Page 52 of Better in Black
“Why?” Cristina demanded, and Mark saw that she’d tensed up too. Her beautiful dark eyes were worried.
“He requires your presence at the Court,” said Bink. “Only youcan assist him in this grave time. You must hurry to the Tower with no delay.”
Mark looked at Cristina again. He could see the liquid sloshing in her coffee mug as her hand shook. Mark wanted to grab Bink and demand he swear the message was really from Kieran, but Bink was a faerie. He couldn’t lie.
“Well, we can’t leave immediately,” said Mark. “We’re in our pajamas.” (This was not Mark’s primary concern, but he was only half faerie. Hecouldlie.)
“I thought that was ceremonial garb,” said Bink, sounding disappointed.
“We will need a carriage to take us to Court,” Cristina said, setting her coffee cup down. “Can one be here in an hour?”
Bink bowed to her, so low that his felt hat tumbled off. “It shall be done, Lady of Roses.”
—
The bedroom Mark, Cristina, and Kieran shared was at the top of the cottage. It was a snug room, with a comfortable, big bed, and squashy armchairs draped with soft blankets. There was a picture window under the eaves, and a long window seat where Cristina liked to sit and look out over the front gardens, with their rose-bedecked trellises and beds of hollyhocks and cottage pinks. A little gravel path wound through the gardens toward a grassy meadow where the trio often liked to picnic.
The decoration in the room was mostly photographs of Cristina’s and Mark’s families: Jaime and Diego, Emma and Julian, Helen and Aline with Tavvy, Dru with blue streaks in her hair, Ty looking down at a sleeping mouse cupped in his hands. They were both homesick when they were in Faerie, but when they were inthe mortal world, they longed for Kieran and for the cottage. It was a strange, divided life.
Under the leadership of Kieran’s father, the Unseelie Court had no fixed location, moving from place to place at the whim of the King. Kieran had given the Court a permanent home, anchoring the Unseelie Tower where had it stood when he had killed his father.
“Remember not to pack anything iron,” Mark said. He had a duffel bag open on the bed and was throwing things into it. Cristina didn’t need the reminder about iron, but she could tell from the way Mark moved that he was just as anxious as she was.
“I’ve really no idea what Ishouldpack,” she said. “I didn’t bring anything terribly elegant or…Unseelie. I never thought we’d be invited to the Court.”
“Any clothes in silk or velvet should work.” Mark tossed something white into his duffel. “Faeries like natural fibers. Wool, linen.” He looked mildly hopeful. “Leather?”
Cristina rolled her eyes at him. “You have to admit it’s strange, Mark. Kieran always said that he would never bring us to the Court. Aren’t you worried?”
“That it’s a trap?” Mark looked up from his packing. “Yes. Bink says the message is from Kieran, so we must assume that to be true. But the Unseelie Court roils with all sorts of plots and plans. If what lies before Kieran is a question of inheritance, then we can expect to be dealing with three bloodthirsty heirs willing to tear each other apart for this knighthood.”
“Which is exactly what Kieran always wanted to keep from us,” Cristina said. She bit her lip. “Perhaps he is in need somehow of the expertise of Shadowhunters? Though I cannot imagine why. Surely he does not need us to translate something out of Purgatic for him, or…”
Mark smiled. “Perhaps he just misses your beautiful face.”
“Perhaps he just missesyourbeautiful face,” Cristina teased. Not that she didn’t think Mark had a beautiful face. She thought everything about him was beautiful, including the graceful way he moved. She watched him with a quiet pleasure as he came around from the side of the bed, and drew her toward him.
She tipped her head up to look at him. She always felt the same thing when she was close to Mark like this, a heat that muddled up her insides, a mixture of excitement and yearning. She felt just as strongly when she was close to Kieran. When she was with both of them, it was something even more intense altogether.
“Lady of Roses,” Mark said softly, and kissed her. When he drew away, his eyes were serious. “Regardless of whether it is a trap, we must go to Court. We both know that. Because if itisa trap, it was set by someone who does not wish Kieran well. And as much as he has always wanted to protect us, perhaps it is our turn to protect him.”
—
Outside the black, needle-sharp tower of the Unseelie Court, a massive storm was raging. It had been pouring since just after noon, and in the Great Hall of Ceremonies, grunting ogres stood in front of each stained-glass window to prevent the howling winds from shattering the panes and ruining the banquet that had just begun.
Kieran hadn’t particularly wanted to throw a banquet, but his seneschal, General Winter, had told him that it was traditional when choosing who would inherit the honor of a fey Knighthood. And in Faerie, tradition was law. So, sunk into an ornate ebony chair, Kieran looked wearily at the scene before him and thought:How long is this going to take?
He had spared no expense on the banquet. Long tables, at whichmembers of his Court were already seated, were laid out with silver plates and goblets, and decorated with flowers and fruits made of gold and gemstones. It all seemed wearisome to Kieran: The sight of his courtiers dressed in their finest gave him no joy, and his ebony chair, though imposing and huge, was uncomfortable. Kieran would much rather have been back at the cottage with Mark and Cristina, where there was warmth and laughter, and the flowers were not made of cold jewels. But he was the King of the Unseelie Court, and he must play his part. A new Knight of Storms must be chosen, and the Seelie Queen had left the choice entirely to him.
It would not be an easy choice, either. If only the previous Knight of Storms, Sir Tarlegan, had named an heir, but it seemed he’d thought he would never die. Now each of the three heirs had a legitimate claim to the knighthood. They would have to present their cases to Kieran, and Kieran would have to choose which one he liked best. Unfortunately, he’d met them all before, and he was pretty sure he liked none of them. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, their personalities had improved?
As if attuned to Kieran’s thoughts, General Winter leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “The heirs are ready to be presented, sire.”
Kieran waved a languid hand. “Bring them in.”
General Winter gave the signal, and across the long hall, the chamberlain, Catchweed—a massive ogre dressed in a red velvet doublet to which various medals had been pinned—announced in a booming voice, “The time of the presentation of the heirs has begun! First, I give to you Master Geraint, eldest son of Sir Tarlegan, the fallen Knight of All Storms!”
Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing chain mail beneath a dark, blue-dyed wool tabard, blond Geraint strode through the banquethall toward the King’s table on the dais. Quite a few heads turned to follow his progress.
