فصل 12

12

BENEATH THE SKY

Mark, Kieran, and Cristina were in the library, packing for their departure to Faerie. Everyone else was there too; at least, everyone except Dru, who had taken Tavvy down to the beach to keep him distracted. Kit doubted she’d actually want to watch them preparing to leave anyway.

Kit felt bad for her—her eyes had still been red when she’d set out with Tavvy and a duffel bag full of toys and sand buckets, though she’d kept her voice cheerful when promising Tavvy she’d help him make a sandcastle city.

But he felt worse for Ty.

It wasn’t just that Mark was going back to Faerie. That was bad enough. It was why he was going. When Mark and Helen had explained that Emma and Julian were on a mission in the Undying Lands and needed assistance, Kit had tensed all over with panic. Ty didn’t just love Julian, he needed him the way kids needed their parents. On top of what had happened to Livvy, how would he deal with it?

They had been in the kitchen, in the early morning, the room flooded with sun. The table still scattered with the remains of breakfast, Dru teasing Tavvy by making mini seraph blades out of pieces of toast and dunking them in jelly. Then Aline had gotten up at some unspoken signal from Helen and taken Tavvy out of the room, promising to show him her favorite illustrated book in the library.

And then Helen had explained what was going on. Mark and Cristina had interjected occasionally, but Kieran had stood quietly by the window while they talked, his dark blue hair threaded through with white.

When they were done, Drusilla was crying quietly. Ty sat in absolute silence, but Kit could see that his right hand, under the table, was moving like a pianist’s, his fingers stretching and curling. He wondered if Ty had forgotten his hand toys—the Internet called them stim toys or stimming objects. He glanced around for something he could hand to Ty, as Mark leaned forward and lightly touched his younger brother’s face.

“Tiberius,” he said. “And Drusilla. I know this must be hard for you, but we will bring Julian back and then we will all be together again.” Dru smiled faintly at him. Don’t say that, Kit thought. What if you can’t bring him back? What if he dies there in Faerie? Making promises you can’t keep is worse than making no promises at all.

Ty stood up and walked out of the kitchen without a word. Kit started to push his chair back, and hesitated. Maybe he shouldn’t go after Ty. Maybe Ty wouldn’t want him to. When he glanced up, he saw that Mark and Cristina were both looking at him—in fact, Kieran was too, with his eerie light-and-dark eyes.

“You should go after him,” Mark said. “You’re the one he wants.”

Kit blinked and stood up. Cristina gave him an encouraging smile as he headed out of the kitchen.

Ty hadn’t gone far; he was in the corridor just outside, leaning back against the wall. His eyes were closed, his lips moving silently. He had a retractable pen in his right hand and was clicking the top of it, over and over, snap snap.

“Are you okay?” Kit said, hovering awkwardly just outside the kitchen door.

Ty opened his eyes and looked toward Kit. “Yeah.”

Kit didn’t say anything. It seemed desperately unlikely to him in that moment that Ty was actually okay. It was too much. Losing Livvy, and now the fear of losing Julian and Mark—and Emma and Cristina. He felt as if he were witnessing the burning away of the Blackthorn family. As if the destruction that Malcolm had wished on them was happening now, even after Malcolm was gone, and they would all be lost, one by one.

But not Ty. Please don’t do this to Ty. He’s good, he deserves better.

Not that people always got what they deserved, Kit knew. It was one of the first things he’d ever learned about life.

“I am okay,” Ty said, as if he could hear Kit’s doubts. “I have to be okay for Livvy. And if anything happens to Mark or to Julian or Emma in Faerie, that’s okay too, because we can bring them all back. We have the Black Volume. We can bring them back.” Kit stared; his mind felt full of white noise and shock. Ty didn’t mean it, he told himself. He couldn’t mean it. The kitchen door opened behind him and Mark came out; he said something Kit didn’t hear and then he went to Ty and put his arms around him.

Ty hugged him back, his forehead against Mark’s shoulder. He was still gripping the pen. Kit saw again the bruises on Ty’s hands and wrists, the ones he must have gotten climbing the pyre in Idris. They stood out so starkly against Ty’s pale skin that Kit imagined he could feel the pain of them himself.

And now he and Kit were sitting on one of the library tables, watching the others pack. Kit couldn’t shake off his feeling of strangeness. The last time Mark and Cristina had disappeared to Faerie, there’d been no warning and no preparation. They’d disappeared overnight with Emma and Julian. This time not only did everyone know about it, they were all pitching in to help as if it were a camping trip.

