Lady Midnight (44 page)

*   *   *

“Sorry,” Emma said, as the car righted itself. They’d been driving around for several hours as Sterling hurtled all over the city, and her hands were starting to ache from gripping the wheel.

Cristina sighed. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Emma shifted. She was wearing her gear jacket, and it was hot in the car. She felt as if all her skin was itching. “I’m really, really sorry, Tina,” she said. “I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have asked you to cover up for me when I went to the convergence. It wasn’t fair.”

Cristina was silent for a moment. “I would have done it,” she said. “If you’d told me what it was about.”

Emma’s throat felt tight. “I’m not used to trusting people. But I should have trusted you. When you leave, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m going to miss you so much.”

Cristina smiled at her. “Come to the D.F.,” she said. “See how we do things there. You can take your travel year in my city.” She paused. “I forgive you, by the way.”

A small weight lifted from Emma’s chest. “I’d love to go to Mexico,” she said. “And Julian would—”

She broke off. Of course most people with
parabatai
accompanied them on their travel year. But the thought of Julian hurt, a sharp quick pain like a needle stick.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” Cristina asked.

“No,” Emma said.

“Fine. Then turn left onto Entrada,” Cristina said.

“It’s like having supernatural GPS,” Emma observed. She could see Cristina scowling at the map across her knees in the passenger seat.

“We head toward Santa Monica,” Cristina said, tracing a finger along the map. “Go down Seventh.”

“Sterling’s an idiot,” Emma said. “He knows someone’s trying to kill him. He shouldn’t be wandering around the city.”

“He probably thinks his own house isn’t that safe,” Cristina pointed out reasonably. “I mean, I ambushed him there.”

“Right,” Emma said. She couldn’t stop worrying a rip in the knee of her gear. The memory of Julian on the beach, the things he
had said to her, pressed against the backs of her eyes. She let the thoughts pass through her. When it came time, she’d have to let them all go and concentrate on the fight.

“And, of course, there are the enormous bunny rabbits,” Cristina said.

“What?” Emma snapped back to the present.

“I’ve been talking at you for the last three minutes! Where is your mind, Emma?”

“I slept with Julian,” Emma said.

Cristina shrieked. Then she clapped her hands over her mouth and stared at Emma as if Emma had just announced there was a grenade strapped to the roof of the car and about to explode.

“Did you hear what I said?” Emma asked.

“Yes,” Cristina said, taking her hands away from her mouth. “You slept with Julian Blackthorn.”

Emma’s breath whooshed out of her in a rush. There was something about hearing it said back to her that made her feel as if she’d been gut punched.

“I thought you weren’t going to tell me what was wrong!” Cristina said.

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?” They were whipping around corners lined with palm trees, stucco houses set back from the streets. Emma knew she was driving too fast; she didn’t care.

“I mean—I was in the ocean, and he pulled me out, and things got out of hand—”

“No,” Cristina said. “Not why did you do it. Why did you change your mind about telling me?”

“Because I’m a horrible liar,” Emma said. “You would have guessed.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Cristina took a deep breath. “I suppose I should ask the real question. Do you love him?”

Emma didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes on the broken yellow line in the middle of the road. The sun was a fiery orange ball lowering in the west.

Cristina exhaled slowly. “You do love him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s all over your face,” Cristina said. “I know what that looks like.” She sounded sad.

“Don’t pity me, Tina,” Emma said. “Please don’t.”

“I’m just frightened for you. The Law is very clear, and the punishments are so severe.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Emma, her voice tinged with bitterness. “He doesn’t love me. And being unrequitedly in love with your
parabatai
isn’t illegal, so don’t worry.”

“He what?” Cristina said, sounding shocked.

“He doesn’t love me,” said Emma. “He was very clear about that.”

Cristina opened her mouth, and then closed it again.

“I guess it’s flattering that you’re surprised,” Emma said.

“I don’t know what to say.” Cristina put her hand over her heart. “There are the things you would normally say in this situation. If it was anyone else but Julian I’d be telling you how lucky he was to have someone as brave and smart as you are in love with him. I would be scheming with you about how we could make such a silly boy realize such an obvious thing. But it is Julian, and it is illegal, and you
must
not do anything more, Emma. Promise me.”

