“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.