Bitter of Tongue Read Free Page B

and this one pursued me even into Faerie, so he is my rightful prey. I had no wish to disturb the Wild Hunt and bear no fault!”
    Simon felt this was an inaccurate and hurtful summary of the situation.
    “Is it so? Come now, I am in a merry mood,” said the Wild Hunt faerie. “Give me your regrets and words with your captive—as you know, I have some little interest in Shadowhunters—and I will not bring back my lord Gwyn your tongue.”
    “Never was a fairer bargain made,” said the cloaked faerie in some haste, and ran off as though afraid the Wild Hunt faerie might change his mind, almost tripping over his own cloak.
    As far as Simon was concerned, this was out of the faerie frying pan and into the faerie fire.
    The new faerie looked like a boy of sixteen, not much older than Marisol and younger than Simon, but Simon knew that how faeries looked was no indicator of their age. He had mismatched eyes, one amber as the beads found in the dark heart of trees, and one the vivid blue-green of sea shallows when sunlight strikes through. The jarring contrast of his eyes and the light of Faerie, filtered green through wickedly whispering leaves and touched with false gold, made his thin, dirt-streaked face wear a sinister aspect.
    He looked like a threat. And he was coming closer.
    “What does a faerie of the Wild Hunt want with me?” Simon croaked.
    “I am no faerie,” said the boy with eerie eyes, pointed ears, and leaves in his wild hair. “I am Mark Blackthorn of the Los Angeles Institute. It doesn’t matter what they say or what they do to me. I still remember who I am. I am Mark Blackthorn.”
    He looked at Simon with wild hunger in his thin face. His thin fingers clutched the bars of the cage.
    “Are you here to save me?” he demanded. “Have the Shadowhunters come for me at last?”
    *   *   *
    Oh no. This was Helen Blackthorn’s brother, the one who was half-faerie like her, the one who had believed his family dead and been taken by the Wild Hunt and never returned. This was very awkward.
    This was worse than that. This was horrific.
    “No,” said Simon, because hope seemed the cruelest blow he could deal Mark Blackthorn. “It’s just like the other faerie said. I wandered here by accident and I was captured. I’m Simon Lewis. I  . . . know your name, and I know what happened to you. I’m sorry.”
    “Do you know when the Shadowhunters are coming for me?” Mark asked with heartbreaking eagerness. “I—sent them a message, during the war. I understand the Cold Peace must make all dealings with faerie difficult, but they must know I am loyal and would be valuable to them. They must be coming, but it has been  . . . it has been weeks and weeks. Tell me, when?”
    Simon stared at Mark, dry-mouthed. It had not been weeks and weeks since the Shadowhunters had abandoned him here. It had been a year and more.
    “They’re not coming,” he whispered. “I was not there, but my friends were. They told me what happened. The Clave took a vote. The Shadowhunters do not want you back.”
    “Oh,” said Mark, a single soft sound that was familiar to Simon: It was the kind of sound creatures made when they died.
    He turned away from Simon, his back arched in a spasm of pain that looked physical. Simon saw, on his bare lean arms, the old marks of a whip. Even though Simon could not see his face, Mark covered it for a moment, as if he could not even bear to look upon Faerieland.
    Then he turned and snapped: “What about the children?”
    “What?” Simon asked blankly.
    “Helen, Julian, Livia, Tiberius, Drusilla, Octavian. And Emma,” said Mark. “You see? I have not forgotten. Every night, no matter what has happened during the day, no matter if I am torn and bloodied or so bone-tired I wish I were dead, I look up at the stars and I give each star a brother’s name or a sister’s face. I will not sleep until I remember every one. The stars will burn out before I forget.”
    Mark’s family,