’t believe—everything you’ve done—you saw him get the number? At the Lottery? You saw him chosen?”

“Yes,” said Emma, a cold feeling beginning to spread through her veins. “Yes, that’s how we knew we needed to protect him—”

A sudden, blinding flare of light shot like fireworks from the far end of the street. A swirl of green-and-blue fire, edged with red. Cristina’s eyes were wide, the flaring sparks touching her hair with scarlet.

Diego swore and took off running. After a split second, Emma and Cristina followed.

Emma had never met a Shadowhunter she couldn’t keep up with, but Diego was fast.
Really
fast. She was breathing hard by the time they skidded to a stop at the end of the street.

The cul-de-sac ended in a row of abandoned houses. Sterling’s car had slammed into a dead streetlamp, the hood crumpled, the driver’s side door hanging open. One of the air bags had exploded, but Sterling was unharmed.

He was in the middle of the road, struggling with someone—the girl with green hair Emma had seen earlier, on the street in front of the bar. She was pulling to get away from him; he had a hand fisted in the back of her coat, and the look on his face was half-maniacal.

“Let her go!” Diego shouted. The three of them began to run, Emma reaching for Cortana. Sterling, seeing them, began to drag the girl around to the other side of his car. Emma, hurtling toward the Jeep, leaped onto the hood, scrambled over the roof, and dropped down on the other side.

To be met with a sheet of blue-green fire. Sterling was standing
behind it, still clasping the green-haired girl. Her eyes met Emma’s. She had a slight, elfin face—a recollection of seeing her at the Midnight Theater touched the edge of Emma’s memory.

Emma leaped forward. The blue-green fire blasted upward, knocking her back several steps. Sterling raised his hand. Something glittered in his grasp—a knife.

“Stop him!” Diego shouted. He and Cristina had appeared on the other side of the wall of blue fire. Emma pushed forward—though it was like walking against a typhoon—just as Sterling brought the knife down, plunging it into the girl’s chest.

Cristina screamed.

No
, Emma thought, shocked through with horror.
No, no, no.
It was a Shadowhunter’s job to save people, to protect them. Sterling couldn’t harm the girl, he couldn’t—

For a moment she saw a darkness within the fire—caught a glimpse of the inside of the convergence cave, carved all over with poetry and symbols—and then hands reached from the darkness and snatched the girl from Sterling’s grip. Emma glimpsed them only briefly, amid the flame and confusion, but they seemed to be long white hands—oddly crooked, as if they had been stripped to bones—

Choking on blood, limp and dying, the girl was dragged into the darkness. Sterling turned and grinned at Emma. His shirt was marked with bloody handprints, and the blade of his knife was scarlet.

“You’re too late!” he shouted. “Too late, Nephilim! She was the thirteenth—the last!”

Diego cursed and threw himself forward, but the wall of fire flared up, and he staggered back, knocked to his knees. Gritting his teeth, he rose again to his feet and advanced.

Sterling had stopped grinning. Fear flashed in his sallow eyes. He flung out an arm, and the skeletal hand reached from the fire to clasp his and drag him after the girl.

“No!” Emma sprang and rolled under the wave of fire, as if she
were ducking under a wave at the beach. She caught at Sterling’s leg, digging her hands into his calf.

“Let me go!” he yelled. “Let me go, let me go.
Guardian, take me, take me away from here
—”

The skeletal hand pulled at Sterling’s. Emma felt herself losing her grip. She looked up, her eyes stinging and burning, just in time to see Cristina fling her butterfly knife. It struck the clawlike hand; the bones cracked and the hand withdrew hastily, releasing Sterling, who fell heavily to the ground.

“No!” Sterling rose to his knees, his arms held out, as the fire faded and disappeared. “Please! Take me with you—”

The three Shadowhunters descended on him, Diego grabbing hold of Sterling unceremoniously and hauling him to his feet. Sterling laughed painfully. “You couldn’t stop me,” he said. “You stupid girls, following me around,
protecting
me—”

Diego shoved him, hard, but Emma was shaking her head. “When you were picked in the Lottery,” she said to Sterling through a dry throat, asking the question though she already knew the answer, “you weren’t being picked to be killed. You were being picked to
do the killing
?”

“Oh, Raziel,” Cristina whispered. Her hand was at her throat, clutching her pendant; she looked at a loss.

Sterling spat on the ground. “That’s right,” he said. “You get your number picked, you kill or be killed. Just like you, Wren didn’t know how it worked. She agreed to meet me here. Stupid bitch.” His eyes were half-wild. “I killed her, and the Guardian took her, and now I’ll live forever. As soon as the Guardian finds me again. I’ll get riches, immortality, anything I want.”

“You killed for that?” Cristina demanded. “You made yourself a murderer?”

“I was a murderer from the second they picked my name in the Lottery,” said Sterling. “I had no choice.”

The sound of police sirens started up in the distance.