Mark, Cristina, and Kieran were dressed in the least Shadowhuntery clothes they’d been able to find. Cristina wore a knee-length white dress, and Mark and Kieran had on shirts and trousers that Aline had attacked with a pair of scissors to make them look ragged and uneven. They wore soft shoes, without metal buckles, and Cristina’s hair was tied back with ribbon.

Helen had packed them plastic containers of food—granola bars, apples, things that wouldn’t go bad. There were blankets and bandages and even antiseptic spray, since their steles wouldn’t work in Faerie. And of course there were all the weapons: Cristina’s balisong, dozens of daggers and throwing knives wrapped in soft leather, a crossbow for Mark, and even a bronze shortsword for Kieran, who had buckled it on at his waist with the delighted look of someone who missed being armed.

“Maybe we shouldn’t pack the food now,” Helen said nervously, taking a Tupperware container she’d just packed back out of the bag. “Maybe we should wait until they’re leaving.” Aline sighed. She’d been flipping back and forth all day between looking as if she was going to cry and looking as if she was going to yell at Mark, Kieran, and Cristina for making Helen cry. “Most of that food will keep. That’s the point.” “We can only wait so long to depart,” Mark said. “This is urgent.” He flicked his eyes toward Kit and Ty; Kit turned and realized that Ty had disappeared. No one had left the library, though, so he had to be somewhere in the room.

“Jaime will come as quickly as he can,” Cristina said. She was deftly knotting up a roll of throwing knives.

“If he isn’t here by tonight, we may need to take the moon’s road,” said Kieran.

“And risk being reported to the Courts?” Helen said. “It’s too dangerous. No. You can’t go anywhere until Jaime Rosales shows up.” “He’ll come,” Cristina said, shoving the roll of knives into her pack with some force. “I trust him.” “If he doesn’t, it’s too risky. Especially considering where you’re going.”

Kit slid off the table as Kieran protested; no one was paying attention to him anyway. He walked alongside the rows of bookshelves until he saw Ty, between two stacks of books, his head bent over a piece of paper.

He stopped for a moment and just looked at him. He was aware of Kieran watching him from across the room and wondered why; they’d shared an interesting conversation once, on the roof of the London Institute, where they realized they were both outsiders where the Blackthorn family was concerned.

Kit wasn’t sure that was true anymore, though. Either for him or for Kieran. And they hadn’t spoken since.

He slipped between the rows of books. He couldn’t help noticing they were somewhat ironically in the SEA CREATURES AND THINGS AQUATIC section.

“Ty,” he said. “Ty, what’s going on?”

Perhaps Ty had finally snapped; perhaps the weight of grief and loss and fear had gotten to him. There was something incredibly vulnerable about the thinness of his fingers, the flush on his cheeks when he glanced up. Maybe— Kit realized Ty’s eyes were shining, and not with tears. Ty held up the paper in his hands; it was a letter. “It’s from Hypatia Vex,” he said in a low voice. “She’s agreed to help us with the Shadow Market.” * * *

“What’s going on?” Julian jogged down the curving steps from Fergus’s bower, twisting his shirt around as he went. Emma followed more cautiously, having stopped to throw on clothes and grab her pack.

Nene stood in the center of Fergus’s room, wearing a long green dress and a heavy green cloak over it trimmed in green and blue feathers. She flicked the hood back with impatient fingers and faced them.

“The Queen has betrayed you,” she said again. “Even now she prepares to leave for the Unseelie Court with the Black Volume.” Emma started. “The Unseelie Court? But why?”

Nene gave them a hard glance. “You understand I am betraying my Court and my lady by speaking to you like this,” she said. “If I am found out, it will go worse for me than you can imagine.” “You came to us,” Julian pointed out. He was himself again, calm, measured. Maybe that was what being without your emotions meant; maybe you never really lost yourself in anything. “We didn’t come to you.” “I came because I owe the Blackthorns,” she said. “Because of the wrong my sister Celithe did to Arthur in torturing him, in shattering his mind with magic so that he might never be cured. And because I do not want the Unseelie King to have the Black Volume of the Dead.” “But he might well already have it,” Emma said. “He took Annabel—and Annabel has the book.” “We have spies in the Court, of course,” said Nene. “He does have Annabel. But she will not give him the Black Volume, and because she knows his true name, he cannot make her.” “So why is she staying in the Court?” Julian demanded.

“That I cannot tell you,” Nene said. “Only what the Queen is doing. She does not consider any promises she made to you binding, because the book you brought her is a copy and not the original.” “That’s a ridiculous technicality,” said Emma.

