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.
Diego hesitated. “Your father—” he began.
Alec set his glass down and walked across the room to Magnus. He bent and kissed him on the forehead and the cheek. Magnus didn’t move, only slept on peacefully, his cat’s eyes closed.
Kit envied him.
“Stay here,” Alec said to Kit and Kieran. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
Diego looked after him grimly. Kit felt a little sick. He had a feeling that whatever had happened to Alec’s father, it hadn’t been minor.
Kieran yanked his curtain rod out of the wall and pointed it at Diego. “You have delivered your message,” he said. “Now go. I will protect the boy and the warlock.”
Diego shook his head. “I am here to get you”—he pointed at Kieran—“and take you to the Scholomance.”
“I will not go anywhere with you,” said Kieran. “You have no morality. You brought dishonor upon Lady Cristina.”
“You’ve no idea what happened between me and Cristina,” added Diego in a frozen voice. Kit noticed that Perfect Diego was looking a little less than perfect. The shadows under his eyes were deep and violet, and his brown skin was sallow. Exhaustion and tension drew his fine features tight.
“Say what you will of faeries,” Kieran said. “We have no greater scorn than that we hold toward those who betray a heart given into their keeping.”
“It was Cristina,” said Diego, “who asked me to come here and bring you to the Scholomance. If you refuse, you will be dishonoring her wishes.”
Kieran scowled. “You are lying.”
“I am not,” said Diego. “She feared for your safety. The Cohort’s hatred is at a fever pitch and the Hall runs wild. You will be safe if you come with me, but I can promise nothing otherwise.”
“How would I be safe at the Scholomance, with Zara Dearborn and her friends?”
“She won’t be there,” said Diego. “She and Samantha and Manuel plan to remain here, in Idris, at the heart of power. Power is all they have ever wanted. The Scholomance is a place of peaceful study.” He held his hand out. “Come with me. For Cristina.”
Kit stared, his breath caught. It was a very strange moment. He had learned enough about Shadowhunters now to understand what it meant that Diego was a Centurion, and what laws he was breaking, offering to smuggle Kieran to the Scholomance. And he understood enough of the pride of the Fair Folk to know what Kieran was accepting if he agreed.
There was another roar of noise outside. “If you’re here,” Kit said cautiously, “and the Cohort attacks you, Mark and Cristina will want to protect you. And they could get hurt doing it.”
Kieran set the curtain rod down on the floor. He looked at Kit. “Tell Mark where I have gone,” he said. “And give Cristina my thanks.”
Kit nodded. Diego inclined his head before stepping forward and taking Kieran awkwardly by the arm. He pressed the fingers of his other hand against the Primi Ordines pin on his gear.
Before Kit could speak, Diego and Kieran vanished, a swirl of bright light streaking across the air where they had stood.
* * *
The guards surged forward as Jia reached to catch Robert’s slumping body. Her face a mask of horror, Jia sank to her knees, reaching for her stele, carving an iratze onto Robert’s limp, dangling arm.
His blood spread out around them both, a sluggishly moving pool of scarlet.
“Annabel.” Julian’s voice was barely a whisper of bone-deep shock. Emma could almost see the abyss of guilt and self-blame opening at his feet. He began to struggle frantically against the grip of the guards holding him. “Let me go, let me go—”