* * *

Faerie knights in green and gold and red came to fetch Emma and bring her to the throne room. She was a little bewildered at Julian’s absence, though reassured when she met Mark and Cristina in the hall, similarly escorted, and Mark told her in a low voice that he’d heard one of the guards say that Julian was already waiting for them in the throne room.

Emma cursed her own exhaustion. How could she not have noticed him leave? She’d forced herself to sleep, unable to bear another second of being so physically close to Jules without being able to even hug him. And he’d been so calm, so totally calm; he’d looked at her with distant friendliness—kindness, even, when he reassured her their friendship was intact—and it hurt like hell and all she wanted was for exhaustion to wipe it all away.

She reached to touch Cortana, strapped across her back. She carried the rest of her and Julian’s things in her pack. She felt silly wearing a weapon over a filmy dress, but she hadn’t been about to change in front of the Queen’s Guard. They’d offered to carry the sword for her, but she’d refused. No one touched Cortana but her.

Cristina was nearly twitching with excitement. “The throne room of the Seelie Queen,” she whispered. “I have read about it but never thought to actually see it. The look of it is meant to change with the moods of the Queen, as she changes.”

Emma remembered Clary telling her stories of the Court, of a room of ice and snow where the Queen wore gold and silver, of a curtain of fluttering butterflies. But it was not quite like that when they arrived. Just as Mark had said, Julian was already in the throne room. It was a bare oval place, filled with grayish smoke. Smoke drifted across the floor and crackled along the ceiling, where it was forked with small darts of black lightning. There were no windows, but the gray smoke formed patterns against the walls—a field of dead flowers, a crashing wave, the skeleton of a winged creature.

Julian was sitting on the steps that led up to the great stone block where the Queen’s throne stood. He wore a piecemeal mix of gear and ordinary clothes, and over his shirt was thrown a jacket he could only have found here in Faerie. It shimmered with bright thread and bits of brocade, the sleeves turned back to expose his forearms. His sea-glass bracelet glittered on his wrist.

He looked up when they came in. Even against the colorless background, his blue-green eyes shone.

“Before you say anything, I have something to tell you,” he said. Only half of Emma’s mind was on his words as he began to speak; the other was on how strangely at ease he seemed.

He looked calm, and when Julian was calm was always when he was at his most frightening. But he spoke on, and she began to realize what he was saying. Waves of shock went through her. Malcolm: dead, alive, and dead again? Arthur, murdered? Annabel risen from the grave? The Black Volume gone?

“But Malcolm was dead,” she said, numbly. “I killed him. I saw his body float away. He was dead.”

“The Queen cautioned me against thinking death was final,” said Julian. “Especially in the case of warlocks.”

“But Annabel is alive,” said Mark. “What does she want? Why did she take the Black Volume?”

“All good questions, Miach,” said a voice from across the room. They all turned in surprise, save Julian.

She came out of the gray shadows wrapped in more gray: a long gray gown made of moth wings and ashes, dipped low in front so that it was easy to see the jutting bones of her clavicle. Her face was pinched, triangular, dominated by burning blue eyes. Her red hair was bound back tightly in a silver net. The Queen. There was a glitter in her eye: malice or madness, it would be hard to be sure.

“Who’s Miach?” Emma asked.

The Queen indicated Mark with the sweep of her hand. “Him,” she said. “The nephew of my handmaiden Nene.”

Mark looked stunned.

“Nene called Helen ‘Alessa,’ ” said Emma. “So—Alessa and Miach are their fey names?”

“Not their full names, which would give power. No. But much more harmonious than Mark and Helen, don’t you agree?” The Queen moved toward Mark, one hand holding up her skirt. She reached to touch his face.

He didn’t move. He seemed frozen. Fear of the faerie gentry, and the monarchs in particular, had been bred into him for years. It was Julian’s eyes that narrowed as the Queen put a hand against Mark’s cheek, her fingers stroking down his skin.

“Beautiful boy,” she said. “You were wasted on the Wild Hunt. You could have served here in my Court.”

“They kidnapped me,” Mark said. “You didn’t.”

Even the Queen seemed a bit nonplussed. “Miach—”

“My name is Mark.” He said it without any hostility or resistance. It was a simple fact. Emma saw the spark in Julian’s eyes: pride in his brother, as the Queen dropped her hand. She walked back toward her throne, and Julian rose and came down the steps, joining the others below her as she took her seat.

The Queen smiled down at them, and the shadows moved around her as if commanded: curling into wisps and shapes like flowers. “So now Julian has told you all there is to know,” she said. “Now we can bargain.”

Emma didn’t like the way the Queen said Jules’s name: the possessive, almost languid Julian. She also wondered where the Queen had been while Julian had told them what happened. Not out of earshot, of that she was sure. Somewhere close, where she could overhear him, could gauge their reactions.

“You have brought us all here, my lady, though we do not know why,” said Julian. It was clear from his expression that he didn’t know what the Queen planned to ask of them. But it was also clear that he had not made up his mind to refuse her. “What do you want from us?”

“I want you to find Annabel Blackthorn for me,” she said, “and retrieve the Black Volume.”

They all looked at each other; whatever they had expected, that had not been it.

“You just want the Black Volume?” said Emma. “Not Annabel?”

“Just the book,” said the Queen. “Annabel does not matter, save that she has the book. Having been brought back so long after her death, she is likely quite mad.”

“Well, that does make looking for her so much more fun,” said Julian. “Why can’t you send your Court to search the mundane world for her yourself?”

“The Cold Peace makes that difficult,” the Queen said dryly. “I or my folk will be seized on sight. You, on the other hand, are the darlings of the Council.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘darlings,’ ” Emma said. “That might be overstating things.”

“So tell us, what does the Queen of Faerie want with the Black Volume of the Dead?” said Mark. “It is a warlock’s toy.”

“Yet dangerous in the wrong hands, even when those hands are faerie hands,” said the Queen. “The Unseelie King grows in power since the Cold Peace. He has blighted the Lands of Unseelie with evil and filled the rivers with blood. You have seen yourself that no works of the Angel can survive in his land.”

“True,” said Emma. “But what do you care if he’s made the Unseelie Lands off-limits to Shadowhunters?”

The Queen looked at her with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I do not,” she said. “But the King has taken one of my people. A member of my Court, very dear to me. He holds that person captive in his land. I want them back.”