She could see it on his face. To save her he would kill everyone else in the vicinity. He wouldn’t think twice until it was over, when he’d wash the blood down the drain of the sink like scarlet paint. And he would not regret it.
“Stop,” Julian said, and though he didn’t shout, didn’t yell, the Followers who were still moving froze in place, as if they could read his expression just like Emma could. As if they were afraid.
Emma grabbed Sterling by the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Come on,” she said, and began pushing through the crowd, dragging him toward the Institute. If she could just get him inside—
But Belinda was suddenly pushing herself forward, shoving among the other Followers to get close to the Institute steps. There was still no blood around the rip in her sweater. Her glove was back on her hand. Her dark hair was coming out of its elaborately crafted Victory rolls, and she looked furious.
She bounded forward, placing herself between Emma and the stairs. Cristina and Diego were just behind them; Cristina was wincing, her face pale.
“Julian Blackthorn!” Belinda shouted. “I demand that you let us take this man”—she pointed at Sterling—“away from here! And that you cease interfering in our business! The Followers of the Guardian have nothing to do with you or your Laws!”
Julian descended a single step. The glow of his seraph blade lit his eyes to an eerie undersea green. “How dare you come here,” he said flatly. “How dare you invade the space of the Nephilim; how dare you make demands. Your idiot cult wasn’t our business, no, until you started murdering. Now it’s our business to make you stop. And we will.”
Belinda gave a harsh laugh. “There are three hundred of us—there are barely any of you—and you’re children—”
“Not all of us are children,” said another voice, and Malcolm Fade stepped out onto the stairs beside Julian.
The Followers gaped. Clearly, most of them had no idea who he was. But the fact that he was surrounded by a halo of crackling violet fire was obviously making quite a few of them nervous.
“I’m Malcolm Fade,” he said. “High Warlock of Los Angeles. You do know what warlocks are, don’t you?”
Emma couldn’t suppress a wild giggle. Perfect Diego was staring. Sterling was pallid with terror.
“One of us,” said Malcolm, “is worth five hundred of you. I can burn you to the ground in six seconds flat and use the ashes to stuff a teddy bear for my girlfriend. Not that I have a girlfriend at the moment,” he added, “but one lives in hope.”
“You’re a warlock, and you serve Nephilim?” Belinda demanded. “After all they’ve done to Downworlders?”
“Don’t try to use your feeble knowledge of a thousand years of politics on me, child. It won’t work.” Malcolm looked at his watch. “I’m giving you one minute,” he said. “Anyone who’s still here after that gets set on fire.”
Nobody moved.
With a sigh, Malcolm pointed at a shrub of California sage clustered by the bottom of the stairs. It burst into flames. A choking, sage-smelling smoke rose up. Flames danced along his fingers.
The Followers turned and ran for the road. Emma stood as they hurtled around her, as if she were planted in the middle of an avalanche. In a moment all of them were gone but Belinda.
There was a terrible rage on her face, and an even more terrible despair. It was a look that froze them all in place.
She raised her dark eyes to Julian. “You,” she said. “You may think you’ve defeated us now, with your pet warlock, but the things we know about you—oh, the things we could tell the Clave. The truth about your uncle. The truth about who runs this Institute. The truth—”
Julian had gone white, but before he could speak or move, an agonized shriek tore the air. It was Sterling. He clutched at his chest, and as all of them, even Belinda, turned to stare, he crumpled to the grass. A gout of blood spilled from his mouth, staining the ground. His eyes bugged out with fear as his knees gave way; he clawed at the ground, his pink scarab ring sparking on his finger, and was still.
“He’s dead,” said Cristina in disbelief. She turned on Belinda. “What did you do?”
Briefly Belinda looked blank, as if she were just as shocked as the others. Then she said, “Wouldn’t you like to know,” and sashayed up to the body. She bent as if to examine it.
A moment later a knife flashed in the fingers of her left hand. There were two grotesque thick chopping noises and Sterling’s hands came away from his wrists. Belinda caught them up, grinning.
“Thanks,” she said. “The Guardian will be pleased to know he’s dead.”
Emma flashed back to Ava in the pool, the ragged skin around her severed hand. Did the Guardian always insist on this specific grisly proof that those he wanted dead were dead? But what about Belinda? She was still alive. Was it meant to be a tribute?
Belinda grinned, cutting into Emma’s thoughts.
“Later, little Shadowhunters,” she said. And she stalked off toward the road, her bloody trophies held high.
Emma took a step forward, meaning to climb the Institute steps, but Malcolm held up a hand to stop her.
“Emma, stay where you are,” he said. “Cristina, step back from the body.”
Cristina did as he asked, her hand at her throat, touching her medallion. Sterling’s body lay crumpled at her feet, curled in on itself. Blood no longer pumped from his severed wrists, but the ground around him was wet with it.