Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

29

U

LTIMA

T

HULE

The sun was shining in Alicante.

The first time Emma had been in Idris, it had been winter, cold as death, and there had been death all around—her parents had just been killed, and the Dark War had ravaged the city. They hadn’t been able to burn the bodies of Shadowhunters killed in the streets fast enough, and the corpses had stacked up in the Hall like discarded children’s toys.

“Emma.” Julian was pacing the long corridor in the Gard, lined with doors, each leading to the office of a different official. Alternating between the doors were windows letting in the bright light of late summer, and tapestries depicting significant events in Shadowhunter history. Most had small woven banners across the tops, describing what they were: THE BATTLE OF THE BUND, VALENTINE’S LAST STAND, THE PARIS ENGAGEMENT, THE UPRISING. “Do you remember . . . ?”

She did remember. They’d stood in this exact place five years ago, listening to Lucian Graymark and Jia Penhallow discuss the exile of Mark and Helen, before Emma had thrown open the door to shout at them. It was one of the few times she’d seen Julian lose control. She could hear his voice in her head, even now. You promised the Clave would never abandon Mark while he was living—you promised!

“Like I could forget,” she said. “This is where we told the Consul we wanted to be parabatai.”

Julian touched her hand with his. It was only a brush of fingers—they were both conscious anyone could come down the corridor at any moment.

Getting to Alicante had been difficult—Magnus had managed the Portal, though it seemed to have taken the last of his energy in a way that frightened Emma. He had been kneeling by the time the familiar swirling lights had formed, and he’d had to lean on Mark and Julian to rise.

Still he had brushed off all concerns and informed them that they needed to go through the Portal quickly. Idris was warded and Portaling there was a complex business, since someone had to be on the other side to receive you. It was doubly complex now since Kieran was with them, and though Jia had waived the anti-Faerie protections on the Gard temporarily, the window for safe travel was short.

Then the Portal had terrified Annabel.

She had never seen one before, and despite everything she had been through, despite all the awful magic she had seen Malcolm wreak, the sight of the whirling chaos inside the doorway made her scream.

In the end, after the Shadowhunters had all entered the Portal, she went through with Magnus, clutching the Black Volume in her hands, her face hidden against his shoulder.

Only to be met on the other side by a crowd of Council members and the Consul herself. Jia had blanched when she saw Annabel and said in an astonished voice, “Is that really her?”

Magnus had locked eyes with the Consul for a moment. “Yes,” he said firmly. “It is. She is.”

There was a babble of questions. Emma couldn’t blame the assembled Council members. There had been quite a few questions for Julian when he’d emerged from the library and told a waiting Magnus and Emma that Annabel was coming with them to Idris.

As he’d outlined his plan, Emma had caught sight of the expression on Magnus’s face. The warlock had looked at Julian with a mixture of astonishment, respect, and something that might have looked a little like horror.

But it had probably just been surprise. After all, Magnus had seemed sanguine enough, and had immediately set about sending a fire-message to Jia to let her know what to expect.

Emma had drawn Julian aside while blue sparks flew from Magnus’s fingers. “What about the book?” she’d whispered. “What about the Queen?”

Julian’s eyes glittered. “If this works, Annabel will give us the Black Volume,” he’d replied in a whisper, and he’d been looking at the library door as if Annabel, behind it, were the answer to all their prayers. “And if not—I have a plan for that, too.”

There’d been no chance to ask him what the plan was: Annabel had stepped out of the library, looking fearful and shy. She looked even more fearful now as the hubbub rose around her: Kieran drew some of the fire by stepping up to announce himself as the envoy of the Seelie Queen, sent to speak on the behalf of the Seelie Court to the Council of Shadowhunters. He’d been expected, but there was still a burst of more excited talking.

“Put the wards back up,” said the Consul, inclining her head to Kieran. Her expression was polite, but the message was clear: Though Kieran was there to help them, all full-blood faeries were still going to be treated with extreme suspicion by the Clave.

Mark and Cristina moved to Kieran’s side protectively, while Magnus spoke quietly with the Consul. After a moment, she nodded, and gestured at Emma and Julian.

“If you want to speak to Robert, go ahead,” she said. “But keep it short—the meeting is soon.”

Emma was unsurprised, as she and Julian headed toward the Gard’s offices, to see that Livvy, Ty, Kit, and Dru had flanked Annabel protectively. Ty, especially, had his chin jutting out, his hands in fists. Emma wondered if he felt responsible for Annabel because his letter had brought her to them, or if he felt some kind of kinship for those at odds with the Clave’s standards for “normalcy.”

A door swung open. “You can come in now,” said a guard. It was Manuel Villalobos, wearing his Centurion uniform. His start of surprise at seeing them was quickly hidden by a smirk. “An unexpected pleasure,” he said.

“We’re not here to see you,” said Julian. “Though nice to know you’re opening doors for the Inquisitor these days. Is he here?”

“Let them in, Centurion,” Robert called, which was all the permission needed for Emma to shove by Manuel and stalk down the hallway. Julian followed her.

The short hall ended in the Inquisitor’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, looking much the same as he had the last time Emma had seen him at the Los Angeles Institute. A big man only now beginning to show the marks of age—his shoulders were a little hunched, his dark hair woven thickly with gray—Robert Lightwood cut an imposing figure behind his massive mahogany desk.

The room was largely unfurnished aside from the desk and two chairs. There was an unlit fireplace, above whose mantel hung one of the series of tapestries on display in the hall outside. This one said THE BATTLE OF THE BURREN. Figures in red clashed with figures in black—Shadowhunters and the Endarkened Ones—and above the melee, a dark-haired archer was visible standing on a tipped boulder, holding a drawn bow and arrow. To anyone who knew him, it was very clearly Alec Lightwood.

Emma wondered what thoughts went through Robert Lightwood’s mind as he sat each day in his office and looked at the portrait of his son, a hero of a now-famous battle. Pride, of course, but there must also be some wonder, that he had created this person—these people, really, for Isabelle Lightwood was no slouch in the heroics department—who had become so fierce and amazing in their own right.

Someday Julian would have that pride, she thought, in Livvy and Ty and Tavvy and Dru. But her parents had never had a chance to feel it. She’d never had a chance to make them proud. She felt the familiar wave of bitterness and resentment, pressing against her heart.

Robert gestured for them to be seated. “I hear you wanted to talk to me,” he said. “I hope this isn’t meant to be some sort of distraction.”

“Distraction from what?” Emma asked, settling herself into the uncomfortable wing-backed chair.

“Whatever you’re up to.” He sat back. “So what is it?”

Emma’s heart seemed to flip. Was this a good idea, or a terrible one? It felt as if everything in her had been armoring against this moment, against the idea that she and Julian would have to spread their feelings out under the feet of the Clave for them to tread on.

She watched Julian as he leaned forward and began to speak. He seemed absolutely calm as he spoke of his and Emma’s early friendship, their affection for each other, their decision to be parabatai, brought on by the Dark War and the loss of their parents. He made it sound like a reasonable decision—no one’s fault—who could have blamed them, any of them? The Dark War had stricken them all with loss. No one could be at fault for overlooking details. For mistaking their feelings.

Robert Lightwood’s eyes began to widen. He listened in silence as Julian spoke of his and Emma’s growing feelings for each other. How they both had realized what they felt separately, struggled in silence, confessed their emotions, and finally decided to seek the Inquisitor’s assistance and even the exercise of the Law.

“We know we’ve broken the Law,” Julian finished, “but it was not intentional, or under our control. All we want is your help.”

Robert Lightwood got to his feet. Emma could see the glass towers through his window, glimmering like burning banners. She could hardly believe that just that morning they’d been fighting the Riders in the courtyard of the London Institute. “No one’s ever asked me if they could be exiled before,” he said, finally.

“But you were exiled yourself, once,” said Julian.

“Yes,” Robert said. “With my wife, Maryse, and Alec, when he was a toddler. And for good reason. It’s a lonely thing, exile. And for someone as young as Emma . . .” He glanced at them. “Does anyone else know about you?”

“No.” Julian’s voice was calm and firm. Emma knew he was trying to protect those who had guessed or been told—but it unnerved her anyway, the way he could sound so absolutely sincere when he was lying.

“And you’re sure? This isn’t a crush, or just—parabatai feelings can be very intense.” Robert sounded awkward as he clasped his hands behind his back. “They’re easy to misconstrue.”

“We,” said Julian, “are absolutely sure.”

“The usual measure would be separation, not exile.” Robert looked from one of them to the other as if he still couldn’t quite believe what was in front of him. “But you don’t want that. I can see that already. You wouldn’t have come to me if you thought I could only offer you the standard measures—separation, stripping of your Marks.”

