Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

“And he has learned from his parents’ mistakes!” Maryse snapped. “My son knows better than anyone else the horror that bigotry and prejudice can bring.”

Alec gave her a nod, and spoke coolly. “You voted for my father for Inquisitor, Balogh, so it didn’t bother you then,” he said. “My father gave his life in this room for the Clave. What have you done besides exile Shadowhunter children because you were afraid of their faerie blood?”

“Damn,” said someone in the back. “He’s good.”

“Lightwood would end the Downworlder Registry,” said Lazlo. “And the Cold Peace.”

“You’re right, I would,” said Alec. “We can’t live in fear of Downworlders. Downworlders gave us Portals. They gave us a victory over Valentine. They gave us a victory on the Fields just now. We cannot keep pretending we don’t need them, any more than they can pretend they don’t need us. Our future depends on our mandate—we are the hunters of demons, not the hunters of our own allies. If prejudice sidetracks us, we may all die.”

Lazlo’s expression darkened. Applause rang through the room, though not all were applauding. Many Shadowhunters sat with their hands clasped firmly in their laps.

“I think it has come time for the vote,” said Jia. She took a tarnished glass vessel from a stand on the dais and handed it down to Patrick in the front row. He bent his head and whispered into the vial.

Emma watched with interest—she had heard of the process of voting for Consul but had never seen it. The vial went from hand to hand, each Shadowhunter whispering into it as if confessing a secret. Those Projecting had the vial held out to them by obliging hands since Projections could speak but not touch objects.

When the vial came to her, she lifted it to her mouth and said, “Alexander Lightwood,” in a firm, loud voice. She heard Julian chuckle as she passed it along to Cristina.

At last the vial had been shared with every Shadowhunter save the Cohort. It was given to Jia, who passed it along to Zara.

“Vote wisely,” she said. “The freedom to choose your own Consul is a great responsibility.”

For a moment, Zara looked as if she might spit in the jar. She jerked it out of Jia’s hand, spoke into it, and handed it to Manuel on her right. He smirked as he whispered into the jar, and Emma’s shoulders tightened, knowing that every Cohort vote was a vote against Alec.

At last the final vote was cast, and the jar returned to Jia, who took out her stele and drew a rune on its side. The vial shook in her hand as pale smoke poured from its open neck, the expelled breath of hundreds of Nephilim. It formed into words across the air.

ALEXANDER GIDEON LIGHTWOOD

Clary and Jace flung themselves at Alec, laughing, as the air exploded with cheers. Aline and Helen gave Alec a mutual thumbs-up. The Projections of Isabelle and Simon waved from the back of the room. The Blackthorns whooped and applauded; Emma whistled. Maryse Lightwood wiped away tears of happiness as Kadir patted her shoulder gently.

“Alec Lightwood,” cried Jia. “Please rise. You are the new Consul of the Clave.”

Emma had expected an outburst from Lazlo, or at least a look of black rage. Instead he merely smirked coldly as Alec rose to his feet among cheers and applause.

“This vote doesn’t count! It shouldn’t count!” shouted Zara. “If those who died on the field could have voted, Alec Lightwood would never have won!”

“I will work toward your rehabilitation, Zara,” said Alec evenly.

Silver flashed. Zara had snatched a long dagger from the weapons belt of a guard standing near her; he made no move to stop her. There were gasps as the rest of the guards tossed weapons to the other Cohort members, steel sparking in the light from the great windows.

“We refuse to recognize Alec Lightwood as Consul!” shouted Manuel. “We stand for our old traditions, for the way things always have been and always should be!”

“Guards!” Jia shouted, but the twenty or so guards were making no effort to stop the Cohort—in fact, they had joined them in a flurry of unsheathed daggers. Emma glanced at Lazlo Balogh, who was watching with folded arms, clearly unsurprised. Somehow, Emma realized, the Cohort’s allies had planted guards who were sympathetic to their cause. But what on earth were they planning? There were still only a fraction of them compared to the overwhelming number of Shadowhunters who had voted for Alec.

Jia leaped down from the dais, unsheathing her dao. All over the Hall, Shadowhunters were rising to their feet and drawing arms. Alec had reached for his bow, Jace his sword. Dru reached for Tavvy, her face pale, as the rest of the family took out their weapons.

Then Zara raised her dagger and put it to her own throat.

Movement in the room ceased. Emma still gripped Cortana, staring as Manuel followed Zara’s gesture, placing the blade of his own dagger against his throat. Amelia Overbeck did the same—Vanessa Ashdown followed, with Milo Coldridge—until all the Cohort members stood with blades to their throats.

“You can put your weapons down,” said Zara, holding the knife against her throat so tightly that blood dripped down her hand. “We are not here to harm our fellow Shadowhunters. You have harmed yourselves enough with your foolish and shortsighted vote. We are acting to save Alicante from corruption and the glass towers from ruin.” Her eyes glittered madly. “You spoke before of the value of the lands outside Alicante as if Alicante were not the heart of our people. Very well then, go out and embrace the mundane world, away from the Angel’s light.”

“Are you demanding we leave Alicante?” said Diana in disbelief. “We who are Nephilim as you are?”

“No consort of a faerie is as Nephilim as I am,” Zara spat. “Yes. We ask—we demand—that you go. Clary Fairchild can create Portals; let her make one now. Step through it and go where you wish. Anywhere that is not Alicante.”

“You’re only a few people,” said Emma. “You can’t kick the rest of us out of Alicante. It’s not your tree house.”

“I am sorry it came to this,” said Lazlo, “but we are not a few people. We are many more. You may have intimidated people into voting for Lightwood, but their hearts are with us.”

“You would propose a civil war? Here in the Council Hall?” demanded Diana.

“Not a civil war,” said Zara. “We know we cannot win against you in battle. You have too many filthy tricks. You have warlocks on your side.” She glared at Alec. “But we are willing to die for our beliefs and for Alicante. We will not leave. We will spill Shadowhunter blood, yes. Our own blood. We will cut our own throats and die here at your feet. Either you will go or we will wash this room clean in our blood.”

Jaime rose to his feet. “Call their bluff,” he said. “They cannot hold us hostage—”

Zara nodded to Amelia, who plunged the dagger she held into her stomach and twisted it viciously to the side. She fell to her knees spurting blood as the room exploded with gasps of horror.

“Can you build your new Clave on the blood of dead children?” Zara screamed at Alec. “You said you would show mercy. If you let us die, every time you step into this room from this moment onward, you will be walking on our corpses.”

Everyone looked at Jia, but Jia was looking at Alec. Alec, the new Consul.

He was studying not Zara’s face but the faces of the others in the room—those who looked at Zara as if she were the promise of freedom. There was no mercy on the faces of the Cohort. Not a one of them reached for Amelia as her blood ran out across the floor.

“Very well,” said Alec with a deadly calm. “We will go.”

Zara’s eyes widened. Emma suspected she had not expected her plan to work, but had hoped to die as a martyr and destroy Alec and the rest of them in the process.

“You understand,” Lazlo said, “that once you go, Lightwood, you cannot return. We will lock the wards of Idris against you, tear the Portal from the walls of the Gard, brick up the entrances from the Silent City. You will never be able to come back.”