Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2)

“There’s seriously an entire private country that’s just Shadowhunters?” Kit demanded as they headed up the road to the Institute, rising like a shadow against the mountains behind it.

“Yes,” said Livvy tersely. In other words, Shut up and listen. Kit had the feeling she was processing what was happening by explaining it to him. He shut up and let her.

An Institute was run by a head, whose family lived with him or her; they also housed families who’d lost members, or Nephilim orphans—of whom there were many. The head of an Institute had significant power: Most Consuls were chosen from that pool, and they could propose new Laws, which would be passed if a vote went their way.

All Institutes were just as empty as the Los Angeles one. In fact, it was unusually crowded at the moment, due to the Centurion presence. They were meant to be that way, in case they needed to house a battalion of Shadowhunters at any moment. There was no staff, as there was no need of one: Shadowhunters who worked for the Institute, called the Conclave, were spread out all over the city in their own houses.

Not that there were many of them either, Livvy added grimly. So many had died in the war five years ago. But if Zara’s father were to become the head of the Los Angeles Institute, not only would he be able to propose his bigoted Law, but the Blackthorns would be thrown out on their ears with nowhere to go but Idris.

“Is Idris so bad?” Kit had asked as they went up the stairs. Not that he wanted to be shipped off to Idris. He was just getting used to the Institute. Not that he’d want to stay in it if Zara’s father took over—not if he was anything like Zara.

Livvy glanced at Ty, who hadn’t interrupted her during her tirade. “Idris is fine. Great, even. But this is where we live.”

They’d reached the door to Arthur’s office then, and everything had gone silent. Kit wondered if he should just lead the way. He didn’t care particularly if he annoyed Arthur Blackthorn or not.

Ty looked at the door with troubled eyes. “We’re not supposed to bother Uncle Arthur. We promised Jules.”

“We have to,” Livvy said simply, and pushed the door open.

A narrow set of stairs led to a shadowy room under the eaves of the house. There was a cluster of desks, each with a lamp on it—so many lamps the room was filled with brilliance. Every book, every piece of paper with scrawled writing, every plate with half-eaten food on it, was harshly illuminated.

A man sat at one of the desks. He wore a long bathrobe over a ragged sweater and jeans; his feet were bare. The robe had probably once been blue, but was now a sort of dirty white from many washings. He was clearly a Blackthorn—his mostly gray hair curled like Julian’s did, and his eyes were a brilliant blue-green.

They went past Livvy and Ty and fastened on Kit.

“Stephen,” he said, and dropped the pen he was holding. It hit the ground, spilling ink in a dark pool over the floorboards.

Livvy’s mouth was partly open. Ty was pressed against the wall. “Uncle Arthur, that’s Kit,” said Livvy. “Kit Herondale.”

Arthur chuckled dryly. “Herondale, indeed,” he said. His eyes seemed to burn: There was a look of sickness in them, like the heat of a fever. He rose to his feet and came over to Kit, staring down into his face. “Why did you follow Valentine?” he said. “You, who had everything? ‘Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, a bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?’?” He smelled bitter, of old coffee. Kit took a step back. “What kind of Herondale will you be?” Arthur whispered. “William or Tobias? Stephen or Jace? Beautiful, bitter, or both?”

“Uncle,” said Ty. He pitched his voice loud, though it shook slightly. “We need to talk to you. About the Centurions. They want to take the Institute. They don’t want you to be head of it anymore.”

Arthur whirled on Ty with a fierce look—almost a glare, but not quite. Then he began to laugh. “Is that true? Is it?” he demanded. The laughter built and seemed to break in almost a sob. He whirled around and sat heavily down in his desk chair. “What a joke,” he said savagely.

“It’s not a joke,” Livvy began.

“They want to take the Institute from me,” Arthur said. “As if I hold it! I’ve never run an Institute in my life, children. He does everything—writes the correspondence, plans the meetings, speaks with the Council.”

“Who does everything?” said Kit, though he knew he had no place in the conversation.

“Julian.” The voice was Diana’s; she was standing at the top of the attic stairs, looking around the room as if the brightness of the light surprised her. Her expression was resigned. “He means Julian.”





10


SO WILLS ITS KING


They were in Diana’s office. Through the window, the ocean looked like rippled aluminum, illuminated by black light.

“I’m sorry you had to learn this about your uncle,” said Diana. She was leaning back against her desk. She wore jeans and a sweater but still looked immaculate. Her hair was swept back into a mass of curls clipped by a leather barrette. “I had hoped—Julian had hoped—that you’d never know.”

Kit was leaning against the far wall; Ty and Livvy sat on Diana’s desk. Both of them looked stunned, as if they were recovering from having the wind knocked out of them. Kit had never been more conscious that they were twins, despite the difference in their coloring.

“So all these years it’s been Julian,” said Livvy. “Running the Institute. Doing everything. Covering up for Arthur.”

Kit thought of his drive with Julian to the Shadow Market. He hadn’t spent that much time with the second-oldest Blackthorn boy, but Julian had always seemed terrifyingly adult to him, as if he were years older than his calendar age.

“We should have guessed.” Ty’s hand twisted and untwisted the slim white cords of the headphones looped around his neck. “I should have figured it out.”

“We don’t see the things that are closest to us,” said Diana. “It’s the nature of people.”

“But Jules,” Livvy whispered. “He was only twelve. It must have been so hard on him.”

Her face shone. For a moment, Kit thought it was reflected light from the windows. Then he realized—it was tears.

“He always loved you so much,” said Diana. “It was what he wanted to do.”

“We need him here,” said Ty. “We need him here now.”

“I should go,” Kit said. He had never felt so uncomfortable. Well, maybe not never—there had been the incident with the five drunk werewolves and the cage of newts at the Shadow Market—but rarely.

Livvy looked up, her tearstained face baleful. “No, you shouldn’t. You need to stay here and help us explain to Diana about Zara.”

“I didn’t understand half of what she said,” Kit protested. “About Institute heads, and registries—”

Ty took a deep breath. “I’ll explain,” he said. The recitation of what had happened seemed to calm him down: the regular march of facts, one after another. When he was done, Diana crossed the room and double-locked the door.

“Do either of the rest of you remember anything else?” Diana asked, turning back to them.

“One thing,” said Kit, surprised he actually had something to contribute. “Zara said the next Council meeting was going to be soon.”

“I assume that’s the one where they tell everyone about Arthur,” said Livvy. “And make their play for the Institute.”

“The Cohort is a powerful faction inside the Clave,” said Diana. “They’re a nasty bunch. They believe in interrogating any Downworlders they find breaking the Accords with torture. They support the Cold Peace unconditionally. If I’d known Zara’s father was one of them . . .” She shook her head.

“Zara can’t have the Institute,” said Livvy. “She can’t. This is our home.”