“We can’t risk breaking the Law, and the punishments that entails.” Julian’s voice was still calm, but Emma could see his hands, white-knuckled, gripping his chair arms. “My family needs me. My brothers and sisters are still young, and they have no parents. I’ve raised them and I can’t leave them. It’s out of the question. But Emma and I know we can’t trust ourselves just to stay away from each other.”

“So you want to be separated by the Clave,” said Robert. “You want exile, but you don’t want to wait to be caught. You’ve come to me so you can choose which of you leaves, and for how long, and what punishment the Clave, directed by me, will decide on.”

“Yes,” said Julian.

“And though you’re not saying it, I think you want some of what exile will do for you,” said Robert. “It’ll deaden your bond. Maybe you think it’ll make it easier for you to stop loving each other.”

Neither Emma or Julian spoke. He was uncomfortably close to the truth. Julian was expressionless; Emma tried to school her features to match his. Robert was tapping his fingertips together.

“We just want to be able to be normal parabatai,” said Julian finally, but Emma could hear the silent words beneath the audible ones: We will never give each other up, never.

“It’s quite something to ask.” Emma strained to hear anger or reproach or disbelief in the Inquisitor’s voice, but he sounded neutral. It frightened her.

“You had a parabatai,” she said in desperation. “Didn’t you?”

“Michael Wayland.” Robert’s tone was wintry. “He died.”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma had known that, but the sympathy was sincere. She could imagine little more horrible than Julian dying.

“I bet he would have wanted you to help us,” Julian said. Emma had no idea if he spoke from knowledge of Michael Wayland or just intuition, that skill he had of reading the look in people’s eyes, the truth in the way they frowned or smiled.

“Michael would have—yes,” Robert murmured. “He would have. By the Angel. Exile will be a heavy burden for Emma. I can try to limit the terms of the punishment, but you’ll still lose some of your Nephilim powers. You’ll need permission to enter Alicante. There will be some Marks you can’t use. Seraph blades won’t light for you.”

“I have Cortana,” said Emma. “That’s all I need.”

There was sadness in Robert’s smile. “If there’s a war, you can’t fight in it. That’s why my exile was lifted—because Valentine returned and began the Mortal War.”

Julian’s expression was so tight that his cheekbones seemed to stand out like knife blades. “We won’t accept the exile unless Emma’s allowed to keep enough of her Nephilim power to be safe,” he said. “If she’s hurt because of this exile—”

“The exile is your idea,” said Robert. “Are you sure you’ll be able to fall out of love?”

“Yes,” Julian lied. “Separation would be the first move, anyway, wouldn’t it? We’re just asking for a little extra surety.”

“I’ve heard things,” Robert said. “The Law against parabatai falling in love exists for a reason. I don’t know the reason, but my guess is that it’s significant. If I thought you knew what it was—” He shook his head. “But you can’t possibly. I could speak with the Silent Brothers . . . .”

No, Emma thought. They’d risked so much already, but if Robert learned of the curse, they’d be in very dangerous waters. “Magnus said you would help us,” she said, in a soft voice. “He said we could trust you and that you’d understand and keep it secret.”

Robert looked up at the tapestry that hung over his mantel. At Alec. He touched the Lightwood ring on his finger; a likely unconscious gesture. “I trust Magnus,” he said. “And I owe him a great deal.”

His gaze was distant. Emma wasn’t sure if he was thinking about the past or considering the future; she and Julian sat tensely while he considered. Finally, he said, “All right. Give me a few days—the two of you will have to remain in Alicante while I look into managing the exile ceremony, and you must stay in separate houses. I need to see a good faith effort to avoid each other. Is that clear?”

Emma swallowed hard. The exile ceremony. She hoped Jem could be there: Silent Brothers were the ones who presided over ceremonies, and even though he no longer was one, he had been at her parabatai ceremony with Julian. If he could be there for this, she would feel a little less alone.

She could see Julian’s expression: He looked much as she felt, as if relief and dread were warring inside him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she echoed, and Robert looked surprised. She suspected no one had ever thanked him for a sentence of exile before.

* * *

Cristina had never been in the Gard’s Council Hall before. It was a horseshoe-shaped space, rows of benches marching toward a slightly raised dais; a second balcony level, containing more benches and seats, rose high above. Above the dais hung a huge golden clock, gorgeously made with delicate scrollwork and a repeated Latin phrase, ULTIMA THULE, marching around the rim. Behind the dais was an incredible wall of windows, giving out onto a view of Alicante below. She raised herself a little bit on tiptoe, to see the winding streets, the blue slashes of the canals, the demon towers rising like clear needles against the sky.

The Hall was beginning to fill. Annabel and Kieran had been taken to a waiting room, along with Magnus. The rest of them had been allowed in early and had claimed two rows of benches near the front. Ty, Kit, and Livvy were sitting, engaged in conversation. Dru sat quietly on her own, seeming lost in thought. Cristina was about to start toward her when she felt a light tap on her shoulder.

It was Mark. He had dressed carefully for the Council visit, and she felt a pang as she looked at him—he was so gorgeous in his pressed, old-fashioned clothes, like a marvelously colored old photograph. The dark jacket and waistcoat fit him well, and he had brushed his blond hair so that it covered the tips of his ears.

He had even shaved, and nicked himself slightly on the chin—which was ridiculous because Mark had no facial hair to speak of. He looked to Cristina like a little boy wanting to make a good impression on the first day of school. Her heart went out to him—he cared so much about the good opinion of a group of people who had agreed to abandon him to the Wild Hunt despite the pleas of his family, just because of who he was.

“Do you think Kieran will be all right?” Mark said. “They ought to treat an envoy from the Court with more honor. Instead they practically ran to put the wards back up as soon as we arrived.”

“He’ll be fine,” Cristina reassured him. Both Kieran and Mark, she thought, were stronger than the other one could believe, maybe because they’d been so vulnerable in the Hunt. “Though I can’t imagine Annabel is much of a conversationalist. At least Magnus is with them.”

Mark gave a strained smile as a low murmur swept through the room. The Centurions had arrived in full dress. They wore their uniforms of red, gray, and silver, with their silver pins on display. Each carried a staff of solid adamas. Cristina recognized some from Los Angeles, like Zara’s friend Samantha, with her thin, nasty face, and Rayan, looking around the room with an expression of concern.

Zara led the procession, her head held high, her mouth a slash of bright red. Her lips curled in distaste as she passed Mark and Cristina. But why wasn’t Diego beside her? Had he not come with them? But no, there he was, almost at the end of the line, looking gray and tired, but definitely present.

He paused in front of Mark and Cristina as the other Centurions passed by. “I got your message,” he said to Cristina, in a low voice. “If it’s what you want—”

“What message?” Mark said. “What’s going on?”

Zara appeared at Diego’s side. “A reunion,” she said. “How nice.” She smiled at Cristina. “I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear how well everything went in Los Angeles after you left.”

“Very impressive of you, killing Malcolm,” said Mark. His eyes were flat and glittering. “It seems to have resulted in quite a bit of advancement. Well-earned, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.” Zara laughed breathlessly, laying her hand on Diego’s arm. “Oh,” she said, with a sharply artificial enthusiasm. “Look!”

More Shadowhunters had entered the room. They were a mix of ages, from old to young. Some wore Centurion uniforms. Most wore gear or ordinary clothes. What was unusual about them was that they were carrying placards and signs. REGISTER ALL WARLOCKS. DOWNWORLDERS MUST BE CONTROLLED. PRAISE THE COLD PEACE. APPROVE THE REGISTRY. Among them was a stolid brown-haired man with a bland sort of face, the kind of face where you could never really remember the features later. He winked at Zara.

“My father,” she said proudly. “The Registry was his idea.”

“What interesting signs,” said Mark.

“How wonderful to see people expressing their political views,” said Zara. “Of course the Cold Peace has truly created a generation of revolutionaries.”

“It is unusual,” said Cristina, “for a revolution to call for fewer rights for people, not more.”

For a moment Zara’s mask slipped, and Cristina saw through the artifice of politeness, the breathy little-girl voice and demeanor. There was something cold behind it all, something without warmth or empathy or affection. “People,” she said. “What people?”

Diego took hold of her arm. “Zara,” he said. “Let’s go sit down.”

Mark and Cristina watched them go in silence.

* * *

“I hope Julian’s right,” Livvy said, staring at the empty dais.

“He usually is,” Ty said. “Not about everything, but about this sort of thing.”

Kit sat between the twins, which meant they were talking over him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in this position. Not that he minded or even noticed at the moment. He was stunned into near silence—something that never happened—by where he was: in Alicante, the heart of the Shadowhunters’ country, gazing at the legendary demon towers.

He’d fallen in love with Idris at first sight. He hadn’t expected that at all.

It was like walking into a fairy tale. And not the sort he’d grown used to at the Shadow Market, where faeries were another kind of monster. The kind he’d seen on TV and in books when he was little, a world of magnificent castles and lush forests.