“Faerie turns on ridiculous technicalities,” said Nene. “The Queen will do what the Queen wishes to do. That is the nature of Seelie.” “But why does she want to give the book to the King? She hates the King! She said she wanted to keep it out of his hands—” Emma started.

“She did say she wanted to keep it out of his hands,” Julian said. He was pale. “But she didn’t say she wouldn’t give it to him anyway.” “No,” said Nene. “She did not.”

The Queen’s words echoed in Emma’s head. The Black Volume is more than necromancy. It contains spells that will allow me to retrieve the captive from the Unseelie Court. “She’s going to trade the book for the captive in the Unseelie Court, whoever he is,” said Emma. “Or she.” “He,” said Nene. “It is her son who is captive.”

Julian sucked in a breath. “Why didn’t you tell us that before? If I’d known that—”

Nene glared at him. “Betraying my Queen is no light thing to me! If it were not for my sister’s children, I would never—” “I expected the Queen to betray us,” Julian said. “But not for her to do it so soon, or like this. She must be desperate.” “Because she’s trying to save her child,” said Emma. “How old is he?”

“I do not know,” Nene said. “Ash was always hidden from us. I would not recognize him if I saw him.” “The King can’t have the book. The Queen said that he was blighting the Lands of Faerie with dark magic and filling the rivers with blood. Imagine what he’d do if he had the Black Volume.” “If we can believe the Queen,” said Julian.

“It is the truth as far as I know it,” said Nene. “Since the Cold Peace, the Land of Unseelie has been bleeding evil. It is said that a great weapon resides there, something that but needs the spells of the Black Volume to bring its powers to life. It is something that could wipe out all angelic magic.” “We have to get to the Unseelie Court,” said Emma. “We have to stop the Queen.”

Julian’s eyes glittered. Emma knew what he was thinking. That in the Unseelie Court was Annabel, and with Annabel lay revenge for Livvy’s death. “I agree with you,” he said. “We can follow the Queen—” “You cannot travel as fast as a procession of fey horses,” she said. “Not even Nephilim can run like that. You must intercept the Queen before she reaches the tower.” “The tower?” echoed Emma.

“It is the one permanent stronghold of Unseelie, the place they retreat when under siege. Its fortifications are unmatched in Faerie; none can scale the walls or brave the thorns, and the throne room at the top of the tower is guarded by redcaps. You must join the procession so that you might reach the Queen before she is inside the tower, and it is too late.” “Join the procession? We’ll be noticed!” Emma exclaimed, but Nene was already seizing up a hooded cloak that had been hung by the door and tossing it to Julian.

“Wear this,” she said. “It’s Fergus’s. Pull up the hood. No one will be looking that closely.” She drew off her own cloak and handed it to Emma. “And you will be disguised as me.” She eyed Emma critically as Emma put the cloak on, fastening it at the throat. “At least the blond hair is right.” Julian had disappeared up the steps; when he returned, he was carrying his weapons belt and Emma’s. Fergus’s cloak—black, with raven wings shimmering like oil on the breast and hood—covered him completely. “We’re not going without these.” “Keep them beneath your cloaks,” Nene said. “They are clearly of Shadowhunter make.” She looked them up and down. “As are you. Ah well. We will do the best we can.” “What if we need to flee from Faerie?” said Emma. “What if we get the Black Volume and need to go back to Idris?” Nene hesitated.

“You’ve already betrayed faerie secrets,” said Julian. “What’s one more?”

Nene narrowed her eyes. “You have changed,” she said. “I can only hope it is grief.”

Grief. Everyone in Alicante had thought it was grief that had altered Julian’s behavior, his reactions. Emma had thought it herself at first.

“Make your way to Branwen’s Falls,” said Nene. “Beneath the falls you will find a path back to Alicante. And if you ever speak of this secret to another soul besides each other, my curse will be on your heads.” She pushed open the door, and they crept out into the corridor.

Tavvy had never been satisfied with sandcastles. They bored him. He liked to build what he called sand cities—rows of square sand structures shaped by empty milk cartons turned upside down. They were houses, stores, and schools, complete with signs made with the torn-off fronts of matchbooks.

Dru scuffed her way up and down the beach barefoot, helping Tavvy find sticks, rocks, and seashells that would become lampposts, walls, and bus stops. Sometimes she’d find a piece of sea glass, red or green or blue, and tuck it into the pocket of her overalls.