“He doesn’t want me that way,” Emma said. “So it doesn’t matter. I just—” She broke off. She didn’t know what else to say or how to say it. There was never going to be another Julian for her.

Don’t think that way. Just because you can’t imagine loving anyone else doesn’t mean that you won’t.
But the soft inner voice of her father didn’t reassure her this time.

“I just don’t know why it’s illegal,” she finished, though that had not been what she had meant to say. “It doesn’t make any sense.
Julian and I have done everything together, for years, we’ve lived and nearly died for each other, how could there be anyone else better for me than him? Anyone else better—” She broke off again.

“Emma, please don’t think like this. It doesn’t matter why it’s illegal. It just matters that it is. The Law is hard, but it is the Law.”

“A bad law is no law,” Emma countered, swinging a hard right onto Pico Boulevard. Pico ran almost the full length of metropolitan Los Angeles—it was swanky, gritty, dangerous, abandoned, and industrial by turns. Here between the freeway and the ocean it was full of small businesses and restaurants.

“That motto has not served the Blackthorns well,” Cristina murmured, and Emma was about to ask her what she meant when Cristina sat up straight. “Here,” she said, pointing. “Sterling’s here. I just saw him go into that building.”

On the south side of the road was a low, sloping brown-painted building, windowless, with a single door and a sign proclaiming
NO ONE UNDER
21
ALLOWED
.

“Looks friendly,” Emma muttered, and pulled over to park.

They got out of the car and went to collect their weapons. They already bore glamour runes, and the few pedestrians passing by—hardly anyone walked in L.A., and while there were plenty of cars around, there were very few people—looked through them as if they weren’t there. A girl with bright green hair glanced at Emma as she passed by, but didn’t stop.

“You’re right,” Emma said as they buckled on their seraph blades. Each blade had a small hook that allowed it to be affixed to a weapons belt and removed with a quick downward jerk of the hand. “About Julian. I know you are.”

Cristina gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “And you will do the right thing. I know you will.”

Emma was already scanning the building, looking for entrances. There were no windows that she could see, but a narrow alley
snaked around the back of the bar, partially blocked by an overgrown patch of needle grass. She gestured toward it, and she and Cristina slipped silently through the low, dusty vegetation that grew—barely—in the polluted air.

The sun was setting, and it was dark in the alley behind the bar. A row of chained-together trash cans were propped under a barred and boarded-up window.

“I can get the bars off, if I climb up there,” Emma whispered, indicating the trash cans.

“Okay, wait.” Cristina pulled out her stele. “Runes.”

Cristina’s runes were careful, precise, and beautiful. Emma could feel the power of a strength rune jolt through her like a kick of caffeine. It wasn’t like having Julian put runes on her—that felt as if his strength were flowing into her, doubling her own.

Cristina turned around, shrugging her jacket down, presenting the line of her bare shoulder to Emma. She handed the stele to Emma, who began to draw—two overlapping Soundless runes, Sure-Strike, Flexibility.

“Please don’t think I’m angry,” Cristina said, facing the opposite wall. “I worry for you, is all. You are so strong, Emma. You are strong down to your bones. People live through heartbreak, and you are strong enough to live through it many times. But Julian is not someone who can just touch your heart. He can touch your soul. And there is a difference between having your heart break and having your soul shatter.”

The stele faltered in Emma’s hand. “I thought the Angel had a plan.”

“He does. But please don’t love him, Emma.” Cristina’s voice broke. “Please.”

There was a catch in Emma’s throat when she spoke. “Who broke your heart?”

Cristina turned around, shrugging her jacket back on. Her brown
eyes were serious. “You told me a secret, so I will tell you a secret. I was in love with Diego, and I thought he was in love with me. But it was all a lie. I thought his brother was my best friend, but that was a lie too. That is why I ran away. Why I came here.” She looked away. “I lost them both. My best friend and my best love, on the same day. It was hard for me to believe that Raziel had a plan then.”

My best friend and my best love.

Cristina took the stele and slid it back into her belt.

