Emma looked at Julian. It was shadowy in the attic, but she could see his hands clenched at his sides. Was he angry at her for following him?

“But Cortana has never been broken,” she said.

“It’s only a story,” Julian said.

“There is truth in stories,” said Arthur. “There is truth in one of your paintings, boy, or in a sunset or a couplet from Homer. Fiction is truth, even if it is not fact. If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your brain will live, but your heart will die.”

“I understand, Uncle.” Julian sounded tired. “I’ll be back later. Please eat something. All right?”

Arthur lowered his face into his hands, shaking his head. Julian began to move across the room to the stairs; halfway there, he caught Emma’s wrist, drawing her after him.

He exerted no real force, but she followed him anyway, shocked into compliance simply by the physical sensation of his hand on her wrist. He only touched her to apply runes these days—she missed those friendly touches she was used to from the years of their friendship: a hand brushing her arm, a tap on her shoulder. Their secret way of communicating: fingers drawings words and letters on each other’s skin, silent and invisible to everyone else.

It seemed like forever. And now sparks were racing up her arm from that one point of contact, making her body feel hot, stinging, and confused. His fingers looped her wrist as they went out the front door.

When it closed behind them, he let go, turning to face her. The air felt heavy and dense, pressing against Emma’s skin. Mist obscured the highway. She could see the heaving surfaces of gray waves slapping against the shore; from here, each looked as big as a humpbacked whale. She could see the moon, struggling to show itself between clouds.

Julian was breathing hard, as if he’d been running flat out for miles. The dampness of the air stuck his shirt to his chest as he leaned back against the wall of the Institute. “Why did you come to the attic?” he said.

“I’m sorry.” She spoke stiffly. She hated being stiff around Jules. They’d rarely had a fight that didn’t end in a casual apology or joking. I had this feeling, that you needed me, and I couldn’t not come. “I understand if you’re angry—”

“I’m not angry.” Lightning sizzled out over the water, briefly whitening the sky. “That’s the hell of it, I can’t be angry, can I? Mark doesn’t know a thing about you and me, he isn’t trying to hurt me, none of it’s his fault. And you, you did the right thing. I can’t hate you for that.” He pushed off from the wall, took a restless few paces. The energy of the pent-up storm seemed to crackle off his skin. “But I can’t stand it. What do I do, Emma?” He raked his hands through his hair; the humidity was making it curl into ringlets that clung to his fingers. “We can’t live like this.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll go away. It’s only a few months. I’ll be eighteen. We’ll take our travel years away from each other. We’ll forget.”

“Will we?” His mouth twisted into an impossible smile.

“We have to.” Emma had begun to shiver; it was cold, the clouds above them roiling like the smoke of a scorched sky.

“I should never have touched you,” he said. He’d drawn closer to her, or maybe she’d moved closer to him, wanting to take his hands, the way she always had. “I never thought what we had could break so easily.”

“It’s not broken,” she whispered. “We made a mistake—but being together wasn’t the mistake.”

“Most people get to make mistakes, Emma. It doesn’t have to ruin their whole lives.”

She closed her eyes, but she could still see him. Still feel him, inches away from her, the heat of his body, the scent of cloves that clung to his clothes and hair. It was making her insane, making her knees shake as if she’d just staggered off a roller coaster. “Our lives aren’t ruined.”

His arms went around her. She thought for a moment of resisting, but she was so tired—so tired of fighting what she wanted. She hadn’t thought she’d ever get this, Jules in her arms again, all lean muscle and taut tension, strong painter’s hands smoothing down her back, his fingers tracing letters, words, on her skin.

I A-M R-U-I-N-E-D.

She opened her eyes, appalled. His face was so close it was almost a blur of light and shadow. “Emma,” he said, his arms leashing her, pulling her closer.

And then he was kissing her; they were kissing each other. He drew her against him; he fit her body to his, curves and hollows, muscles and softness. His mouth was open over hers, his tongue running gently along the seam of her lips.

Thunder exploded around them, lightning shattering against the mountains, blazing a path of dry heat across the inside of Emma’s eyelids.

She opened her mouth under his, pressed up against him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He tasted like fire, like spice. He ran his hands down her sides, over her hips. Drew her more firmly against him. He was making a low sound in his throat, a sort of anguished wanting sound.

It felt like forever. It felt like no time at all. His hands molded the shape of her shoulder blades, the curve of her body beneath her rib cage, thumbs arching over the crests of her hips. He lifted her up and against him as if they could fit into each other’s empty spaces, as words spilled from his mouth: frantic, hurried,

“Emma—I need you, always, always think about you, I was wishing you were with me in that goddamned attic and then I turned around and you were there, like you heard me, like you’re always there when I need you . . . .”

Lightning forked again, illuminating the world: Emma could see her hands on Julian’s shirt hem—what the hell was she thinking, was she planning for them both to strip down on the Institute’s front porch? Reality reasserted itself; she pushed away, her heart slamming against her chest.

“Em?” He looked at her, dazed, his eyes sleepy and hot and wanting. It made her swallow hard. But his words echoed in her head: He’d wanted her, and she’d come as if she’d heard him call—she’d felt that wanting, known it, not been able to stop herself.

All these weeks of insisting to herself that the parabatai bond was weakening, and now he was telling her they’d just practically read each other’s minds.

“Mark,” she said, and it was just one word but it was the word, the most brutal reminder of their situation. The sleepy look left his eyes; he whitened, aghast. He raised a hand as if he meant to say something—explain, apologize—and the sky seemed to rip down the middle.

They both turned to stare as the clouds directly above them parted. A shadow grew in the air, darkening as it neared them: the figure of a man, massive and bound in armor, bareback on a red-eyed, foaming brindled horse—black and gray, like the storm clouds overhead.

Julian moved as if to thrust Emma behind him, but she wouldn’t budge. She simply stared as the horse came to a neighing, pawing stop at the foot of the Institute steps. The man looked up at them.

His eyes, like Mark’s, were two different colors, in his case blue and black. His face was terrifyingly familiar. It was Gwyn ap Nudd, the lord and leader of the Wild Hunt. And he did not look pleased.