Suddenly, the weight of the attacker was lifted off him. Matthew sucked in a wheezing breath, desperate for air; when he was finally able to roll onto his side, he saw two dark figures, struggling—heard a long stream of cursing in French—and saw a dark shadow bolt from the room.
He forced himself to sit up, but the world swayed around him. His throat still felt as if it were being compressed. He choked, fingers tearing at his throat as if he could seize hold of what was strangling him; a moment later, Sylvain was beside him on the bed, catching gently at his hands. “Let me,” he said, gently, and Matthew relaxed slightly. There had been something in Sylvain’s tone that reminded him of James…
There was a flash of silver in the dimness, and the tip of a stele touched Matthew’s throat. He held still as Sylvain traced aniratze, a healing rune, on his skin, feeling thepain and sense of choking fade away like the last chord of a song.
“There,” Sylvain said, his voice soft. He was very close to Matthew. He was barefoot, Matthew realized, wearing a loose shirt over trousers. His hair was dishevelled, eyes still heavy-lidded; he must have been roused suddenly from sleep, but how had he known—
“If you are wondering how I knew you needed rescuing,” Sylvain said, putting away his stele, “I heard your dog barking.”
And you knew it wasmydog?Matthew thought, but he didn’t say it. Oscardidhave a distinctive bark; it was true. He peered around Sylvain’s shoulder and saw that Oscar had gone to sleep on his blue velvet cushion, clearly feeling he was no longer needed.Dogs.
Gingerly, Matthew touched his throat. It no longer hurt. “Who was it? One of the vampires?”
Sylvain shook his head, dishevelling his curls even further. “I didn’t see his face. And he is long gone by now. He was certainly unnaturally strong.”
Matthew let his head fall back against the headboard. His blood thrummed in his veins; it had been a long time since he’d been in a fight. Too long for a Shadowhunter. “Go ahead. Say it.”
Sylvain seemed puzzled. “What do you want me to say?”
“That we should have attacked them earlier. The vampires. They were never going to leave us alone, not once they realized Shadowhunters were onboard.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sylvain glanced down, as if looking at his own hand. It lay on the coverlet, very close to Matthew’s, their fingers nearly touching. “I wanted to apologize, in fact.”
Matthew raised his eyebrows. “If you wanted to apologize for calling me a coward, there’s no need. I know I’m not a coward. If anything, I’ve seen too much death and pain. I’m tired of it, that’s all.”
Sylvain looked at him. His eyes were very dark, the fringe of lashes around them like black silk. In fact he wasn’t just looking, Matthew thought, he wasstaring, as if he could see through Matthew somehow, through his bones and skin down to his soul. A little raggedly, he said, “Could I—can I kiss you?”
“I—” Matthew’s composure seemed to have deserted him. Thoughts flooded his mind—annoying, intrusive thoughts:Is this a good idea? Is he really serious? Will this be a disaster like all my other disasters?But Sylvain seemed to be barely breathing, and his eyes were wide and dark andMatthew had a terrible weakness for beautiful things. He bit his lip and said, “I suppose so. Yes.”
He’d half-expected Sylvain to lunge at him, but the other boy didn’t. He leaned toward Matthew, making a curve of his body, his hand rising to cup Matthew’s cheek. He brushed his lips across Matthew’s gently, with a soft pressure that made Matthew catch at the front of Sylvain’s shirt, pulling him closer. “More,” Matthew whispered.
Sylvain obliged. The next kiss was less gentle, prizing a gasp out of Matthew; the kiss after that was not gentle at all. Suddenly they were sprawling across the bed, Sylvain atop Matthew, his hand braced on the mattress above Matthew’s head. Matthew let his hands run free over Sylvain’s body as they kissed, marvelling at the lean strength of him, the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the strong column of his throat. He sank his hands into Sylvain’s hair as he’d wanted to since the first time he’d seen him (he could admit that to himself now) and it was gorgeously soft and silky and fine and Matthew leaned in and licked the base of the other boy’s throat, which made him say something incomprehensible in guttural French.
The blood had already been thrumming in Matthew’s veins; now it was roaring like the ocean. Matthew pushed upward, flipping them both over; they rolled together,kissing, tearing at each other’s clothes. Matthew’s shirt came off and Sylvain’s hands were hot as fever on his bare skin, and Matthew had half-forgotten what this was like, what he had always loved about the act of love itself: how it swept you up, made you part of something that felt as big as all the world and as small as just the two of you. How you could lose yourself, your troubles, doubts, and fears, in the experience of someone else, in the brush of lips on lips, the glide of skin against skin.
Sylvain’s shirt seemed to melt away under his hands. In the moonlight, the other boy’s skin was cream and linen, the light thatch of hair on his chest very dark against his pallor. Matthew bent to kiss Sylvain’s flat belly, feeling the fluttering pulse under the skin; Sylvain gasped, sliding his hand into Matthew’s hair as Matthew kissed his way up to the hard rise of Sylvain’s chest, his lips grazing over old scars and Marks, as all Shadowhunters had. Matthew felt Sylvain stiffen suddenly under him. A shaft of moonlight, unusually bright, pierced through the window, illuminating a faded rune on the right side of Sylvain’s chest.
It was the ghost of a rune, pale white, and not just any rune. Matthew had the twin of it himself.
Sylvain had gone still. Matthew sat up, his handlingering on Sylvain’s bare chest, his fingertips just touching the edge of what he could only think of as a wound, the scar of a loss so terrible his mind could barely comprehend it.
“You had aparabatai,” Matthew whispered. “What happened?”
FIVE
Sylvain sat up. The moonlight made theparabataimark on Sylvain’s chest gleam: a mark that should have been black, but had turned a phantasmic silver. James’ father, Will, had a similar mark, also on his chest; James said Will sometimes rested his fingers against it when he was thinking, as if he could still feel his ghostly connection to Jem.
Sylvain was still flushed, his hair in his face; Matthew could not read his expression. The other boy tugged his shirt back on, awkwardly buttoning the front so that it hung half-open, covering the old Mark.
“Sylvain?” Matthew said.
The other boy sat very still, not looking at Matthew. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he pushed his tangled hair out of his face. “I should go,” he said, rising to his feet.
“Don’t.” Impulsively, Matthew reached out toward Sylvain. “Is that why you said you were running away? Because you lost yourparabatai?” He knelt up on the bed, conscious of his own state ofdeshabille—his shirt had been kicked to the foot of the bed somewhere. “Believe me, I’ll understand—”
“How could you understand?” Sylvain bit out between his teeth. “You still have yourparabatai. Mine is ashes in the Silent City.”
“I nearly lost James,” Matthew said. “I can imagine—”
