A man with brown hair streaked with gray frowned. Kit stared at him in some fascination: Here was a living ancestor of Ty and Livvy, Julian and Mark. His face was broad and bore the marks of a bad temper.

“If you suggest I am hiding my daughter, I am not,” he said. “She fouled herself with the touch of a warlock, and she is no longer a part of our family.”

“My uncle speaks the truth,” said another of the men, this one younger. “Annabel is dead to us all.”

“What a vivid image,” said the Inquisitor. “Don’t mind me if I find it more than an image.”

The younger man flinched. Felix Blackthorn didn’t change expression.

“You would not mind a trial by Mortal Sword, would you, Felix?” said the Inquisitor. “Just to ensure that you truly do not know where your daughter is.”

“You sent her back to us tortured and half-mad,” snapped the younger Blackthorn. “Do not tell us now you care about her fate!”

“She was no more hurt than many Shadowhunters might be in a battle,” said the Inquisitor, “but death is another thing entirely. And the Iron Sisters are asking.”

“Might I speak?” said another of the men; he had dark hair and an aristocratic look.

The Inquisitor nodded.

“Since Annabel Blackthorn went to join the Iron Sisters,” he said, “Malcolm Fade has become a true ally to Nephilim. One of those rare warlocks we can count on our side, and who is indispensable in a battle.”

“Your point, Herondale?”

“If he does not think his lady love left him, shall we say, voluntarily, or if he learns of any harm that came to her, I think it unlikely that he will continue to be such a valuable asset to us.”

“The ladies of the Adamant Citadel do not leave their island to truck in gossip,” said another man, narrow-faced as a ferret. “If the discussion of the fate of unfortunate Annabel ends here, then it ends. After all, perhaps she ran away on the road, or perhaps she fell victim to a demon or a highwayman on the way to the Citadel. We may never know.”

The Inquisitor tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. He was looking at Felix Blackthorn, his eyes hooded; it was impossible for Kit to tell what he might be thinking. Finally he said, “You’re damnably clever, Felix, bringing your friends into this. You know I can’t punish you all without chaos. And you’re right about Fade. There’s been a demon uprising near the Scholomance, and we need him.” He flung his hands up. “Very well. We’ll never discuss this again.”

A look of relief passed over Felix Blackthorn’s face, mixed with an odd bitterness. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Inquisitor Dearborn.”

The vision narrowed to a pinpoint of black and vanished.

For a moment Kit sat still. He heard Livvy and Ty speaking in rapid voices, and Shade answering: Yes, the vision was a real memory; no, there was no way of identifying whose it might be. It was probably two hundred years old. They were clearly excited about the mention of an Inquisitor Dearborn. But Kit’s brain had snagged on one word like a piece of cloth on a hook:

Herondale.

One of those horrible men had been his ancestor. Herondales and Dearborns and Blackthorns together had been complicit in covering up the torture and murder of a young woman whose only crime had been to love a warlock. It had been one thing to think he was related to Jace, who seemed to be universally adored and good at everything. Everyone had spoken of Herondales to him as though they were royalty, world-saving royalty.

He remembered Arthur’s words. What kind of Herondale will you be? William or Tobias? Stephen or Jace? Beautiful, bitter, or both?

“Rook!” The front of the tent shook. “Kit Rook, come out of there right now!”

The chatter inside the tent stopped. Kit blinked; he wasn’t Kit Rook, he was Christopher Herondale, he was—

He staggered to his feet. Livvy and Ty leaped up after him, Ty pausing only to pocket the aletheia crystal. “Kit, don’t—” Livvy started, reaching for him, but Kit had already shoved his way out of the tent.

Someone was calling his real name—or maybe it wasn’t his real name—but it was a part of him that he couldn’t deny. He stumbled into the lane outside.

Barnabas Hale stood in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest, his scaled white skin gleaming sickly in the torchlight. Behind him loomed a group of werewolves: big, muscular men and women in black leather and spiked bracelets. More than one sported a pair of brass knuckles.

“So, little Rook,” Barnabas said, his snake’s tongue flickering as he grinned. “What’s this I hear about you pretending to be here on business for me?”

19

THE GRAY WOODS

“I told you to stay away from the Shadow Market, Rook,” said Barnabas. “Is there a reason you didn’t listen? Lack of respect for me, or just a lack of respect for Downworlders overall?”

A crowd had begun to gather, a curious mixture of sneering vampires, grinning werewolves, and wary-looking warlocks.

“You told me to stay out of the Los Angeles Market,” said Kit, “not every Shadow Market in the world. You don’t have that power and reach, Hale, and it’s up to the owner of this Market to decide if I stay or if I go.”

“That would be me.” It was Hypatia, her smooth face expressionless.

“I thought you were the co-runner?” said Kit.

“Good enough, and watch your impertinence. I don’t appreciate being lied to, child. Nor do I appreciate you bringing two Nephilim in here with you.”

The crowd gasped. Kit winced internally. This was not going their way.

“They don’t support the Cold Peace,” he said.

“Did they vote against it?” asked a warlock with a ring of spikes growing from around her throat.

“We were ten years old,” said Livvy. “We were too young.”

“Children,” hissed the man standing behind the counter of caged faeries. It was hard to tell if he said the word with surprise, contempt, or hunger.

“Oh, he didn’t just bring Nephilim with him,” said Barnabas, with his snakelike grin. “He is one. A Shadowhunter spy.”

“What do we do?” Ty whispered. They were now pressed so tightly together that Kit couldn’t move his arms, pinned between Ty and Livvy.

“Get your weapons,” said Kit. “And get ready to figure out how to run.”

To the twins’ credit, neither gave so much as an intake of breath. Their hands moved quickly at the periphery of Kit’s vision.

“That’s a lie,” he said. “My father is Johnny Rook.”

“And your mother?” said the deep voice of Shade, behind them. A crowd had gathered behind him, too; they couldn’t run that way.

“I don’t know,” said Kit, between his teeth. To his surprise, Hypatia raised her eyebrows, as if she knew something he didn’t. “And it doesn’t matter—we didn’t come here to harm you or spy on you. We needed a warlock’s help.”

“But Nephilim have their own pet warlocks,” said Barnabas, “those willing to betray Downworld as they grub for money in the pockets of the Clave. Though after what all of you did to Malcolm . . .”

“Malcolm?” Hypatia stood up straight. “These are Blackthorns? The ones responsible for his death?”

“He only died halfway,” Ty said. “He came back as a sort of sea demon, for a while. He’s dead now, obviously,” he added, as if realizing that he had somehow put his foot in it.

“This is why Sherlock Holmes lets Watson do the talking,” Kit said to him in a hissing whisper.

“Holmes never lets Watson do the talking,” Ty snapped. “Watson is backup.”

“I’m not backup,” said Kit, and drew a knife from his pocket. He heard the werewolves laugh, mocking the dagger’s puny dimensions, but it didn’t bother him. “Like I said,” he told them. “We came here to peacefully speak to a warlock and leave. I’ve grown up in Shadow Markets. I bear them no ill will, and neither do my companions. But if you attack us, we will fight back. And then there will be others, other Nephilim, who will come to avenge us. And for what? What good will it do?”