Lord of Shadows

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.