“I’m not the one who’s strong, Tina. That’s you.”

Cristina gave her a quick smile and held out her hand. “Go.”

Grabbing Cristina’s hand, Emma pushed off to propel herself upward. Her boots hit the top of the trash cans, making the chain rattle. She grabbed the bars of the window and pulled, liking the bite of the metal into her palms.

The bars pulled free of the soft stucco with a shower of tiny pebbles. Emma handed the metal grid down, and Cristina tossed it into the grass. Emma reached a hand down, and a second later Cristina was beside her and they were both peering into a smudged window at a dirty back kitchen. Water was running in a massive metal sink full of glasses.

Emma drew her foot back, ready to smash the glass with the steel tip of her boot. Cristina caught her shoulder. “Wait.” She bent down and grabbed the window by its frame. The Strength rune on her neck buckled and glowed as she wrenched the rotted frame free and dropped it onto the plastic trash cans below. “Quieter that way,” she said.

Emma grinned and swung in through the window, landing on top of a crate full of vodka bottles. She sprang down and Cristina followed her. Cristina’s boots hit the floor just as the kitchen door swung open and a short man in a bartender’s apron with spiked black hair came into the room. The moment he caught sight of Emma and Cristina he let out a startled yelp.

Great, Emma thought. He had the Sight.

“Hello there,” she said. “We’re from the Department of Health. Did you know that there is no antibacterial hand gel left in these dispensers?”

This did not seem to impress the bartender. His gaze went from Emma to Cristina to the open window. “What the hell are you bitches doing, breaking in here? I’m gonna call the—”

Emma picked up a wooden spoon from the draining board and threw it. It thunked into the side of the bartender’s head. He went down in a heap. She strolled over and checked his pulse; it was regular. She glanced up at Cristina. “I hate being called a bitch.”

Cristina moved past her and pushed the door open, peeking out, while Emma dragged the bartender into the corner of the room and pushed him gently behind the stacked crates of bottles.

Cristina wrinkled up her nose. “Yuck.”

Emma let go of the bartender’s feet. They thumped to the ground. “What? Is something horrible happening out there?”

“No, it’s just a really disgusting bar,” said Cristina. “Why would anyone want to drink here?”

Emma joined her at the door and they both peered out.

“Bars in the D.F. are much nicer,” Cristina said. “I think someone has thrown up in that corner.”

She pointed. Emma didn’t look, but she believed it. The bar wasn’t just dimly lit, it was barely lit. The floor was concrete, strewn with cigarette butts. There was a zinc-countered bar, and a mirror behind it on which drink prices had been scrawled in marker. Men in flannel shirts and jeans crowded around a ragged-felt pool table. Others stood silently drinking at the bar. The place smelled like sour, old beer and cigarette smoke.

Hunched at the far end of the bar was a man in a familiar herringbone jacket. Sterling.

“There he is,” said Emma.

“The Tracking rune doesn’t lie.” Cristina ducked under Emma’s arm and stepped into the room. Emma followed. She felt the slight pressure on her skin that came with the gaze of many mundane eyes, but her glamour runes held. The single bartender looked up as the kitchen door swung shut, probably searching for his coworker, but turned back to polishing glasses when he didn’t see anything.

As Emma and Cristina approached, an extraordinary expression crossed Sterling’s face. A mixture of shock, followed by despair, followed by a sort of hilarity. There was a glass on the bar in front of him, half-full of golden liquid; he grabbed it up and tossed back the drink. When he slammed the glass back down on the bar, his eyes were gleaming.

“Nephilim,” he snarled.

The bartender looked over at him in surprise. Several of the other customers shifted on their stools.

“That’s right,” Sterling said. “
They
think I’m crazy.” He whipped his arm out to indicate the other bar patrons. “I’m talking to no one. Empty air. But
you
. You don’t care. You’re here to torture me.”

He staggered to his feet.

“Whoa,” Emma said. “You are
drunk
.”

Sterling popped off two finger guns in her direction. “Very observant, blondie.”

“Dude!” The bartender slammed a glass down on the countertop. “If you’re going to talk to yourself, do it outside. You’re ruining the ambiance.”