“I’m still not saying it. I’m never going to say it,” said Kit.
“What is it?” Ty demanded.
“Just let us in,” said Kit. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Hale barked a laugh. “You don’t want trouble? You two? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know what kind of mayhem you caused in London? You wrecked property, attacked vendors, and you”—he pointed at Ty—“destroyed a great deal of fey stock. I hate you both. Go away.”
“Hear me out,” Kit said. “Remember when that faerie burned half the Market down and was welcomed back the next year because she had a bumper crop of hen’s teeth? Remember the werewolf and the llama and how that turned out? And he wasn’t banned, because he had a line on a supply of yin fen.”
“What’s your point?” said Hale. He sighed. “God, I wish I had a cigar. Had to quit.”
“The spirit of the Market is simple,” said Kit. “Everything’s okay as long as you make a profit. Right?”
“Sure,” said Hale. “And that’s why we tolerated Johnny Rook. We tolerated you because the Shadowhunters hadn’t found you yet. But now they have and it’s a hop, skip, and a jump until you find out who you really are—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ty. The wind had picked up and was blowing his dark hair like streamers.
“Nothing for free,” Hale said, with the annoyance of a man who’d said too much, and who also wanted a cigar and couldn’t have one. “Besides, your money is no good here, Rook.” He waved a hand in Ty’s direction. “I might be able to get something in exchange for your skinny friend in the right circles, but not enough.”
“Theoretically, how much?” asked Ty with interest.
Hale looked grim. “Not as good a price as I could get for Emma Carstairs—even more for just her head.”
Ty blanched. Kit felt it, Ty’s recollection that the Market was, in fact, truly dangerous. That it was all truly dangerous.
Kit felt the situation was getting away from him. “No heads. Look, my father didn’t trust anyone, Mr. Hale. You know that. He hid his most precious items all over Los Angeles, buried in places he thought no one would ever find them.”
“I’m listening,” said Hale.
Kit knew this was the risky part. “One is right here in the Shadow Market. A ruby-encrusted copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic.”
The phouka whistled, long and low.
“Not only will I give it to you, I’ll give it to you for free,” said Kit. “All you have to do is let us back into the Shadow Market. Free trade.”
Hale shook his head in regret. “Now I really wish I had a cigar, so I could celebrate,” he said. “I already found that, you stupid brat. We dug up your dad’s stall after the Mantids killed him.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The moonlight seemed to bounce off his white, scaled skin. “You’re out of your depth, kids. Get out of Downworld before someone kills you. That person could even be me.”
A forked tongue shot from between his teeth and licked his lips. Kit started back, revolted, as Hale melted into the Market and was swallowed up by the crowds.
Kit couldn’t look at Ty. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, shock and shame warring for an equal chance to turn his stomach. “I . . . ,” he began.
“You should have just given the password,” said the phouka.
Out of patience, Kit slowly raised his middle finger. “Here’s the password.”
Ty muffled a laugh and grabbed Kit’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
“I am proud to announce,” said Horace Dearborn, “that the proposed Downworld Registry is ready to become a reality.”
The sound that went through the rows of Nephilim seated in the Council Hall was hard to decipher. To Diana it sounded like the roar of an animal driving another hungry beast away from its prey.
Horace stood with his hands folded behind his back, a toneless smirk on his face. At his left stood Zara, in full Centurion regalia, her hair braided in a crown around her head. At his right was Manuel, his expression carefully blank, his eyes dancing with malice. They looked like a horrible mockery of a family portrait.
“All Institutes will have a short amount of time to register their local Downworlders,” said Horace. “The heads of Institutes must meet a quota of registrations, based on our knowledge of local Downworld populations, in the first weeks this Law takes effect.”
Diana sat, letting the words wash over her in waves of horror. She couldn’t help but look at Jia, who occupied a tall wooden seat at the edge of the dais. Her face was a strained mask. Diana couldn’t help but wonder if this was more extreme even than what Jia had feared Horace might propose.
“And if Downworlders refuse?” called someone from the audience.
“Then they will have their protections under the Accords stripped from them,” Zara said, and Diana went cold all over. No Accords protection meant a Shadowhunter could kill a Downworlder in the street for no reason, and there would be no consequences. “We understand this will be a great burden of work on Institutes, but it is important that everyone cooperate, for the good of all Shadowhunters.”
“Each Downworlder registered will be given a number,” said Horace. “If a Downworlder is stopped by a Shadowhunter for any reason, anywhere, they can be asked for this number.”
The noise in the room was decidedly more worried now.
“Think of it as a sort of identification card,” said Manuel. “Safety and accountability are two of our chief concerns.”
“I want to hear from the Consul!” shouted Carmen Delgado Mendoza, head of the Mexico City Institute, from the audience. She was Cristina’s mother, and looked more than a little bit like her daughter.
Horace looked annoyed; technically, as the one proposing a new Law, he had the floor and could speak for a certain number of minutes uninterrupted. Diana felt that he had already been speaking for several years.
He gestured ungraciously toward Jia, who gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “It is my opinion that this Law is not a good idea,” she said. “Downworlders will resist what they will see to be a major overreach on the part of the Nephilim. It establishes an atmosphere of mistrust.”
“That’s because we don’t trust them,” said Manuel. There was a gale of laughter from the back of the room.
Diana could stand it no longer. She rose to her feet. “I have a question for the Inquisitor!”
Horace looked at her with hooded eyes. “We will take questions and comments later, Diana.”
Diana didn’t like the emphasis he put on her name. As if he found it distasteful. Probably Zara had told her father a pack of lies about Diana; Diana had once humiliated Zara in front of her fellow Centurions. Narcissists like Zara didn’t forget insults.
“Let her speak,” said Jia. “Everyone on the Council has a voice.”
Intensely aware of the eyes on her, Diana said, “This may seem like a small action, but it’s not going to seem small to Downworlders. It will have repercussions. Even if the Registry is temporary, there will always be reasons to continue it. It is far harder to dismantle this sort of structure than it is to build it. We could face a situation where Downworlders insist that Shadowhunters also be registered, for parity. Are you prepared to have Nephilim carry their papers everywhere with them?”
This had the desired effect. The Council burst into angry buzzing. “No! Never!” Dearborn snapped.
“Then this effectively creates an underclass of Downworlders,” said Diana. “We will have rights that they don’t. Think about that.”
“And why are you so bothered by that idea, Diana Wrayburn?” said Manuel in his soft, charming voice. His eyes glittered like marbles. “Is there a Downworlder, perhaps dear to you, that you worry will be affected?”
“Many Shadowhunters have Downworlders that are dear to them,” said Diana evenly. “You cannot cleanly sever us from a group of human beings who h
ave more in common with us than mundanes do.”
Diana knew the answer to that: We’re not afraid of mundanes. It’s Downworlders we fear, and we seek to control what we fear. But it was unlikely Horace had that kind of self-awareness. He glared at her with open loathing as she took her seat.
“This is clearly a complex issue,” said Jia, rising to her feet. “I suggest we stay this vote for a week until the Council has had time to come to terms with all its ramifications.”