Lord of Shadows

“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.

*