“Your life isn’t wrecked. You’re still alive. You can have a good life! You kissed that faerie girl—”

“She was a leanansídhe! A shape-changer! I thought she was you!”

“Oh.” Emma stood for a moment, arrested in mid-motion. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. You really think I’m going to fall in love with someone else?” Julian demanded. “You think I get to do that? I’m not you, I don’t get to fall in love every week with someone different. I wish it wasn’t you, Emma, but it is, it’ll always be you, so don’t tell me my life isn’t wrecked when you don’t know the first thing about it!”

Emma slammed her hand against the wall. The plaster cracked, spidering out from the impact point. She felt the pain only distantly. A roiling black wave of despair rose, threatening to overwhelm her. “What do you want from me, Jules?” she demanded. “What do you want me to do?”

Julian took a step forward; his face looked as if it had been carved out of marble or something even harder, even more unyielding. “What do I want?” he said. “I want you to know what it’s like. To be tortured all the time, night and day, desperately wanting what you know you should never want, what doesn’t even want you back. To know how it feels to understand that a decision you made when you were twelve years old means you can never have the one thing that would make you truly happy. I want you to dream about only one thing and want only one thing and obsess about only one thing like I do—”

“Julian—” she gasped, desperate to stop him, to stop all this before it was too late.

“—like I do with you!” he finished, the words spat out almost savagely. “Like I do with you, Emma.” The rage seemed to have gone out of him; he was shaking now instead, as if in the grip of shock. “I thought you loved me,” he said, almost in a whisper. “I don’t know how I got that so wrong.”

Her heart cracked. She twisted away, away from the look in his eyes, away from his voice, away from the shattering of all her carefully made plans. She clawed the door open—she heard Julian call her name, but she had already plunged out of the cottage and into the storm.

24

LEGION

The crest of Chapel Cliff was a tower in a maelstrom: slick rock rising toward the sky, surrounded on three sides by the boiling cauldron of the ocean.

The sky above was gray, streaked with black, hanging heavy as a rock over the small town and the sea beyond. The water was high in the harbor, raising the fishing boats to the level of the windows of the dockside houses. The small craft tossed and turned on the crests of the waves.

More waves crashed up against the cliff, spraying whitecaps into the air. Emma stood within a whirlwind of swirling water, the smell of the sea all around, the sky exploding above her, lightning forking through the clouds.

She spread her arms out wide. She felt as if the lightning were exploding down through her, into the rocks at her feet, into the water that slammed up in gray-green sheets, almost vertical against the sky. All around her the granite spires that gave Chapel Cliff its name rose like a stone forest, like the points of a crown. The rock under her feet was slippery with wet moss.

All her life, she had loved storms—loved the explosions tearing through the sky, loved the soul-baring ferocity of them. She hadn’t thought when she’d burst out of the cottage, at least not logically; she’d been desperate to get away before she told Julian everything he could never know. Let him think she’d never loved him, that she’d broken Mark’s heart, that she had no feelings. Let him hate her, if that meant he would live and be all right.

And maybe the storm could wash her clean, could wash what felt like both their hearts’ blood off her hands.

She moved down the side of the cliff. The rock grew slipperier, and she paused to apply a new Balance rune. The stele slid on her wet skin. From the lower point, she could see where the caves and tide pools were covered by curling white water. Lightning cracked against the horizon; she lifted her face to taste the salt rain and heard the distant, winding sound of a horn.

Her head jerked up. She’d heard a sound like that before, once, when the convoy of the Wild Hunt had come to the Institute. It was no human horn. It sounded again, deep and cold and lonely, and she started to her feet, scrambling back up the path toward the top of the cliff.

She saw clouds like massive gray boulders colliding in the sky; where they parted, weak golden light shafted down, illuminating the churning surface of the ocean. There were black dots out over the harbor—birds? No, they were too big to be seabirds, and none would be out in this weather anyway.

The black dots were coming toward her. They were closer now, resolving, no longer dots. She could see them for what they were: riders. Four riders, cloaked in glimmering bronze. They hurtled through the sky like comets.

They were not the Wild Hunt. Emma knew that immediately, without knowing how she knew it. There were too few of them, and they were too silent. The Wild Hunt rode with a fierce clamor. The bronze riders glided silently toward Emma, as if they had been formed out of the clouds.

She could run back toward the cottage, she thought. But that would draw them toward Julian, and besides, they had angled themselves to cut her off from the path back toward Malcolm’s house. They were moving with incredible speed. In seconds, they would be on the cliff.

Her right hand closed on the hilt of Cortana. She drew it almost without conscious thought. The feel of it in her hand grounded her, slowed her heartbeat.

They soared overhead, circling. For a moment Emma was struck by their odd beauty—up close, the horses seemed barely real, as transparent as glass, formed out of wisps of cloud and moisture. They spun in the air and dove like gulls after their prey. As their hooves struck the solid earth of the cliff, they exploded into ocean whitecaps, each horse a spray of vanishing water, leaving the four riders behind.

And between Emma and the path. She was cut off, from everything but the sea and the small piece of cliff behind her.

The four Riders faced her. She braced her feet. The very top of the ridge was so narrow that her boots sank in on either side of the cliff’s spine. She raised Cortana. It flashed in the storm light, rain sliding off its blade. “Who’s there?” she called.

The four figures moved as one, reaching to push back the hoods of their bronze cloaks. Beneath was more shining stuff—they were three tall men and a woman, each of them wearing bronze half masks, with hair that looked like metallic thread wound into thick braids that hung halfway down their backs.

Their armor was metal: breastplates and gauntlets etched all over with the designs of waves and the sea. The eyes they fixed on her were gray and piercing.

“Emma Cordelia Carstairs,” said one of them. He spoke as if Emma’s name were in a foreign language, one his tongue had a hard time wrapping itself around. “Well met.”

“In your opinion,” Emma muttered. She kept a tight grip on Cortana—each of the faeries (for she knew they were faeries) that she was facing was armed with a longsword, hilts visible over their shoulders. She raised her voice. “What does a convoy from the Faerie Courts want from me?”

The faerie raised an eyebrow. “Tell her, Fal,” said one of the others, in the same accented voice. Something about the accent raised the hairs on Emma’s arms, though she couldn’t have said what it was.