Livvy winked at Kit. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You’re impressed by Idris. Admit it, Mr. Nothing Impresses Me.”

Kit was going to do no such thing. “I like the clock,” he said, pointing up at it.

“There’s a legend about that clock.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “For a second, when it chimes the hour, the gates to Heaven open.” Livvy sighed; a rare wistfulness flashed across her face. “As far as I’m concerned, Heaven is just the Institute being ours again. And all of us going home.”

That surprised Kit; he’d been thinking of this trip to Idris as the end of their chaotic adventure. They’d return to Los Angeles and he’d start his training. But Livvy was right: Things weren’t that assured. He glanced over at Zara and her immediate circle, bristling with their ugly signs.

“There’s still the Black Volume, too,” said Ty. He looked formal and neat-haired in a way he didn’t usually; Kit was used to him being casual in his hoodies and jeans, and handsome, older-looking Ty left him a bit tongue-tied. “The Queen still wants it.”

“Annabel will give it to Jules. I believe in his ability to charm anything out of anyone,” Livvy said. “Or trick anything out of anyone. But yeah, I wish they didn’t have to actually meet with the Queen afterwards. I don’t like the sound of her.”

“I think there’s a saying about this,” said Kit. “Something about bridges and crossing them when you get there.”

Ty had gone rigid, like a hunting dog spotting a fox. “Livvy.”

His sister followed his gaze, and so did Kit. Coming toward them through the crowd was Diana, a smile breaking across her face, her koi fish tattoo shimmering across one dark cheekbone.

With her were two young women in their early twenties. One resembled Jia Penhallow more than a little; she also had dark hair and a decided chin. The other looked incredibly like Mark Blackthorn, down to the curling, pale blond hair and pointed ears. They were both bundled in unseasonably warm clothes, as if they’d come from a cold climate.

Kit realized who they were a moment before Livvy’s face lit like the sun. “Helen!” she screamed, and bolted into her sister’s arms.

* * *

The clock in the Council Hall was chiming through the Gard, signaling that all Nephilim were to gather for the meeting.

Robert Lightwood had insisted on leading Julian from his office to the room where Magnus, Kieran, and Annabel were waiting. Unfortunately for Emma, that meant she was stuck with Manuel as her escort to the Council Hall.

Emma had wished she could have a moment alone with Julian, but it wasn’t going to happen. They exchanged a wry look before going their separate ways.

“Looking forward to the meeting?” Manuel asked. He had his hands in his pockets. His dirty-blond hair was artfully tousled. Emma was surprised he wasn’t whistling.

“No one looks forward to meetings,” said Emma. “They’re a necessary evil.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say no one,” said Manuel. “Zara loves meetings.”

“She seems in favor of all forms of torture,” Emma muttered.

Manuel spun around, walking backward down the corridor. They were in one of the larger hallways that had been built after the Gard burned in the Dark War. “You ever thought about becoming a Centurion?” he said.

Emma shook her head. “They don’t let you have a parabatai.”

“I always figured that was kind of a pity thing, you and Julian Blackthorn,” said Manuel. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot, you’re skilled, you’re a Carstairs. Julian—he spends all his time with little kids. He’s an old man at seventeen.”

Emma wondered what would happen if she threw Manuel through a window. Probably it would delay the meeting.

“I’m just saying. Even if you don’t want to go to the Scholomance, the Cohort could use someone like you. We’re the future. You’ll see.” His eyes glittered. For a moment, they weren’t amused or joking. It was the glitter of real fanaticism, and it made Emma feel hollow inside.

They had reached the doors of the Council Hall. There was no one in view; Emma kicked her leg out and swept Manuel’s feet out from under him. He went over in a blur and hit the ground; he pushed up instantly on his elbows, looking furious. She doubted she’d hurt him, except maybe where his dignity was located—which had been the point.

“I appreciate your offer,” she said, “but if joining the Cohort means I have to spend my life stuck halfway up a mountain with a bunch of fascists, I’ll take living in the past.”

She heard him hiss something not very nice in Spanish as she stepped over him and walked into the Hall. She reminded herself to ask Cristina for a translation when she got a chance.

* * *

“You don’t need to be here, Julian,” said Jia firmly.

They were in a massive room whose picture window gave out onto views of Brocelind Forest. It was a surprisingly fancy room—Julian had always thought of the Gard as a place of dark stone and heavy wood. This room had brocade wallpaper and gilt furniture upholstered in velvet. Annabel sat in a wing-backed armchair, looking ill at ease. Magnus was leaning against a wall, seemingly bored. He looked exhausted, too—the shadows under his eyes were nearly black. And Kieran stood by the picture window, his attention fixed on the sky and the trees outside.

“I would like him to be with me,” said Annabel. “He is the reason I came.”

“We all appreciate that you’re here, Annabel,” said Jia. “And we appreciate that you had past bad experiences with the Clave.” She sounded calm. Julian wondered if she’d have sounded so calm if she’d seen Annabel rise from the dead, covered in blood, and stab Malcolm through the heart.

Kieran turned away from the window. “We know Julian Blackthorn,” he said to Jia. He sounded much more human to Julian than he had when they’d first met, as if his Faerie accent was fading. “We don’t know you.”

“By which you mean you and Annabel?” Jia said.

Kieran made an expressive faerie gesture that seemed to encompass the room in general. “I am here because I am the messenger of the Queen,” he said. “Annabel Blackthorn is here for her own reasons. And Magnus is here as he puts up with all of you because of Alec. But do not think that makes it a good idea for you to order us around.”

“Annabel is a Shadowhunter,” Robert began.

“And I am a prince of Faerie,” said Kieran. “Son of the King, Prince of the Frost Court, Keeper of the Cold Way, Wild Hunter, and Sword of the Host. Do not annoy me.”

Magnus cleared his throat. “He has a point.”

“About Alec?” said Robert, raising an eyebrow.

“More generally,” said Magnus. “Kieran is a Downworlder. Annabel suffered a fate worse than death at the Clave’s hands because she cared for Downworlders. Out there in the Council Hall is the Cohort. Today is their grab for power. Preventing them from taking it is more important than rules about where Julian should or shouldn’t be standing.”

Jia looked at Magnus for a moment. “And you?” she said, surprisingly gently. “You’re a Downworlder, Bane.”

Magnus gave a slow, tired shrug. “Oh,” he said. “Me, I’m—”

The glass he was holding slipped out of his hand. It hit the floor and broke, and a moment later Magnus followed it. He seemed to fold up like paper, his head striking the stone with an ugly thump.

Julian lunged forward, but Robert had already grabbed him by the arm. “Go to the Council Hall,” he said. Jia was kneeling next to Magnus, her hand on his shoulder. “Get Alec.”

He turned Julian free, and Julian ran.

* * *

Emma fought her way through the Council Hall in a state of numb horror. Any pleasure she’d felt over knocking Manuel on his butt had dissolved. The whole room seemed to be a whirlwind of ugly shouting and waving signs: MAKE THE CLAVE PURE and WEREWOLF CONTAINMENT IS THE ANSWER and KEEP DOWNWORLDERS CONTROLLED.

She pushed past a knot of people, Zara at the center, heard someone saying, “Can’t believe you had to kill that monster Malcolm Fade yourself, after the Clave failed!” There was a chorus of agreement. “Shows what comes of letting warlocks do what they like,” said someone else. “They’re too powerful. It doesn’t make practical sense.”

Most of the faces in the room were unfamiliar to Emma. She should have known more of them, she thought, but the Blackthorns had lived a life of isolation in their way, rarely leaving the L.A. Institute.

Among the cluster of unfamiliar faces, she caught sight of Diana, tall and regal as always. She was striding through the crowd, and hurrying along in her wake were two familiar figures. Aline and Helen, both of them pink-cheeked, wrapped in massive coats and shawls. They must have just arrived from Wrangel Island.

Now Emma could see the rest of the Blackthorns—Livvy, Ty, and Dru were spilling out of the seats, running to Helen, who bent down to open her arms and gather them all in, hugging them tightly.

Helen was brushing back Dru’s hair, hugging the twins, tears sliding down her face. Mark was there too, striding toward his sister, and Emma watched with a smile as they threw their arms around each other. In a way, it hurt—she would never have that with her parents, never hug them or squeeze their hands again—but it was a good sort of pain. Mark lifted his sister off her feet, and Aline watched smiling as the two embraced.

“Manuel Villalobos is limping,” said Cristina. She had come up behind Emma and wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her chin on her friend’s shoulder. “Did you do that?”

“I might have,” Emma murmured. She heard Cristina giggle. “He was trying to talk me into joining the Cohort.”

She turned around and squeezed Cristina’s hand. “We’re going to take them down. They won’t win. Right?” She glanced at Cristina’s pendant. “Tell me the Angel is on our side.”

Cristina shook her head. “I am worried,” she said. “Worried for Mark, for Helen—and for Kieran.”

