Zara entered without knocking, as was her usual style. She wore her Centurion gear, as she always did. Manuel found it pretentious. “The Rosewains are here, and the Keos, and the Rosaleses.” She was fuming. “They all arrived at once, through Portals. It’s like they’re not even trying to hide it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Manuel. “If we hadn’t been tipped off about the meeting, I don’t think we’d have noticed. Too many people coming and going.”
“Don’t compliment Julian Blackthorn,” said Zara, scowling. “He’s a traitor.”
“Oh, clearly,” said Manuel. “But now we get to punish them, which I’m going to enjoy.”
“I’m sure you are.” Zara gave him a superior look, but Manuel knew she was going to enjoy the punishment of the Blackthorns just as much as he was. They both hated Emma. Of course, Manuel had good reason—she’d shown him disrespect at the last Council Hall meeting—while Zara was merely jealous.
“We will make an example of them,” said Horace. “After the parley. Not the younger Blackthorns—no one likes to see a child die, even if the seeds of evil are in them. But Julian certainly, and that half-breed brother and sister of his. The Carstairs girl, of course. Aline Penhallow is a tricky question—”
The door opened. Manuel looked around curiously; there was only one other visitor to Horace’s office who, like Zara, never bothered knocking.
A tall, blond Shadowhunter stepped into the room. Manuel had seen him earlier, coming through the Great Gates. Oskar Lindquist, having separated himself from the rest of his equally blond family.
Horace glanced up. His eyes glittered. “Shut the door behind you.”
Oskar made a sound between a growl and a laugh, closing and locking the office door. There was a slight shimmer in the air as he turned and began to change. It was like watching water spill over a painting, distorting and altering the lines of it.
Zara made a low noise of disgust as Oskar’s head fell back and his body spasmed, his hair turning a dark brownish-black and falling to spill over his shoulders, his spine compacting as he shrank down into a smaller frame, the lines of his jaw softening into a new, familiar outline.
Annabel Blackthorn looked at them out of steady blue-green eyes.
“So, how was the meeting?” Horace said. “We surmised it hadn’t gone well, considering the number of Shadowhunters returning to Idris.”
“I believe it went as intended.” Horace wrinkled his brow as Annabel sat stiffly in a chair opposite his desk. Zara watched her warily; Horace kept referring to Annabel as the Unseelie King’s gift to him, but perhaps Zara didn’t consider it a gift. “Except for the fact that I was there.”
“No one guessed you weren’t Oskar?” said Zara.
“Obviously not.” Annabel was studying her hands as if they were unfamiliar to her. “Their plan is simple to the point of rudimentary. Which could be seen as an advantage—less to go wrong.”
Horace leaned forward, arms resting on his desk. “Are you saying we should be worried?”
“No,” Annabel said, touching the etched glass vial at her throat thoughtfully. Red liquid swirled within it. “The element of surprise was their only advantage. Foolish of them to assume they would not be betrayed.” She sat back in her chair. “Let us begin with the basics. Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild are still alive. . . .”
* * *
Emma stood at the doorway of the Institute. The last of the Downworlders had gone, and they would all be leaving for Brocelind soon. Brother Shadrach had assured Julian and the others that all the guards in Idris had been recalled to the city for the parley. The forest would be deserted.
The afternoon sun glimmered on the sea, and distantly she wondered if, after today, she would ever see the Pacific Ocean again. Long ago her father had told her that the lights that danced on the surface of seawater came from glowing jewels beneath, and that if you reached under the surface, you could catch a jewel in your hand.
She held her hand out in front of her now, palm up, and thought of Jem’s words, and then of Diana’s.
Their runes began to burn like fire, as if they had fire in their veins instead of blood. Black lines spread over their bodies and they became monstrous—physically monstrous.
Across the inside of her forearm, where the skin had been pale and smooth, was a dark webbing of black lines, like cracks in marble, nearly the size of the palm of her hand.
PART THREE
Lady Vengeance
Her strong enchantments failing,
Her towers of fear in wreck,
Her limbecks dried of poisons
And the knife at her neck,
The Queen of air and darkness
Begins to shrill and cry,
“O young man, O my slayer,
Tomorrow you shall die.”
O Queen of air and darkness,
I think ’tis truth you say,
And I shall die tomorrow;
But you will die today.
—A. E. Housman, “Her Strong Enchantments Failing”
28
AND SHADOWS THERE
It was cool in Brocelind Forest; encroaching autumn added a cold metal bite to the air that Emma could taste on her tongue.
Quiet had come suddenly after the rush of Portal travel, the setting up of tents in a cleared space among the ancient trees and green earth. They were far from the blighted areas, Diana promised them—in the distance, over the tops of the trees, Emma could see the glimmer of the demon towers of Alicante.
She stood on a rise overlooking where they’d made camp. There were about a dozen tents, set up in rows, each with two torches burning in front of its flap door. They were cozy inside, with thick rugs on the floor and even blankets. Alec had given Magnus a sharp sideways look when they’d appeared out of nowhere.
“I did not steal them,” Magnus had said, looking studiously at his fingernails. “I borrowed them.”
“So you’ll be returning them to the camping store?” said Alec, hands on his hips.
“I actually got them from a warehouse that provides props for movies,” said Magnus. “It’ll be ages before anyone notices they’re gone. Not,” he added hastily, “that I won’t be returning them, of course. Everyone, try not to set your tents on fire! They’re not our property!”
“Does one normally set them on fire?” said Kieran, who had his own tent—Mark and Julian were sharing one, and Emma was sharing another with Cristina. “Is that a tradition?”
Mark and Cristina both smiled at him. The oddness going on with the three of them was growing more intense, Emma thought, and resolved to ask Cristina about it.
The opportunity came sooner than she’d thought it would. She’d been restless inside the tent alone—Cristina was helping Aline and Julian, who’d put themselves in charge of cooking dinner. Everyone was muttering around maps and plans, except Jace, who’d fallen conspicuously asleep with his head in Clary’s lap.
Emma couldn’t concentrate. Her body and mind hummed with energy. All she wanted was to talk to Julian. She knew she couldn’t, but the need to tell him everything was painful. She’d never made such a life-altering decision without telling him before.
She’d ended up throwing on a sweater and taking a walk around the perimeter of the camp. The air smelled so different here than it did at home—pine, green woods, campfire smoke. Inland, no scent of salt or sea. She climbed the small rocky rise over the camp and gazed down.
Tomorrow they would ride out to challenge Horace Dearborn and his Cohort. Very likely there would be a confrontation. And her parabatai, the one who always fought by her side, would be lost to her. One way or another.
The sun was setting, sparking off the distant shimmer of the demon towers. Emma could hear the night birds chirping in the woods nearby and tried not to think about what else was in the forest. She felt herself shivering—no, she was shaking. She felt disoriented, almost dizzy, and her cognitive process felt strangely diffuse, as if her mind were racing too
fast for her to concentrate.
“Emma!” Cristina was walking up the rise toward her, her dark eyes full of concern. “I looked for you in the tent but you weren’t there. Are you all right? Or are you on watch?”
Pull yourself together, Emma. “I just thought someone should try to keep an eye on things, you know, in case a party of Cohort members decides to take a closer look at Brocelind.”
“So you’re on watch,” said Cristina.
“Maybe,” Emma said. “What’s going on with you and Kieran and Mark?”
“Ay ay!” Cristina sat down on a rock, knocking her forehead gently against her hand. “Really? Now?”
Emma sat down next to her friend. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She pointed her index finger at Cristina. “If we both die in battle tomorrow, though, we’ll never get to talk about it ever, and you’ll never get the benefit of my enormous wisdom.”