Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

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—”

“Stay back!” Jia screamed. “All of you, stay back!” She was kneeling beside Robert, her hands wet with his blood as she tried again and again to cut the healing rune into his skin.

Two other guards pounded up the steps and halted uncertainly at her words. Annabel, her blue dress splashed with blood, held the Sword in front of her like a barrier. Robert’s blood was already sinking into the blade, as if it were porous stone drinking up water.

Julian tore free of his restraints and leaped onto the bloody dais. Emma shot to her feet, Cristina seizing the back of her shirt, but to no avail: She was already clambering onto the narrow back of the bench.

Thank the Angel for all the hours she’d spent practicing on the rafters in the training room, she thought, and ran, leaping from the end of the bench into the aisle. There were voices shouting at her, to her, a roar like waves; she ignored them. Julian rose slowly to his feet, facing Annabel.

“Stay away!” Annabel shrieked, waving the Mortal Sword. It seemed to be glowing, pulsing even, in her grip, or was that Emma’s imagination? “Stay away from me!”

“Annabel, stop.” Julian spoke calmly, his hands up to show they were empty—empty? Emma fumed, where was his sword, where were his weapons?—his eyes wide and guileless. “This will only make things worse.”

Annabel was sobbing harsh breaths. “Liar. Get back, get away from me.”

“I never lied to you—”

“You told me they would give me Blackthorn Manor! You told me Magnus would protect me! But look!” She swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the whole room. “I am tainted to them—despised, a criminal—”

“You can still come back.” Julian’s voice was a marvel of steadiness. “Put the Sword down.”

For a moment, Annabel seemed to hesitate. Emma was at the foot of the dais steps; she saw Annabel’s grip loosen on the hilt of the Sword—

Jia stood up. Her robes were wet with Robert’s blood, her stele limp in her hand. “He’s dead,” she said.

It was like a key turning in the lock of a cage, freeing the occupants: The guards lunged up the steps, leaping toward Annabel, blades outstretched. She spun with inhuman quickness, striking at them, and the Sword slashed across both their chests. There were screams as they collapsed, and Emma was running up the stairs, drawing Cortana, leaping in front of Julian.

From here, she could see all of the Council Hall. It was a melee. Some were fleeing through the doors. The Blackthorns and Cristina were on their feet, fighting toward the dais, though a line of guards had appeared to hold them back. As Emma watched, Livvy ducked under a guard’s arm and began to shove her way toward them. A longsword glimmered in her hand.

Emma looked back at Annabel. It was clear this near to her that something had snapped inside her. She looked blank, her eyes dead and disconnected. Her gaze shifted past Emma. Alec had burst through the doors—he stared up at the dais, his face a mask of grief and shock.

Emma wrenched her eyes away from him as Annabel sprang for Julian like a cat, her sword cutting the air before her. Instead of raising Cortana to meet Annabel’s thrust, Emma threw herself to the side, knocking Julian to the polished floor of the dais.

For a moment he was against her; they were together, body to body, and she felt the parabatai strength flow through her. The Mortal Sword came down again and they sprang apart, redoubled in strength, as it sliced through the wood at their feet.

The room was full of screaming. Emma thought she heard Alec calling for Robert: Dad, please, Dad. She thought of the tapestry of him in Robert’s room. She thought of Isabelle. She whirled with Cortana in her hand, and the flat of the blade slammed against Maellartach.

Both swords shuddered. Annabel jerked her sword arm back, her eyes suddenly almost feral. Someone was shouting for Julian. It was Livvy, clambering up the side of the dais.

“Livvy!” Julian yelled. “Livvy, get out of here—”

Annabel swung again, and Emma raised Cortana, cutting on the upstroke, pushing closer, slamming her sword against Annabel’s with all the force in her body, bringing the blades together with a massive, echoing clang.

And the Mortal Sword shattered.