The beach was empty except for her and Tavvy. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye as he knelt on the wet sand, shaping a massive wall to surround his city—after what had happened with Malcolm, she didn’t plan to take her gaze off him again. But most of her mind was filled up with thoughts of Mark and Emma and Julian. Mark was going to Faerie, and he was going because Julian and Emma were in trouble. Mark hadn’t said, but Dru was pretty sure it was bad trouble. Nothing good came from going to Faerie, and Mark and Cristina and Kieran wouldn’t be running to save them if they thought they’d be all right on their own.

People are leaving me one by one, she thought. First Livvy, then Julian and Emma, now Mark. She stopped to glance out at the ocean: sparkling blue waves rolling over and under. Once she’d watched that ocean thinking that somewhere across it was Helen on her island, protecting the wards of the world. She had remembered her sister’s laugh, her blond hair, and imagined her as a sort of Valkyrie, holding up a spear at the entrance to the world, not letting the demons pass her by.

These days, she could tell that every time Helen looked at her she was sad that Dru wasn’t more friendly, more open to sisterly bonding. Dru knew it was true, but she couldn’t change it. Didn’t Helen understand that if Dru let herself love her older sister, Helen would just be another person for Dru to lose?

“Someone’s coming,” Tavvy said. He was looking down the beach, his blue-green eyes squinted against the sun.

Dru turned and stared. A boy was walking down the empty beach, consulting a small object in his hand as he went. A tall, rail-thin boy with a mop of black hair, brown skin that shone in the sun, and bare, runed arms.

She dropped the seashells she was holding. “Jaime!” she screamed. “Jaime!”

He glanced up and seemed to see her for the first time. A wide grin spread across his face and he started to run, loping across the sand until he reached her. He grabbed her up in a hug, whooping and spinning her around.

She still remembered the odd dream she’d had before Jaime left the London Institute, in which she’d been somewhere—it had felt like Faerie, but then how would she know what Faerie felt like? She’d dismissed it, but the faint memory came back now that he was here—along with other memories: of him sitting and watching movies with her, talking to her about her family, listening to her.

“It’s good to see you again, friend,” he said, setting her down on the sand and ruffling her hair. “It’s very good.” He looked tired, inexpressibly tired, as if he hadn’t hit the ground except for running since the last time she’d seen him. There were dark circles under his eyes. Tavvy was running over to see who he was, and Jaime was asking if she still had the knife he’d given her, and she couldn’t help smiling, her first real smile since Livvy.

He came back, Dru thought. Finally, someone didn’t leave—they came back instead.

They crept along the corridors with Nene, keeping to the shadows. Both Emma and Julian kept their hoods drawn up; Nene had tucked her hair under a cap and, in breeches and a loose shirt, looked like a page boy at first glance.

“What about Fergus?” Emma said.

Nene smiled grimly. “Fergus has been waylaid by a dryad of the sort he most admires. A young sapling.” “Ouch,” said Julian. “Splinters.”

Nene ignored him. “I’ve known Fergus a long time, I know all about his inclinations. He’ll be busy for a good long time.” They had reached a sloping hallway familiar to Emma. She could smell night air coming from one end of the corridor, the scent of leaves and sap and fall. She wondered if it was the same season in Faerie as it was at home. It felt later, as if autumn had already touched the Lands of Faerie with an early frost.

The corridor ended abruptly, opening into a clearing full of grass and stars. Trees stood around in a tall circle, shaking down leaves of gold and russet on a crowd of faerie courtiers and their horses.

The Queen herself sat sidesaddle on a white mare at the head of the procession. A white lace veil covered her face and her shoulders, and white gloves covered her hands. Her red hair streamed down her back. Her courtiers, in gold silk and bright velvet, rode behind her: most on horses, but some on massive, pad-pawed cats and narrow-eyed wolves the size of small cars. A green-skinned dryad with a mass of leaves for hair rode tucked into the branches of a walking tree.

Emma couldn’t help looking around herself in wonder. She was a Shadowhunter, used to magic; still, there was something so alien at the heart of the Courts of Faerie that it still made her marvel.

Nene led them through the shadows to where her horse and Fergus’s waited, already in the procession’s line, between a sprite riding a winged toadstool and two faerie girls in russet dresses with identical black hair, who sat one in front of the other on a bay mare. Emma pulled herself up into the saddle of Nene’s gray palfrey.

Nene patted the horse’s neck fondly. “Her name is Silvermane. Be kind to her. She knows her own way home.” Emma nodded as Julian mounted Fergus’s bay stallion. “What’s his name?” he asked as the horse pawed the ground and snorted.