“We need to get out of here,” said Cristina, glancing toward Sterling’s wrecked car, the blood on the street. Emma raised Cortana, and was rewarded with a look of quivering fear on Sterling’s face.

“No,” he whimpered. “Don’t—”

“We can’t kill him,” Diego protested. “We need him. I’ve never caught one of them alive before. We must question him.”

“Relax, Perfect Diego,” Emma said, and slammed the handle of Cortana into Sterling’s temple. He dropped like a rock, out cold.

*   *   *

Carrying Sterling back to the car was awkward, since he wasn’t glamoured; they slung one of his arms over Diego’s shoulder, and he did his best to look as if he was helping a drunk friend home. Once they reached the Toyota, they tied Sterling’s wrists and ankles with electrum wire before bundling him into the back of the car, his head lolling, his body limp.

They’d discussed whether to race straight to the convergence, but decided to head to the Institute first to pick up more weapons and consult with the others. Emma especially was eager to talk to Julian—she’d called several times, but he hadn’t picked up. She told herself he was probably busy with the kids, but faint worry rankled at the back of her mind as she slid into the driver’s seat, Cristina beside her. Perfect Diego clambered in beside Sterling, his dagger out, pressed to Sterling’s throat.

Emma took off with a vicious screech of tires. She was filled with rage, at least half of it directed at herself. How could she not have figured out that Sterling wasn’t a victim, but a killer? How could they all not have known?

“It’s not your fault,” Perfect Diego said from the back of the car, as if he’d read her mind. “It made sense to assume that the Lottery was choosing victims, not killers.”

“And Johnny Rook lied to us,” Emma snarled. “Or at least—he
let
us believe it. That we were protecting someone.”

“We were protecting a killer,” said Cristina. She looked miserable, her hand clamped around her pendant.

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Perfect Diego, being perfect. “You’ve been investigating with no information. No help from the Silent Brothers or—anyone else.”

Cristina looked over her shoulder at him and glared. “How do you know all this?”

“What makes you think we’ve been investigating?” Emma demanded. “Just because you saw me and Julian at Wells’s place?”

“That was my first clue,” Perfect Diego said. “After that I asked around. Talked to a guy at the Shadow Market—”

“Johnny Rook again,” Emma said in disgust. “Is there anyone that guy won’t blab to?”

“He told me everything,” Perfect Diego said. “That you were looking into the murders without the Clave knowing. That it was a secret. I was scared for you, Cristina.”

Cristina snorted without turning around.

“Tina,” Perfect Diego said, and his voice was filled with longing. “Tina, please.”

Emma looked awkwardly out the windshield. They were almost in view of the ocean. She tried to concentrate on that and not the tension between the two other conscious occupants of the car.

Cristina clenched her medallion tighter, but said nothing.

“Rook said you were investigating because you believed the murders were tied to your parents’ death,” Perfect Diego said to Emma. “For what it is worth, I am sorry for your loss.”

“That was a long time ago.” Emma could see Perfect Diego in the rearview mirror. He had a delicate chain of runes that circled his neck, like a torque. His hair curled, not Julian’s waves but ringlets that fell over the tops of his ears.

He
was
hot. And he seemed nice. And he had some serious badass moves. He really was Perfect Diego, she thought wryly. No wonder Cristina had been so hurt.

“What are
you
doing here?” Cristina demanded. “Emma has a reason to be investigating the murders, but you?”

“You know I was at the Scholomance,” Perfect Diego said. “And you know Centurions are often sent to investigate matters that don’t fall strictly under Shadowhunter mandate—”

There was a hoarse yell. Sterling had jerked awake and was flailing in the backseat. Perfect Diego’s knife flashed in the darkness. Cars honked as Emma jerked the wheel to the right and they careened onto Ocean Avenue.

“Let me go!” Sterling jerked and flailed against the wire wrapping his wrists. “Let me go!”

He yelped in pain as Perfect Diego flung him hard against the backseat of the car, pressing the knife against his jugular. “Get off me,” Sterling yelled. “Goddammit, get off me—”

Sterling shrieked as Perfect Diego dug his knee into his thigh. “Settle,” Diego said in a flat, deadly voice, “down.”

They were still hurtling down Ocean. Palm trees fringed either side of the street like eyelashes. Emma cut wildly in front of the left-hand turn lane and shot down the ramp to the coast highway amid a furious chorus of blaring horns.

“Jesus Christ!” Sterling shouted. “Where’d you learn to drive?”

“Nobody asked you for commentary!” Emma yelled back as they hurtled into the moving traffic. Luckily it was late and the lanes were mostly empty.

“I don’t want to die on the Pacific Coast Highway!” Sterling wailed.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Emma’s voice dripped acid. “Is there a
different
highway you’d like to die on? BECAUSE WE CAN ARRANGE THAT.”

“Bitch,” Sterling hissed.

Cristina whirled around in her seat. There was a cracking sound like a gunshot; a second later, as they hurtled past a group of surfers walking along the highway’s edge, Emma realized she’d slapped Sterling across the face.