“Kieran’s a witness for the Clave. The Cohort can’t touch him.”

“He’s a prince of Faerie. Everything they hate. And I do not think I realized, until we arrived here, how much they hate. They will not want him to speak, and they will absolutely not want the Council to listen.”

“That’s why we’re here to make them listen,” Emma began, but Cristina was looking past her, a startled expression on her face. Emma turned to see Diego, miraculously without Zara, beckoning to Cristina from an empty row of seats.

“I must go and talk to him,” Cristina said. She squeezed Emma’s shoulder, looking suddenly hopeful. Emma wished her luck and Cristina disappeared into the crowd, leaving Emma looking around for Julian.

She didn’t see her parabatai anywhere. But what she did see was a tight group of Shadowhunters, Mark among them, and the sudden silver flash of weapons. Samantha Larkspear had pulled a wicked-looking blade. Emma headed toward the raised voices, her hand already reaching for Cortana’s hilt.

* * *

Mark loved all his brothers and sisters, none more than the others. Still, Helen was special. She was like him—half-faerie, drawn to its temptations. Helen even claimed she could remember their mother, Nerissa, though Mark couldn’t.

He set Helen down on her feet, ruffling her pale hair. Her face—she looked different, older. Not in lines around her eyes or coarsening skin, just in a certain cast of her features. He wondered if she had named the stars through the years, as he did: Julian, Tiberius, Livia, Drusilla, Octavian. And she would have added another, that he never had: Mark.

“I would speak to you,” he said. “Of Nene, our mother’s sister.”

An echo of faerie formality was in her voice when she replied. “Diana told me you met her in Faerie. I knew of her, but not where she could be found. We should speak of her, and of other matters as pressing.” She looked up at him and sighed, touching her hand to his cheek. “Such as when you got so tall.”

“I think it happened when I was in the Hunt. Should I apologize?”

“Not at all. I was worried—” She stepped back to look at him quizzically. “I think I may owe Kieran Kingson some thanks for his care of you.”

“As I owe Aline, for her care of you.”

Helen smiled at that. “She is the light of my days.” She glanced up at the large clock over the dais. “We have little time now, Mark. If all goes as we hope, we will have forever to confer with one another. But either way, Aline and I will remain this night in Alicante, and from what Jia says, so will you. It will give us a chance to talk.”

“That depends how tonight goes, doesn’t it?” A sharp voice interrupted them. It was Samantha Larkspear. Mark vaguely remembered that she had a brother who looked a great deal like her.

She wore Centurion gear and carried a placard that said THE ONLY GOOD FAERIE IS A DEAD FAERIE. There was a blob of what looked like black paint at the bottom of the sign.

“Pithy,” Mark said. But Helen had paled with shock, staring at the words on the placard.

“After this afternoon’s vote, if scum like you are allowed in Alicante, I’d be very surprised,” Samantha said. “Enjoy it while you can.”

“You’re talking to the wife of the Consul’s daughter,” said Aline, her nostrils flaring. “Watch your mouth, Samantha Larkspear.”

Samantha made an odd, gulping, hissing noise, and reached for her weapons belt, flashing a dagger with a thick knuckle-guard hilt. Mark could see her brother, pale and black-haired as she was, pushing toward them through the crowd. Helen had her hand on the seraph blade in her belt. Moving instinctively, Mark reached for the blade at his own hip, tensed for violence.

* * *

Kit looked up when Julian’s hand fell on his shoulder.

He’d been slouching in his chair, mostly looking at Alicante through the big glass window behind the wooden stagelike thing at the front of the room. He’d been deliberately not looking at Livvy and Ty greeting their sister. Something about the tight knot of Blackthorns hugging and exclaiming over each other reminded him exactly how much he wasn’t one of them in a way he hadn’t been reminded since Los Angeles.

“Your sister’s here,” he said to Julian. He pointed. “Helen.”

Julian glanced over at his siblings briefly; Kit had the feeling he already knew. He looked tense and sparking at the edges, like snapped electrical wire.

“I need you to do something,” he said. “Alec’s guarding the east doors to the Hall. Go find him and bring him to Magnus. Tell him Magnus is in the Consul’s guest quarters; he’ll know where that is.”

Kit swung his legs off the chair in front of him. “Why?”

“Just trust me.” Julian stood up. “Make it look like it’s your idea, like you need Alec to show you something or help you find someone. I don’t want anyone’s curiosity stirred up.”

* * *

“You’re not really thinking about fighting in the middle of the Council Hall, are you?” said Emma. “I mean, considering that would be illegal and all that.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not a good idea, Samantha. Put that dagger away.”

The small group—Helen, Aline, Mark, and Samantha—turned to stare at Emma as if she’d appeared in a puff of smoke. They’d all been too angry to notice her approach.

The gold clock overhead began to chime urgently. The crowd started to unknot itself, Shadowhunters searching for empty seats in the rows facing the dais. Dane Larkspear, who’d been coming toward his sister, had halted in the middle of an aisle; Emma saw to her surprise that Manuel was blocking his way.

Maybe Manuel didn’t think a Centurion brawling on the floor of the Council Hall would be a great idea either. Zara was looking over too, her red mouth set in an angry line.

“You don’t get to pull rank on me, Aline Penhallow,” said Samantha, but she shoved her dagger back into its sheath. “Not when you’re married to that—that thing.”

“Did you draw that?” Emma interrupted, pointing at the blobby sketch on Samantha’s placard. “Is that supposed to be a dead faerie?”

She was pretty sure it was. The sketch had arms and legs and dragonfly wings, sort of.

“Impressive,” said Emma. “You’ve got talent, Samantha. Real talent.”

Samantha looked surprised. “You think so?”

“God, no,” said Emma. “Now go and sit down. Zara’s waving at you.”

Samantha hesitated and then turned away. Emma grabbed hold of Helen’s hand. She started to walk toward the long bench where the Blackthorns were seated. Her heart was thumping. Not that Samantha was much danger, but if they’d started something, and the rest of Zara’s friends had joined in, it could have been a real fight.

Aline and Mark were on either side of them. Helen’s fingers curled around Emma’s arm. “I remember this,” she said in a low voice. Her fingertips brushed the scar that Cortana had made years ago, when Emma had clutched the blade to her body after her parents’ death.

It was Helen who had been there when Emma woke up in a world where her parents were gone forever, though it was Julian who had placed the sword in Emma’s arms.

But now Cortana was strapped to her back. Now was their chance to right the wrongs of the past—the wrongs done to Helen and Mark and those like them by the Clave, the wrong the Clave had done to the Carstairs in ignoring their deaths. It made the knowledge that she would soon be exiled hurt even more, the thought that she would not be with the Blackthorns when they were reunited.

They sped up as they got close to the other Blackthorns, and there was Julian, standing among his siblings. His eyes met Emma’s. She could see even across the distance between them that his had turned nearly black.

She knew without having to ask: Something was very wrong.

* * *

Alec Lightwood was very hard to keep up with. He was older than Kit, and he had longer legs, and he’d taken off flat-out running the moment Kit told him that Magnus needed him.

Kit wasn’t sure their cover story that he wanted Alec to show him around the Gard was going to hold up if anyone stopped them. But no one did; the loud chiming was still sounding, and everyone was hurrying toward the main Council Hall.

When they burst into the high-ceilinged Consul’s quarters, they found Magnus lying on a long sofa. Kieran and Annabel were at opposite ends of the room, staring like cats just introduced to a new environment.

Jia and Robert stood by the sofa; Alec started toward it, and his father moved to put a hand on his shoulder.

Alec stopped where he was, his whole body tense. “Let me go,” he said.

“He’s fine,” said Robert. “Brother Enoch was just here. His magic’s depleted and he’s weak, but—”

“I know what’s wrong with him,” Alec said, pushing past the Inquisitor. Robert watched his son as Alec knelt down by the side of the long couch. He brushed Magnus’s hair back from his forehead, and the warlock stirred and murmured.

“He hasn’t been well for a while,” said Alec, half to himself. “His magic gets depleted so fast. I told him to go to the Spiral Labyrinth, but there hasn’t been time.”

Kit stared. He’d heard of Magnus even before he’d met him, of course; Magnus was famous in Downworld. And when he had met Magnus, the warlock had been so full of kinetic energy, a whirl of dry wit and blue fire. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Magnus might get sick or tired.

“Isn’t there any way to make him better?” said Annabel. She was vibrating with tension, her hands working at her sides. He noticed for the first time that she was missing a finger on her right hand. He hadn’t looked at her too closely before. She gave him the creeps. “I—I need him.”

Admirably, Alec didn’t lose his temper. “He needs rest,” he said. “We could delay the meeting—”

“Alec, we can’t.” Jia spoke gently. “Obviously Magnus should rest. Annabel, you’ll be taken care of. I promise.”

“No.” Annabel shrank back against the wall. “I want Magnus with me. Or Julian. Get Julian.”