“Widowmaker,” said Nene.

Julian snorted under his hood. “Does he make widows out of the people who ride him or people he takes a dislike to?” “Both,” said Nene. She reached into her cloak and drew out two crystal vials, each looped on a golden chain. She handed one to Julian and the other to Emma. “Wear these around your throats,” she said in a low voice. “And keep them close.” Emma looped the chain obediently around her throat. The vial was about the size of her thumb. Pale gold liquid was visible inside it, glimmering as the vial moved. “What are these for?” “If you are in danger in the King’s Court, break the top and drink the liquid,” said Nene.

“Is it poison?” Julian sounded curious as he fastened the chain around his throat. The vial fell against his chest.

“No—it will make you invisible to Unseelie faeries, at least for a time. I don’t know how long the magic lasts. I have never had cause to use it.” A squawking goblin with a piece of parchment and a massive quill pen was running along the side of the procession, marking off names. He cast a quick glance at Emma and Julian. “Lady Nene, Lord Fergus,” he said. “We are about to depart.” “We?” said Julian in a bored voice. Emma blinked, astonished by how much he sounded like a faerie. “Are you accompanying us, goblin? Would you enjoy a holiday in the Court of Unseelie?” The goblin squinted. “Are you well, Lord Fergus? You sound different.”

“Perhaps because I pine for goblin heads to decorate my bower,” said Julian. “Off with you.” He aimed a kick at the goblin, who made a hissing sound of fright and skittered away from them, hurrying down the line.

“Be careful what masks you wear, child,” Nene said, “lest you lose your true face forever.” “False or true, it is all the same,” said Julian, and picked up the reins as the procession began to move forward into the night.

Before Kit could answer Ty, a commotion in the library drew them out from behind the shelves.

Dru had returned to the library and was hanging back by the door, looking shy but smiling. A good-looking dark-eyed boy who resembled a narrower version of Diego Rocio Rosales was hugging Cristina. Mark and Kieran were both looking at him with uneasy expressions. As soon as Cristina let him go, Helen strode over to shake his hand. “Welcome to the Los Angeles Institute, Jaime,” she said. “Thanks so much for coming on such short notice.” “Jaime Rocio Rosales,” said Ty to Kit, under his breath.

“I found him on the beach and brought him straight up,” Dru said proudly.

Helen looked puzzled. “But how did you recognize him?”

Dru exchanged a look with Jaime, part panic and part resignation.

“He stayed with me for a few days when we were at the London Institute,” Dru said.

Everyone looked astonished, though Kit wasn’t exactly sure why. The relationships between different Shadowhunter families were endlessly confusing: some, like Emma, Jace, and Clary, were treated almost like Blackthorn family; some weren’t. He had to hand it to Dru, though, for managing to conceal the fact she had someone in her room in London from everyone else. It indicated a talent for deception. Along with her lock-picking skills, she definitely had a criminal bent he admired.

“You mean he was in your room?” Mark demanded incredulously. He turned to Jaime, who had backed up against one of the long tables. “She’s only thirteen!” Jaime looked incredulous. “I thought she had to be at least sixteen—”

Helen sucked in her breath. Mark handed his pack to Kieran, who took it, looking baffled. “Stay where you are, Jaime Rosales.” “Why?” said Jaime suspiciously.

Mark advanced. “So I can rain blows down upon you.”

Like an acrobat, Jaime flipped himself backward, landing squarely atop the table. He glared down at Mark. “I don’t know what you think happened, but nothing did. Dru is my friend, whatever her age. That is all.” Ty turned to whisper in Kit’s ear. “I don’t get it—why is Mark angry?”

Kit thought about it. It was one of the great things about Ty, actually—he made you consider the threads of subconscious logic that wove beneath the surface of ordinary conversations. The suppositions and assumptions people made without ever considering why, the implications of certain words and gestures. Kit didn’t think he’d take those things for granted again. “You know how knights in stories defend a lady’s honor?” he whispered. “Mark thinks he has to defend Drusilla’s honor.” “That table is going to break,” Ty said.

He was right. The legs of the table Jaime was standing on were wobbling dangerously.

Dru leaped in between Mark and Jaime, arms spread wide. “Stop,” she said fiercely. “I didn’t tell Jaime how old I was because he was my friend. He listened to me and he watched horror movies with me and he acted like what I said was important and I didn’t want him to treat me like a little kid.” “But you are only a child,” Mark said. “He should not treat you as an adult.”

“He treated me like a friend,” said Dru. “I might be young, but I’m not a liar.”

