Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did, Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wondering about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a candle flame.
Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.
“Look at your hand,” he said.
Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a Shadowhunter.
“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally anything? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”
“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadowhunter too?”
“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born, but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t want to talk about her.
“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”
Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”
Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes: true gray, that gray that was almost silver.
Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table, crossing her long legs.
“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to welcome them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone . . . .”
“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,” said Ty. “Right?”
She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen, because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”
That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.
She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.
She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel nervous.
“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our family exempted, of course.”
“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added, from the hallway.
“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.
* * *
Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.
Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine. Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did. Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jackets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the symbol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back. They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.
Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.
“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.
“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them. Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust. She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrusting Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose, and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.
The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though, and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them; they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Luggage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out how to feed them . . . .
“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.
“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys started across the room toward them.
“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I suppose I was thinking of them as students.”
“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate, we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”
“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways grin. “Un placer conocerte.”
Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”
“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid and grew up in the Institute there.”
He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath when he thanked her. It was charming.
Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her sleeve, whispering something in her ear.
Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in Madrid.”
“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make conversation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.
“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—” Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.