“What’s going on?” Kit recognized her voice even before he turned to see Zara in the doorway. Her lipstick looked like a harsh slash of blood against her pale skin. She was looking at Magnus, the corner of her mouth twisted in a smirk. “Consul,” she said, and bowed to Jia. “Everyone is assembled. Should I tell them the meeting will be delayed?”

“No, Miss Dearborn,” said Jia, smoothing down her embroidered robe. “Thank you, but we don’t need you to handle this for us. The assembly will go as planned.”

“Dearborn,” Annabel echoed. Her gaze was fixed on Zara. Her eyes had gone flat and glittering like a snake’s. “You’re a Dearborn.”

Zara looked merely puzzled, as if wondering who Annabel might be. “Zara is quite an advocate for restricting the rights of Downworlders,” Jia said neutrally.

“We’re interested in safety,” Zara said, clearly stung. “That’s all.”

“We had better go,” said Robert Lightwood. He was still looking at Alec, but Alec wasn’t looking at him; he was sitting by Magnus, his hand against Magnus’s cheek. “Alec, if you need me, send for me.”

“I’ll send Kit,” Alec said, without looking around.

“I’ll return for you,” Robert said to Kieran, who had remained silently by the window, barely a shadow in the room’s shadows. Kieran nodded.

Robert squeezed Alec’s shoulder briefly. Jia extended a hand to Annabel, and after a moment of staring at Zara, Annabel followed the Consul and the Inquisitor from the room.

“Is he sick?” Zara said, looking at Magnus with a distant interest. “I didn’t think warlocks got sick. Wouldn’t it be funny if he died before you? I mean, what with him being immortal, you must have thought it would go the other way.”

Alec raised his head slowly. “What?”

“Well, I mean since Magnus is immortal and you, you know, aren’t,” she clarified.

“He’s immortal?” Alec’s voice was colder than Kit had ever heard it. “I wish you’d told me before. I would have turned back time and found myself a nice mortal husband to grow old with.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be better?” Zara said. “Then you could get old and die at the same time.”

“At the same time?” Alec echoed. He had barely moved or raised his voice, but his rage seemed to fill the room. Even Zara was starting to look uneasy. “How would you suggest we arrange that? Jump off a cliff together when one of us started feeling sickly?”

“Maybe.” Zara looked sulky. “You have to agree the situation you’re in is a tragedy.”

Alec rose to his feet and in that moment was the famous Alec Lightwood Kit had heard about, the hero of past battles, the archer boy with deadly aim. “This is what I want and what I’ve chosen,” he said. “How dare you tell me it’s a tragedy? Magnus never pretended, he never tried to fool me into thinking it would be easy, but choosing Magnus is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. We all have a lifetime, Zara, and none of us know how long or short it might be. Surely even you know that. I expect you mean to be rude and cruel, but I doubt you meant to sound stupid as well.”

She flushed. “But if you die of old age and he lives forever—”

“Then he’ll be there for Max, and that makes both of us happy,” said Alec. “And I will be a uniquely lucky person, because there will be someone who always remembers me. Who will always love me. Magnus won’t always mourn, but until the end of time he will remember me and love me.”

“What makes you so sure?” said Zara, but there was an edge of uncertainty in her voice.

“Because he’s three thousand times the human being you’ll ever be,” said Alec. “Now get out of here before I risk his life by waking him up so he can turn you into a garbage fire. Something that would match your personality.”

“Oh!” said Zara. “So rude!”

Kit thought it was more than rude. He thought Alec meant it. He kind of hoped Zara would stick around to test the theory. Instead she stalked toward the door and paused there, glancing back at them both with dislike.

“Come on, Alec,” she said. “The truth is that Shadowhunters and Downworlders aren’t meant to be together. You and Bane are a disgrace. But you can’t just be content with the Clave letting you pervert your angelic lineage. No, you have to force it on the rest of us.”

“Really?” said Kieran, who Kit had nearly forgotten was there. “You all have to sleep with Magnus Bane? How exciting for you.”

“Shut up, faerie dirt,” said Zara. “You’ll learn. You’ve picked the wrong side, you and those Blackthorns and Jace Herondale and that ginger bitch Clary—” She was breathing hard, her face flushed. “I’ll enjoy watching you all go down,” she said, and flounced from the room.

“Did she really say ‘pervert your angelic lineage’?” said Alec, looking stupefied.

“Faerie dirt,” mused Kieran. “That is, as Mark would say, a new one.”

“Unbelievable.” Alec sat down next to the sofa again, drawing up his knees.

“Nothing she said surprised me,” said Kieran. “That is how they are. That is how the Cold Peace has made them. Afraid of what is new and different, and filled with hatred like ice. She may seem ridiculous, Zara Dearborn, but do not make the mistake of underestimating her and her Cohort.” He looked back at the window. “Hate like that can tear down the world.”

* * *

“This is a very strange request,” said Diego.

“You’re the one in a fake relationship,” said Cristina. “I am sure you’ve been asked for stranger things.”

Diego laughed, not with much humor. They were sitting a row away from the Blackthorns in the Council Hall. The clock had stopped chiming to announce the meeting’s beginning and the room was full, though the dais was still empty.

“I am glad Jaime told you,” he said. “Selfishly. I could bear that you hated me, but not that you despised me.”

Cristina sighed. “I am not sure I ever really did despise you,” she said.

“I should have told you more,” he said. “I wanted to keep you safe—and I denied to myself that the Cohort and their plans were your problem. I didn’t know they had designs on the Los Angeles Institute until too late. And I was mistaken in Manuel, as much as anyone. I trusted him.”

“I know,” Cristina said. “It is not that I blame you for anything. I—for such a long time, we were Cristina-and-Diego. A pair, together. And when that was over, I felt half myself. When you came back, I thought we could be as we were before, and I tried, but—”

“You don’t love me like that anymore,” he finished.

She paused for a moment. “No,” she said. “I don’t. Not like that. It was like trying to return to a place in your childhood you remember as perfect. It will always have changed, because you have changed.”

Diego’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “I can’t blame you. I don’t like myself much right now.”

“Maybe this could help you like yourself a little more. It would be a great kindness, Diego.”

He shook his head. “Trust you, I suppose, to take pity on a lost faerie.”

“It isn’t pity,” said Cristina. She glanced back over her shoulder; Zara had left the room some moments earlier and hadn’t returned yet. Samantha was glaring at her, though, apparently in the belief that Cristina was trying to steal Zara’s fiancé. “They frighten me. They will kill him after he testifies.”

“The Cohort is frightening,” Diego said. “But the Cohort is not the Centurions, and not all Centurions are like Zara. Rayan, Divya, Gen are good people. Like the Clave, it is an organization that has a cancer at its heart. Some of the body is sick and some healthy. Our mission is to discover a way to kill the sickness without killing all of the body.”

The doors of the Council Hall opened. The Consul, Jia Penhallow, entered, her silver-flecked dark robes sweeping around her.

The room, which had been full of lively chatter, sank to hushed murmurs. Cristina sat back as the Consul began to climb the stairs to the dais.

* * *

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice, Nephilim.” The Consul stood in front of a low wooden podium, its base decorated with the sigil of four Cs. There was gray in her black hair now that Emma didn’t remember seeing before, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. It couldn’t be easy, being the Consul during a time of unspoken war. “Most of you know about Malcolm Fade. He was one of our closest allies, or so we thought. He betrayed us some weeks ago, and even now we are still learning of the bloody and terrible crimes he committed.”

The murmur that went around the room sounded to Emma like the rush of the tide. She wished Julian was next to her so that she could bump his shoulder with hers, or squeeze his hand, but—mindful of the Inquisitor’s instruction—they had sat at the opposite end of the long bench after he’d told her Magnus had collapsed.

“I promised Annabel Magnus would be with her,” he’d said in a low voice, not wanting the younger Blackthorns to hear and be panicked. “I gave my word.”

“You couldn’t have guessed. Poor Magnus. There was no way to know he was sick.”

But she remembered herself, saying, Don’t promise what you can’t deliver. And she felt cold, all over.

“There is a longer story to Fade’s betrayal, one you might not know,” Jia said. “In 1812 he fell in love with a Shadowhunter girl, Annabel Blackthorn. Her family deplored the idea of her marrying a warlock. In the end, she was murdered—by other Nephilim. Malcolm was told she had become an Iron Sister.”

“Why didn’t they kill him, too?” called someone from the crowd.

“He was a powerful warlock. A valuable asset,” said Jia. “In the end it was decided to leave him alone. But when he discovered what had actually happened to Annabel, he lost his mind. This past century he has spent seeking revenge against Shadowhunters.”

“My lady.” It was Zara, upright and very prim; she’d just come in through the Hall doors and was standing in the aisle. “You tell us this story as if you mean for us to have sympathy for the girl and the warlock. But Malcolm Fade was a monster. A murderer. Some girl’s infatuation with him doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“I find,” said Jia, “that there is a difference between an excuse and an explanation.”