“She is telling you that you have to trust her, Mark,” said Kieran. He rarely said much around the Blackthorns; Kit was surprised, but couldn’t disagree.

Cristina stepped around Mark and moved to stand next to Dru. They couldn’t have looked more different—Cristina in her white dress, Dru in overalls and a black T-shirt—but they wore identical stubborn expressions.

“Mark,” said Cristina. “I understand you feel you have not been here to protect your family for so many years. But that does not mean mistrusting them now. Nor would Jaime hurt Dru.” The door of the library opened; it was Aline. No one but Kit watched as she crossed the room and whispered in Helen’s ear. No one but Kit saw Helen’s expression change, her lips whiten.

“Dru is like a little sister to me,” said Jaime, and Dru winced almost imperceptibly.

Mark turned to Dru. “I’m sorry, sister. I should have listened to you.” He looked up at Jaime, and his eyes flashed. “I believe you, Jaime Rocio Rosales. But I can’t speak for what Julian will do when he finds out.” “You guys are really incentivizing me to let you use the Eternidad to get to Faerie,” said Jaime.

“Stop bickering.” Helen’s voice rang out. “Earlier I sent word to my aunt Nene in the Seelie Court. She just returned my message. She said that Emma and Julian were there—but they’ve gone. They just set forth from the Seelie Court to the Unseelie Court.” Kieran’s eyes darkened. Cristina said, “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said. “But it means that we have a specific location where we know they’ll be.” Kieran touched the sword at his waist. “I know a place along the road that leads between Seelie and Unseelie where we can waylay them. But once they pass it, we may be too late. If we are going to go, we should go now.” Jaime leaped down off the table with the lightness of a cat. “I’ll get the heirloom.” He began to rummage through his pack. “Cristina, only you can use it, because whoever uses it must have Rosales blood.” Cristina and Jaime exchanged a significant look, indecipherable to Kit.

“You can use it to get to Faerie, and also back,” said Jaime. “Your passage in and out of the Lands will be undetectable. But it cannot protect you while you are there.” He handed something to Cristina; Kit could only catch a glimpse of it. It looked like smooth wood, twisted into an odd shape.

Kieran and Mark were strapping their packs on. Dru had gone over to Helen, who looked as if she’d like to put an arm around her younger sister, but Dru wasn’t standing close enough for that.

Something about the sight of them made Kit put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. He was aware of the warmth of the other boy’s skin through his T-shirt. Ty glanced at him sideways. “You better go say good-bye, or good trip,” Kit said awkwardly.

Ty hesitated a moment, and then went, Kit’s hand sliding off his shoulder as if Ty had never noticed it there. Kit hung back during the good-byes, the tearful hugs, the whispered promises, the ruffling of hair. Helen held fiercely to Mark as if she never wanted to let him go, while Aline went to get Tavvy, who was playing in his room.

Jaime hung back too, though he did watch Kit out of the corner of his eye, with a curious look, as if to say, Who is that guy?

When Aline came back, Tavvy dutifully hugged everyone who was leaving—even Kieran, who looked startled and touched. He dropped his hand to touch Tavvy’s hair lightly. “Worry not, little one.” And then it was time for Ty and Mark to say farewell, and Mark touched Ty lightly on each cheek, once—a faerie good-bye.

“Don’t die,” Ty said.

Mark’s smile looked painful. “I won’t.”

Helen reached for Ty, and the small group of remaining Blackthorns gathered as Cristina held the Eternidad against her chest. It was definitely a piece of polished wood, Kit saw now, twisted somehow into the infinity symbol—no beginning and no end.

“Gather together, all of you who are going to Faerie,” said Jaime. “You must be touching each other.” Mark and Kieran each put a hand on one of Cristina’s shoulders. She looked quite small between them. Mark rubbed the back of her neck with his thumb: a soothing, almost absent gesture; the intimacy of it startled Kit.

Jaime seemed to notice it as well; his gaze sharpened. But all he said was, “You must tell the artifact where to take you. You don’t want to let it choose.” Kieran turned to Cristina. “We go to Bram’s Crossroads.”

Cristina lowered her gaze, her hands brushing lightly over the artifact. “Take us to Bram’s Crossroads,” she said.

Faerie magic was quiet, Kit thought. There was no noise, no tumult, no flashing warlock lights. In between one breath and another, Mark, Kieran, and Cristina simply disappeared.

Another meeting, Diana thought. And an emergency one at that: She’d been woken early in the morning by a fire-message summoning her to a Council meeting at the Gard.

