“I know,” Cristina said. “It is not that I blame you for anything. I—for such a long time, we were Cristina-and-Diego. A pair, together. And when that was over, I felt half myself. When you came back, I thought we could be as we were before, and I tried, but—”
“You don’t love me like that anymore,” he finished.
She paused for a moment. “No,” she said. “I don’t. Not like that. It was like trying to return to a place in your childhood you remember as perfect. It will always have changed, because you have changed.”
Diego’s Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. “I can’t blame you. I don’t like myself much right now.”
“Maybe this could help you like yourself a little more. It would be a great kindness, Diego.”
He shook his head. “Trust you, I suppose, to take pity on a lost faerie.”
“It isn’t pity,” said Cristina. She glanced back over her shoulder; Zara had left the room some moments earlier and hadn’t returned yet. Samantha was glaring at her, though, apparently in the belief that Cristina was trying to steal Zara’s fiancé. “They frighten me. They will kill him after he testifies.”
“The Cohort is frightening,” Diego said. “But the Cohort is not the Centurions, and not all Centurions are like Zara. Rayan, Divya, Gen are good people. Like the Clave, it is an organization that has a cancer at its heart. Some of the body is sick and some healthy. Our mission is to discover a way to kill the sickness without killing all of the body.”
The doors of the Council Hall opened. The Consul, Jia Penhallow, entered, her silver-flecked dark robes sweeping around her.
The room, which had been full of lively chatter, sank to hushed murmurs. Cristina sat back as the Consul began to climb the stairs to the dais.
* * *
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice, Nephilim.” The Consul stood in front of a low wooden podium, its base decorated with the sigil of four Cs. There was gray in her black hair now that Emma didn’t remember seeing before, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. It couldn’t be easy, being the Consul during a time of unspoken war. “Most of you know about Malcolm Fade. He was one of our closest allies, or so we thought. He betrayed us some weeks ago, and even now we are still learning of the bloody and terrible crimes he committed.”
The murmur that went around the room sounded to Emma like the rush of the tide. She wished Julian was next to her so that she could bump his shoulder with hers, or squeeze his hand, but—mindful of the Inquisitor’s instruction—they had sat at the opposite end of the long bench after he’d told her Magnus had collapsed.
“I promised Annabel Magnus would be with her,” he’d said in a low voice, not wanting the younger Blackthorns to hear and be panicked. “I gave my word.”
“You couldn’t have guessed. Poor Magnus. There was no way to know he was sick.”
But she remembered herself, saying, Don’t promise what you can’t deliver. And she felt cold, all over.
“There is a longer story to Fade’s betrayal, one you might not know,” Jia said. “In 1812 he fell in love with a Shadowhunter girl, Annabel Blackthorn. Her family deplored the idea of her marrying a warlock. In the end, she was murdered—by other Nephilim. Malcolm was told she had become an Iron Sister.”
“Why didn’t they kill him, too?” called someone from the crowd.
“He was a powerful warlock. A valuable asset,” said Jia. “In the end it was decided to leave him alone. But when he discovered what had actually happened to Annabel, he lost his mind. This past century he has spent seeking revenge against Shadowhunters.”
“My lady.” It was Zara, upright and very prim; she’d just come in through the Hall doors and was standing in the aisle. “You tell us this story as if you mean for us to have sympathy for the girl and the warlock. But Malcolm Fade was a monster. A murderer. Some girl’s infatuation with him doesn’t excuse what he did.”
“I find,” said Jia, “that there is a difference between an excuse and an explanation.”
“Then why are we being treated to this explanation? The warlock is dead. I hope this is not some attempt to wring reparations out of the Council. No one associated with that monster deserves any recompense for his death.”
Jia’s look was like the edge of a blade. “I understand that you’ve been very active in Council affairs lately, Zara,” she said. “That does not mean you can interrupt the Consul. Go and sit down.”
After a moment, Zara sat, looking angry. Aline pumped her fist. “Go, Mom,” she whispered.
However, someone else had risen up to take Zara’s place. Her father. “Consul,” he said. “We’re not ignorant; we were told this meeting would involve significant testimony by a witness that would impact the Clave. Isn’t it about time you brought that witness out? If indeed, they exist?”
“Oh, she exists,” Jia said. “It is Annabel. Annabel Blackthorn.”
Now the murmur that went through the room sounded like the crash of a wave. A moment later Robert Lightwood appeared, wearing a grim expression. Behind him came two guards, and between them walked Annabel.
Annabel seemed quite small as she came up on the dais beside the Inquisitor. The Black Volume was hanging from a strap over her back, which made her look even younger, like a girl on her way to school.
A hiss went through the room. Undead, Emma heard, and Unclean. Annabel shrank back against Robert.
“This is an outrage,” sputtered Zara’s father. “Did we not all suffer enough from the corrosive filth of the Endarkened? Must you bring this thing in front of us?”
Julian sprang to his feet. “The Endarkened were not undead,” he said, turning to face the Hall. “They were Turned by the Infernal Cup. Annabel is exactly who she was in life. She was tortured by Malcolm, kept in a half-alive state for years. She wants to help us.”
“Julian Blackthorn,” sneered Dearborn. “My daughter told me about you—your uncle was mad, your whole family’s mad, only a madman would find this a good idea—”
“Do not,” said Annabel, and her voice rang out clear and strong, “speak that way to him. He is my blood kin.”
“Blackthorns,” said Dearborn. “Seems they’re all mad, dead, or both!”
If he’d expected a laugh, he didn’t get one. The room was silent.
“Sit,” the Consul said to Dearborn coldly. “It appears your family has an issue with the way Nephilim are meant to comport themselves. Interrupt me again and you’ll be thrown out of the Hall.”
Dearborn sat, but his eyes gleamed with rage. He wasn’t the only one. Emma scanned the room quickly and saw clusters of hateful glares directed at the dais. She choked back her nerves; Julian had pushed his way into the aisle and was standing facing the front of the room. “Annabel,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Tell them about the King.”
“The Unseelie King,” Annabel said softly. “The Lord of Shadows. He was in league with Malcolm. It is important you all know this, because even now, he plans the destruction of all Shadowhunters.”
“But the Fair Folk are weak!” A man in an embroidered gandora was on his feet, dark eyes sparking with concern. Cristina murmured into Emma’s ear that he was the head of the Marrakech Institute. “Years of the Cold Peace have weakened them. The King cannot hope to stand against us.”
“Not in a clash of equal armies, no,” Annabel said in her small voice. “But the King has harnessed the power of the Black Volume, and he has learned how to destroy the power of the Nephilim. How to cancel out runes, seraph blades, and witchlight. You would be fighting his forces with no more power than mundanes—”