“Then why are we being treated to this explanation? The warlock is dead. I hope this is not some attempt to wring reparations out of the Council. No one associated with that monster deserves any recompense for his death.”

Jia’s look was like the edge of a blade. “I understand that you’ve been very active in Council affairs lately, Zara,” she said. “That does not mean you can interrupt the Consul. Go and sit down.”

After a moment, Zara sat, looking angry. Aline pumped her fist. “Go, Mom,” she whispered.

However, someone else had risen up to take Zara’s place. Her father. “Consul,” he said. “We’re not ignorant; we were told this meeting would involve significant testimony by a witness that would impact the Clave. Isn’t it about time you brought that witness out? If indeed, they exist?”

“Oh, she exists,” Jia said. “It is Annabel. Annabel Blackthorn.”

Now the murmur that went through the room sounded like the crash of a wave. A moment later Robert Lightwood appeared, wearing a grim expression. Behind him came two guards, and between them walked Annabel.

Annabel seemed quite small as she came up on the dais beside the Inquisitor. The Black Volume was hanging from a strap over her back, which made her look even younger, like a girl on her way to school.

A hiss went through the room. Undead, Emma heard, and Unclean. Annabel shrank back against Robert.

“This is an outrage,” sputtered Zara’s father. “Did we not all suffer enough from the corrosive filth of the Endarkened? Must you bring this thing in front of us?”

Julian sprang to his feet. “The Endarkened were not undead,” he said, turning to face the Hall. “They were Turned by the Infernal Cup. Annabel is exactly who she was in life. She was tortured by Malcolm, kept in a half-alive state for years. She wants to help us.”

“Julian Blackthorn,” sneered Dearborn. “My daughter told me about you—your uncle was mad, your whole family’s mad, only a madman would find this a good idea—”

“Do not,” said Annabel, and her voice rang out clear and strong, “speak that way to him. He is my blood kin.”

“Blackthorns,” said Dearborn. “Seems they’re all mad, dead, or both!”

If he’d expected a laugh, he didn’t get one. The room was silent.

“Sit,” the Consul said to Dearborn coldly. “It appears your family has an issue with the way Nephilim are meant to comport themselves. Interrupt me again and you’ll be thrown out of the Hall.”

Dearborn sat, but his eyes gleamed with rage. He wasn’t the only one. Emma scanned the room quickly and saw clusters of hateful glares directed at the dais. She choked back her nerves; Julian had pushed his way into the aisle and was standing facing the front of the room. “Annabel,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Tell them about the King.”

“The Unseelie King,” Annabel said softly. “The Lord of Shadows. He was in league with Malcolm. It is important you all know this, because even now, he plans the destruction of all Shadowhunters.”

“But the Fair Folk are weak!” A man in an embroidered gandora was on his feet, dark eyes sparking with concern. Cristina murmured into Emma’s ear that he was the head of the Marrakech Institute. “Years of the Cold Peace have weakened them. The King cannot hope to stand against us.”

“Not in a clash of equal armies, no,” Annabel said in her small voice. “But the King has harnessed the power of the Black Volume, and he has learned how to destroy the power of the Nephilim. How to cancel out runes, seraph blades, and witchlight. You would be fighting his forces with no more power than mundanes—”

“This absolutely cannot be true!” It was a thin, dark-haired man Emma remembered from the long-ago discussion of the Cold Peace. Lazlo Balogh, head of the Budapest Institute. “She is lying.”

“She has no reason to lie!” Diana was on her feet now too, her shoulders set back in a fighting stance. “Lazlo, of all the people—”

“Miss Wrayburn.” The Hungarian man’s expression hardened. “I think we all know you should recuse yourself from the discussion.”

Diana froze.

“You fraternize with faeries,” he went on, smacking his lips as he spoke. “You’ve been observed.”

“Oh, by the Angel, Lazlo,” said the Consul. “Diana has nothing to do with this other than having the bad fortune to disagree with you!”

“Lazlo’s right,” said Horace Dearborn. “The Blackthorns are faerie sympathizers, betrayers of the Law—”

“But we’re not liars,” said Julian. His voice was steel edged in ice.

Dearborn took the bait. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your daughter didn’t kill Malcolm Fade,” said Julian. “Annabel did.”

Zara popped to her feet like a puppet jerked upward on strings. “That’s a lie!” she shrieked.

“It is not a lie,” said Annabel. “Malcolm raised me from the dead. He used the blood of Arthur Blackthorn to do it. And for that, and for his torture and abandonment of me, I killed him.”

Now the room exploded. Shouts echoed off the walls. Samantha and Dane Larkspear were on their feet, shaking their fists. Horace Dearborn was roaring that Annabel was a liar, that all Blackthorns were.

“Enough!” shouted Jia. “Silence!”

“La Spada Mortale.” A small olive-skinned woman rose from a place near the back. She wore a plain dress, but her thick necklace sparkled with jewels. Her hair was a deep gray, worn nearly to her hips, and her voice carried enough authority to cut through the noise in the room.

“What did you say, Chiara?” Jia demanded. Emma knew her name—Chiara Malatesta, head of the Rome Institute in Italy.

“The Mortal Sword,” said Chiara. “If there is a question of whether this person—if that’s what she can be called—is telling the truth, ply her with Maellartach. Then we can dispense with pointless arguments about whether she’s lying.”

“No.” Annabel’s eyes darted around the room in a panic. “Not the Sword—”

“See, she’s lying,” said Dane Larkspear. “She fears the Sword will reveal the truth!”

“She fears the Sword because she was tortured by the Council!” Julian said. He started toward the dais, but two of the Council guards seized him, holding him back. Emma started to rise, but Helen pressed her firmly back into her seat.

“Not yet,” Helen whispered. “It will make things worse—she has to at least try—”

But Emma’s heart was racing. Julian was still being restrained from approaching the dais. Every nerve in her body was shrieking as Robert Lightwood moved away and returned carrying something long and sharp and silver. Something that gleamed like dark water. She saw—she felt—Julian inhale sharply; he had held the Mortal Sword himself before and knew the pain it caused.

“Don’t do this!” he said, but his voice was drowned in the swell of other voices, the clamor in the room as various Shadowhunters rose to their feet, craning for a glimpse of what was going on.

“She’s a filthy undead creature!” Zara shouted. “She should be put out of her misery, not standing up in front of the Council!”

Annabel blanched. Emma could feel Julian’s tension, knew what he was thinking: If Magnus were here, Magnus could explain: Annabel was not a revenant. She had been brought back to life. She was a living Shadowhunter. Magnus was a Downworlder that the Clave trusted, one of the few. None of this would be happening if he’d been able to join the meeting.

Magnus, Emma thought, oh Magnus, I hope you’re all right. I wish you were with us.

“The Sword will determine Annabel’s fitness to give testimony,” Jia said in a hard voice that carried to the back of the room. “That is the Law. Stand back and let the Mortal Sword work.”

The crowd fell silent. The Mortal Instruments were the highest power the Shadowhunters knew outside of the Angel himself. Even Zara closed her mouth.

“Take your time,” Robert said to Annabel. The compassion in his face surprised Emma. She remembered him forcing the blade into Julian’s hands, and Julian had been only twelve. She had been angry with Robert for a long time after that, though Julian didn’t appear to bear a grudge.

Annabel was panting like a frightened rabbit. She looked at Julian, who gave her an encouraging nod, and reached her hands out slowly.

When she took the Sword, a shudder went through her body, as if she’d touched an electric fence. Her face tensed—but she held the sword unharmed. Jia exhaled with visible relief. The Sword had proved it—Annabel was a Shadowhunter. The Hall remained silent, as everyone stared.

Both the Consul and the Inquisitor stepped back, giving Annabel space. She stood in the center of the dais, a lonely figure in an ill-fitting dress.

“What is your name?” Robert asked her, his tone deceptively mild.

“Annabel Callisto Blackthorn.” She spoke between quick breaths.

“And who are you standing on this dais with?”

Her blue-green eyes darted desperately between them. “I don’t know you,” she breathed. “You are Consul and Inquisitor—but not the ones I knew. You are clearly a Lightwood, but . . .” She shook her head before her face brightened. “Robert,” she said. “Julian called you Robert.”

Samantha Larkspear laughed derisively, and several of the other placard-bearers joined her. “There isn’t enough left of her brain to give decent evidence!”

“Be silent!” thundered Jia. “Miss Blackthorn, you knew—you were the lover of Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of Los Angeles?”

“He was only a warlock when I knew him, of no rank.” Annabel’s voice shook. “Please. Ask me if I killed him. I can’t stand much more of this.”

“What we discuss here is not your choice.” Jia didn’t seem angry, but Annabel visibly flinched.