Gwyn had tried to coax her back into bed, but Diana was too worried. Worried for Jia. Worried for Emma and Julian. She knew Horace was making an example out of them with this house arrest, but they were just children. How long was this punishment meant to last? And how long would Julian be all right separated from his siblings?

She’d left Gwyn with a kiss and hurried to the Gard, where she’d discovered Shadowhunters from all over—not just the usual Alicante crowd—pouring into the Gard through doors guarded by Centurions. She’d barely gotten a seat toward the front, next to Kadir Safar of the New York Conclave.

When the doors had been closed, they had all been left staring at a dais that was empty except for a single chair with a tall wooden back, and a black-draped table. The drapery looked as if it were covering something—lumpy—that sent a chill up Diana’s spine. She told herself it couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. Perhaps it was a pile of weapons.

As the Council slowly settled into their places, a silence fell over the room. Horace Dearborn, fully decked out in his Inquisitor robes, was striding onto the dais, followed by Manuel and Zara in Centurion garb, each carrying a long spear etched with the words primus pilus.

“First spears,” Kadir translated. Diana had met him before: an often silent man who had been Maryse’s second-in-command for years, and still headed up the New York Conclave. He looked tired and tense, a sallowness to his dark skin that hadn’t been there before. “It means they have been promoted to Centurions who personally guard the Inquisitor and Consul.” “Speaking of the Consul,” Diana whispered back, “where is Jia?”

Her murmur caught, like a spark in dry tinder, and soon the whole Council was muttering. Horace held up a placating hand.

“Greetings, Nephilim,” he said. “Our Consul, Jia Penhallow, sends regards. She is at the Adamant Citadel, consulting with the Iron Sisters about the Mortal Sword. It will soon be reforged, allowing trials to begin again.” The noise subsided to a mutter.

“It is an unfortunate coincidence that both meetings had to be held at the same moment,” Horace continued, “but time is of the essence. It will be difficult to have this meeting without Jia, but I know of her positions and will be representing them here.” His voice echoed through the room. He must be using an Amplification rune, Diana thought.

“The last time we met here we discussed stricter laws that would codify accountability among Downworlders,” Horace said. “Our Consul, in her kindness and generosity, wished us to put off the decision to implement these laws—but these people do not respond to kindness.” His face had gone red under his thinning blond hair. “They respond to strength! And we must make Shadowhunters strong again!” A murmur spread through the Hall. Diana looked around for Carmen, who had spoken so bravely at the last meeting, but could find her nowhere in the crowd. She whispered to Kadir, “What is this about? Why did he bring us here to rant at us?” Kadir looked grim. “The question is, what’s he leading up to?”

Diana studied the faces of Manuel and Zara but could read nothing on them except smugness on Zara’s. Manuel was as blank as a piece of new paper.

“With all respect for our Consul, I was willing to go along with the delay,” said Horace, “but events have now transpired that make waiting impossible.” A murmur of expectation ran through the room—what was he talking about?

He turned to his daughter. “Zara, let them see the atrocity the Fair Folk have committed against us!” With a look of grim delight, Zara crossed the dais to the table and whipped the black sheet away as if she were a magician performing in front of a crowd.

A moan of horror went through the crowd. Diana felt her own gorge rise. Beneath the sheet were the remains of Dane Larkspear, splayed out on the table like a corpse ready to be autopsied.

His head was tilted back, his mouth open in a silent scream. His rib cage had been torn to shreds, bits of white bone and yellow tendon peeking through the grotesque slashes. His skin looked withered and ashen, as if he had been dead some time.

Horace’s voice rose to a shout. “You see before you a brave young man who was sent on a mission of peace to Faerie, and this is what they return to us. This savaged corpse!” A terrible scream rent the silence. A woman with Dane Larkspear’s dark hair and bony face was on her feet, howling. Elena Larkspear, Diana realized. A bulky man whose features seemed to be collapsing in on themselves with shock and horror had her in his arms; as the crowd stared openly, he dragged her screaming from the room.

Diana felt sick. She hadn’t liked Dane Larkspear, but he was just a child, and his parents’ grief was real. “This is how the family found out?” There was bitterness in Kadir’s tone. “It makes for better theater. Dearborn has always been less a politician than a performer.” Across the aisle, Lazlo Balogh shot them both a dirty look. He wasn’t an official member of the Cohort, as far as Diana knew, but he was definitely a sympathizer.