“This is a mistake,” Livvy whispered to Emma. “They need to just ask her about Malcolm and end this. They can’t make this into an interrogation.”

“It’ll be fine,” Emma said. “It will.”

But her heart was racing. The other Blackthorns were watching with visible tension. On her other side, Emma could see Helen, gripping the arms of her seat. Aline was rubbing her shoulder.

“Ask her,” Julian said. “Just ask her, Jia.”

“Julian. Enough,” Jia said, but she turned to Annabel, her dark eyes expectant. “Annabel Callisto Blackthorn. Did you kill Malcolm Fade?”

“Yes.” Hate crystallized Annabel’s voice, strengthened it. “I cut him open. I watched him bleed to death. Zara Dearborn did nothing. She has been lying to you all.”

A gasp ran around the room. For a moment Julian relaxed, and the guards who had been holding him released their grips. Zara, red-faced, gaped from the crowd.

Thank the Angel, Emma thought. They’ll have to listen now.

Annabel faced the room, the Sword in her hand, and for that moment Emma could see what Malcolm must have fallen in love with. She looked proud, delighted, beautiful.

Something sailed past her head and smashed into the lectern. A bottle, Emma thought—glass shattered outward from it. There was a gasp, and then a giggle, and then other objects began flying through the air—the crowd seemed to be flinging whatever they had to hand.

Not the whole crowd, Emma realized. It was the Cohort and their supporters. There weren’t that many of them—but there were enough. And their hate was bigger than the whole room.

Emma met Julian’s eyes; she saw the despair in his. They had expected better. Even after everything that they’d been through, they’d expected better, somehow.

It was true that many Shadowhunters were now on their feet shouting at the Cohort to stop. But Annabel had crumpled to her knees, her head down, her hands still gripping the Sword. She hadn’t raised her hands to shield herself from the objects flying at her—they smacked into the floor and the lectern and the window: bottles and bags, coins and stones, even watches and bracelets.

“Stop!” Julian shouted, and the cold rage with which he spoke was enough to shock at least a few into silence. “By the Angel, this is the truth. She’s telling you the truth! About Malcolm, about the Unseelie King—”

“How are we supposed to know that?” hissed Dearborn. “Who says the Mortal Sword works on that—that thing? She is tainted—”

“She is a monster,” shouted Zara. “This is a conspiracy to try to drag us into a war with the Unseelie Court! The Blackthorns care about nothing but their lies and their filthy faerie siblings!”

“Julian,” Annabel gasped, the Mortal Sword held so tightly in her hands that blood began to bloom on her skin where she gripped the blade. “Julian, help me—Magnus—where’s Magnus—”

Julian struggled against the guards’ hold. Robert hurried forward, his big hands outstretched. “Enough,” he said. “Come with me, Annabel—”

“Leave me alone!” With a hoarse shout, Annabel flinched back from him, raising the blade in her hand. Emma was reminded suddenly and coldly of two things:

The Mortal Sword was not just an instrument of justice. It was a weapon.

And Annabel was a Shadowhunter, with a weapon in her hand.

As if he couldn’t believe what was happening, Robert took another step toward Annabel, reaching out for her, as if he could calm her, convince her. He opened his mouth to speak, and she thrust the blade up between them.

It pierced through Robert Lightwood’s robes and sliced into his chest.

* * *

Kit felt like someone who’d wandered into another family’s hospital room by mistake and wasn’t allowed to leave. Alec sat by Magnus’s side, occasionally touching his shoulder or saying something in a low voice. Kieran stared out the window as if he could transport himself through the glass.

“Do you want . . . I mean, should someone tell the kids? Max and Rafe?” Kit asked finally.

Alec stood up and crossed the room, where a carafe of water rested on a side table. He poured himself a glass. “Not right now,” he said. “They’re safe in the city with my mother. They don’t need—Magnus doesn’t need—” He took a drink of water. “I was hoping he’d get better and we wouldn’t have to tell them anything.”

“You said you knew what was wrong with him,” said Kit. “Is it—dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Alec said. “But I do know one thing. It isn’t just him. It’s other warlocks too. Tessa and Jem have been looking for a cause or cure, but she’s sick too—”

He broke off. A dull roar was audible; a sound like waves rising, about to crash. Alec blanched. “I’ve heard that sound before,” he said. “Something’s happening. In the Hall.”

Kieran was off the windowsill in a fluid, single motion. “It is death.”

“It might not be,” said Kit, straining his ears.

“I can smell blood,” Kieran said. “And hear screams.” He climbed up on the windowsill and jerked down one of the curtains. He seized up the curtain rod, which had a sharply pointed finial, and leaped to the floor, brandishing it like a spear. His silver-black eyes gleamed. “I will not be found weaponless when they come.”

“You should stay here. Both of you. I’ll find out what’s going on,” Alec said. “My father—”

The door flew open. Kieran flung his curtain rod. Diego, who had just appeared in the doorway, ducked as it flew by and slammed into the wall, where it jammed point first.

“¿Que chingados?” said Diego, looking stunned. “What the hell?”

“He thinks you’re here to kill us,” said Kit. “Are you?”

Diego rolled his eyes. “Things have gone bad in the Hall,” he said.

“Has anyone been injured?” Alec asked.

Diego hesitated. “Your father—” he began.

Alec set his glass down and walked across the room to Magnus. He bent and kissed him on the forehead and the cheek. Magnus didn’t move, only slept on peacefully, his cat’s eyes closed.

Kit envied him.

“Stay here,” Alec said to Kit and Kieran. Then he turned and walked out of the room.

Diego looked after him grimly. Kit felt a little sick. He had a feeling that whatever had happened to Alec’s father, it hadn’t been minor.

Kieran yanked his curtain rod out of the wall and pointed it at Diego. “You have delivered your message,” he said. “Now go. I will protect the boy and the warlock.”

Diego shook his head. “I am here to get you”—he pointed at Kieran—“and take you to the Scholomance.”

“I will not go anywhere with you,” said Kieran. “You have no morality. You brought dishonor upon Lady Cristina.”

“You’ve no idea what happened between me and Cristina,” added Diego in a frozen voice. Kit noticed that Perfect Diego was looking a little less than perfect. The shadows under his eyes were deep and violet, and his brown skin was sallow. Exhaustion and tension drew his fine features tight.

“Say what you will of faeries,” Kieran said. “We have no greater scorn than that we hold toward those who betray a heart given into their keeping.”

“It was Cristina,” said Diego, “who asked me to come here and bring you to the Scholomance. If you refuse, you will be dishonoring her wishes.”

Kieran scowled. “You are lying.”

“I am not,” said Diego. “She feared for your safety. The Cohort’s hatred is at a fever pitch and the Hall runs wild. You will be safe if you come with me, but I can promise nothing otherwise.”

“How would I be safe at the Scholomance, with Zara Dearborn and her friends?”

“She won’t be there,” said Diego. “She and Samantha and Manuel plan to remain here, in Idris, at the heart of power. Power is all they have ever wanted. The Scholomance is a place of peaceful study.” He held his hand out. “Come with me. For Cristina.”

Kit stared, his breath caught. It was a very strange moment. He had learned enough about Shadowhunters now to understand what it meant that Diego was a Centurion, and what laws he was breaking, offering to smuggle Kieran to the Scholomance. And he understood enough of the pride of the Fair Folk to know what Kieran was accepting if he agreed.

There was another roar of noise outside. “If you’re here,” Kit said cautiously, “and the Cohort attacks you, Mark and Cristina will want to protect you. And they could get hurt doing it.”

Kieran set the curtain rod down on the floor. He looked at Kit. “Tell Mark where I have gone,” he said. “And give Cristina my thanks.”

Kit nodded. Diego inclined his head before stepping forward and taking Kieran awkwardly by the arm. He pressed the fingers of his other hand against the Primi Ordines pin on his gear.

Before Kit could speak, Diego and Kieran vanished, a swirl of bright light streaking across the air where they had stood.

* * *

The guards surged forward as Jia reached to catch Robert’s slumping body. Her face a mask of horror, Jia sank to her knees, reaching for her stele, carving an iratze onto Robert’s limp, dangling arm.

His blood spread out around them both, a sluggishly moving pool of scarlet.

“Annabel.” Julian’s voice was barely a whisper of bone-deep shock. Emma could almost see the abyss of guilt and self-blame opening at his feet. He began to struggle frantically against the grip of the guards holding him. “Let me go, let me go—”

“Stay back!” Jia screamed. “All of you, stay back!” She was kneeling beside Robert, her hands wet with his blood as she tried again and again to cut the healing rune into his skin.

Two other guards pounded up the steps and halted uncertainly at her words. Annabel, her blue dress splashed with blood, held the Sword in front of her like a barrier. Robert’s blood was already sinking into the blade, as if it were porous stone drinking up water.

Julian tore free of his restraints and leaped onto the bloody dais. Emma shot to her feet, Cristina seizing the back of her shirt, but to no avail: She was already clambering onto the narrow back of the bench.

Thank the Angel for all the hours she’d spent practicing on the rafters in the training room, she thought, and ran, leaping from the end of the bench into the aisle. There were voices shouting at her, to her, a roar like waves; she ignored them. Julian rose slowly to his feet, facing Annabel.

“Stay away!” Annabel shrieked, waving the Mortal Sword. It seemed to be glowing, pulsing even, in her grip, or was that Emma’s imagination? “Stay away from me!”

“Annabel, stop.” Julian spoke calmly, his hands up to show they were empty—empty? Emma fumed, where was his sword, where were his weapons?—his eyes wide and guileless. “This will only make things worse.”

Annabel was sobbing harsh breaths. “Liar. Get back, get away from me.”

“I never lied to you—”

“You told me they would give me Blackthorn Manor! You told me Magnus would protect me! But look!” She swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the whole room. “I am tainted to them—despised, a criminal—”

“You can still come back.” Julian’s voice was a marvel of steadiness. “Put the Sword down.”

For a moment, Annabel seemed to hesitate. Emma was at the foot of the dais steps; she saw Annabel’s grip loosen on the hilt of the Sword—

Jia stood up. Her robes were wet with Robert’s blood, her stele limp in her hand. “He’s dead,” she said.

It was like a key turning in the lock of a cage, freeing the occupants: The guards lunged up the steps, leaping toward Annabel, blades outstretched. She spun with inhuman quickness, striking at them, and the Sword slashed across both their chests. There were screams as they collapsed, and Emma was running up the stairs, drawing Cortana, leaping in front of Julian.

From here, she could see all of the Council Hall. It was a melee. Some were fleeing through the doors. The Blackthorns and Cristina were on their feet, fighting toward the dais, though a line of guards had appeared to hold them back. As Emma watched, Livvy ducked under a guard’s arm and began to shove her way toward them. A longsword glimmered in her hand.

Emma looked back at Annabel. It was clear this near to her that something had snapped inside her. She looked blank, her eyes dead and disconnected. Her gaze shifted past Emma. Alec had burst through the doors—he stared up at the dais, his face a mask of grief and shock.

Emma wrenched her eyes away from him as Annabel sprang for Julian like a cat, her sword cutting the air before her. Instead of raising Cortana to meet Annabel’s thrust, Emma threw herself to the side, knocking Julian to the polished floor of the dais.

For a moment he was against her; they were together, body to body, and she felt the parabatai strength flow through her. The Mortal Sword came down again and they sprang apart, redoubled in strength, as it sliced through the wood at their feet.

The room was full of screaming. Emma thought she heard Alec calling for Robert: Dad, please, Dad. She thought of the tapestry of him in Robert’s room. She thought of Isabelle. She whirled with Cortana in her hand, and the flat of the blade slammed against Maellartach.

Both swords shuddered. Annabel jerked her sword arm back, her eyes suddenly almost feral. Someone was shouting for Julian. It was Livvy, clambering up the side of the dais.

“Livvy!” Julian yelled. “Livvy, get out of here—”

Annabel swung again, and Emma raised Cortana, cutting on the upstroke, pushing closer, slamming her sword against Annabel’s with all the force in her body, bringing the blades together with a massive, echoing clang.

And the Mortal Sword shattered.

It cracked jaggedly along the blade, the top half shearing away. Annabel shrieked and stumbled backward, and black fluid spilled from the broken sword like sap from a felled tree.

Emma collapsed to her knees. It was as if the hand that held Cortana had been struck by lightning. Her wrist was humming and a ringing sounded all the way up her bones, making her body shake. She grabbed for Cortana’s hilt with her right hand, panicking, desperate not to drop it.

“Emma!” Julian was holding his own arm stiffly, Emma saw, as if he had been hurt too.

The humming was receding. Emma tried to get to her feet and stumbled; her teeth bit down into her lip with frustration. How dare her body betray her. “I’m fine—fine—”

Livvy gasped at the sight of the smashed Mortal Sword. She had reached the top of the dais; Julian reached out, and Livvy tossed him the sword she was holding. He caught it neatly and spun to face Annabel, who was staring down at the broken weapon in her hand. The Consul had seen what had happened too, and was striding toward them.

“It’s over, Annabel,” Julian said. He didn’t look triumphant; he looked weary. “It’s done.”

Annabel gave a growl low in her throat and lunged. Julian raised his blade. But Annabel whipped past him, her black hair seeming to soar around her. Her feet left the ground, and for a moment she was truly beautiful, a Shadowhunter in full flowering glory, just before she landed lightly on the wooden floor at the dais’s edge and drove her jagged, broken half blade into Livvy’s heart.

Livvy’s eyes shot wide. Her mouth formed an O, as if she were astonished by discovering something small and surprising, like a mouse on the kitchen counter. An overturned vase of flowers, a broken wristwatch. Nothing huge. Nothing terrible.

Annabel stepped back, breathing hard. She no longer looked beautiful. Her dress, her arm, was soaked in red and black.

Livvy raised her hand and wonderingly touched the hilt protruding from her chest. Her cheeks flared red.

“Ty?” she whispered. “Ty, I—”

Her knees went out from under her. She thudded hard to the ground on her back. The blade was like an ugly massive insect fastened to her chest, a metal mosquito sucking the blood that ran from her wound, red mixed with the black of the sword, spilling across the floor.

In the aisle of the Council Hall, Ty looked up, his face turning the color of ashes. Emma had no idea if he could see them through the teeming crowd—see his sister, see what had happened—but his hands flew to his chest, pressing over his heart. He pitched to his knees, soundlessly, just as Livvy had, and crumpled to the ground.

Julian made a noise. It was a noise Emma couldn’t have described, not as human a sound as a howl or a scream. It sounded like it was ripped out of the inside of him, like something brutal was tearing through his chest. He dropped the longsword Livvy had risked so much to bring him, fell to his knees, and crawled to her, pulling her into his lap.

“Livvy, Livvy, my Livvy,” he whispered, cradling her, feverishly stroking her blood-wet hair away from her face. There was so much blood. He was covered in it in seconds; it had soaked through Livvy’s clothes, even her shoes were drenched in it. “Livia.” His hands shook; he fumbled out his stele, put it to her arm.

The healing rune vanished as quickly as he drew it.

Emma felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. There were wounds that were beyond an iratze’s power. Healing runes only vanished from skin when occult poison was involved—or when the person was already dead.

“Livia.” Julian’s voice rose, cracking and tumbling over itself like a wave breaking far out to sea. “Livvy, my baby, please, sweetheart, open your eyes, it’s Jules, I’m here for you, I’m always here for you, please, please—”

Blackness exploded behind Emma’s eyes. The pain in her arm was gone; she felt nothing at all but rage. Rage that bleached everything else out of the world except the sight of Annabel cringing against the lectern, staring at Julian cradling his sister’s dead body. At what she’d done.

Emma whirled and stalked toward Annabel. There was nowhere she could go. The guards had circled the dais. The rest of the room was a seething mass of confusion.

Emma hoped Ty was unconscious. She hoped he was seeing none of this. He would wake up eventually, and the horror of what he would wake up to drove her forward.

Annabel staggered back. Her foot slipped, and she tumbled to the floor. She raised her head as Emma loomed up over her. Her face was a mask of fear.

Emma heard Arthur’s voice in her head. Mercy is better than revenge. But it was fainter than Julian’s whispers or Dru’s sobs.

She brought Cortana down, scything the blade through the air—but as it sliced the air, inky smoke erupted from the window behind Annabel. It had the force of an explosion, the concussive wave knocking Emma backward. As she stumbled to her knees she caught sight of a moving shape inside the smoke—the gleam of gold, the flash of a symbol burned onto her brain: a crown, broken in half.

The smoke vanished, and Annabel vanished with it.

Emma curled her body over Cortana, clutching the blade to herself, her soul corroded with despair. All around her she could hear the rising voices in the room, cries and shrieks. She could see Mark bent over Ty, who was crumpled on the floor. Mark’s shoulders were shaking. Helen was struggling through the crowd toward both of them. Dru was on the ground, sobbing into her hands. Alec had slumped back against the doors of the Hall, staring at the devastation.

And there in front of her was Julian, his eyes and ears closed to anything but Livvy, her body cradled against his. She seemed a drift of fragile ash or snow, something impermanent that had blown into his arms accidentally: the petal of a faerie flower, the white feather of an angel’s wing. The dream of a little girl, the memory of a sister reaching up her arms: Julian, Julian, carry me.

But the soul, the spirit that made her Livvy was no longer there: It was something that had gone away to a far and untouchable place, even as Julian ran his hands over her hair again and again and begged her to wake up and look at him just one more time.

High above the Council Hall, the golden clock began to chime the hour.