“And savaged it was!” Zara cried, her eyes glittering. “Behold the bite marks—the work of kelpies! Perhaps even helped by vampires, or werewolves—” “Stop it, Zara,” Manuel muttered. No one seemed to have noticed Zara’s ranting, though. There was too much chaos in the crowd. Shadowhunters were cursing and swearing in a dozen different languages. Diana felt a cold despair settle over her.

“This is not all—more Downworlder crimes have come to light in just these past days,” said Horace. “A group of brave Centurions, loyal to their Shadowhunter heritage, discovered an Unseelie prince hiding at the Scholomance.” He turned to Zara and Manuel. “Bring forth the traitors!” “This is not how we do things,” Diana whispered. “This is not how Shadowhunters comport themselves, nor how we hold our own accountable—” She broke off before Kadir could reply. Zara and Manuel had disappeared into one of the corridors beside the dais; they returned with Timothy Rockford by their side. Between them marched a line of students familiar to Diana—Diego Rosales, Rayan Maduabuchi, and Divya Joshi.

Their hands were bound behind them, their mouths closed with runes of Quietude, runes that usually only Silent Brothers bore. Diana’s eyes met Diego’s: She saw the raw fear behind them.

“Runes of Quietude,” said Kadir in disgust, as the Hall erupted into screams. “Imagine being treated like this, and silenced—unable to protest.” Diana bolted to her feet. “What are you doing, Horace? These are just children! Shadowhunter children! It is our job to protect them!” Horace’s amplified voice made his hiss of annoyance echo through the room. “Yes, they are our children, our hope for the future! And our sympathy toward Downworlders has made them easy prey for deceit. These misguided souls smuggled a faerie ‘prince’ out of the Scholomance after his vicious attack on another one of our most promising young minds.” The room fell silent. Diana exchanged a bewildered look with Kadir. What was Horace talking about?

Manuel’s eyes flicked to the left. He was smirking. A second later Gladstone appeared, half-carrying a girl in a ragged dress, a Centurion cloak thrown over her shoulders.

It was Samantha Larkspear. Her black hair hung down over her face in strings and her eyes darted back and forth like trapped insects. Her hands were crooked into claws at her sides: She held one out, batting it toward the audience as if she were swatting away flies.

Diana felt as if she might throw up.

Manuel stalked toward her, his hands looped carelessly behind his back. “Samantha Larkspear,” he said. A groan rippled around the crowd as people realized that this was the sister of the dead and maimed boy on the table. “Tell us of Prince Kieran!” Samantha began to whip her head back and forth, her hair swinging. “No, no! Such terrible pain!” she moaned. “Don’t make me think of Prince Kieran!” “That poor girl,” Lazlo Balogh announced loudly. “Traumatized by Downworlders.”

Diana could see Diego shaking his head, Rayan trying to speak, but no sound or words coming out. Divya merely stared stonily at Manuel, hatred clear in her every flicker of expression.

“Perhaps you would like to talk to the prisoners,” Manuel suggested to Samantha, his tone like an oily caress. “The ones who let Prince Kieran free?” Samantha shied away from Diego and the others, her face contorted. “No! Keep them away from me! Don’t let them look at me!” Diana sank back in her seat. Whatever had happened to Samantha, she knew it was no fault of Kieran’s or the others’, but she could feel the mood of the crowd: stark horror. No one would want to hear a defense of them now.

“My God, what’s he going to do?” she whispered, half to herself. “What’s Horace going to do to Diego and the others?” “Put them in jail,” said Kadir bleakly. “Make an example of them. They cannot be tried now, while the Mortal Sword is broken. Horace will leave them there to inspire hatred and fear. A symbol to point to whenever his policies are questioned. Look what happened.” On the dais, Samantha was sobbing. Manuel had taken her into his arms, as if to comfort her, but Diana could see the force with which he held the wailing girl. He was restraining her as the crowd roared for Horace to speak.

Horace stepped forward, his amplified voice carrying over the din as Zara looked on with proud pleasure. “We cannot allow any more young Shadowhunters to suffer and die!” he yelled, and the crowd exploded with agreement.

As if Diego and Divya and Rayan weren’t young Shadowhunters. As if they weren’t suffering.

“We cannot allow our world to be taken from us,” Horace shouted, as Manuel’s fingers bit into Samantha’s shoulders. “We must be strong enough to protect our children and our homeland. The time has come to put Nephilim first!” Horace raised his triumphantly clenched fists. “Who will join me in voting for the registration of all Downworlders?” The howl of the answering crowd was like a river roaring out of control, sweeping away all of Diana’s hopes.