Perfect Diego was looking at her, his hand still open. He’d thrown the dagger, averted the bullet. Maybe not saved her life—gear repelled bullets—but definitely prevented her from being knocked to the ground, maybe killed with a second shot to the head.
She didn’t have time to mouth a thanks. The other Followers lunged toward her, and this time the cold of battle shot through her veins. The world slowed down around her. The half-fey boy with the curly hair launched himself into the air, hurtling toward her. Emma speared him before he could hit the ground, her blade shearing through his chest. Blood sprayed around her as she jerked the sword back, a slow, hot rain of red droplets.
The curly-haired boy crumpled to the ground. There was blood on Cortana’s blade as Emma swung it again, and again, and the sword became a golden blur around her. She could hear screams. Sterling was cowering on the ground, his arms over his head.
She cut at legs and arms; she chopped guns out of hands. Diego and Cristina were doing the same, slicing out with their weapons. Cristina flung her butterfly knife; it slammed into Belinda’s shoulder, knocking her backward. She swore and pulled the knife free, tossing it aside. Though there was a hole torn in her white sweater, there was no blood.
Emma backed up until she was standing in front of Sterling. “Get to the Institute!” she shouted at Cristina. “Get the others!”
Cristina nodded and darted toward the steps. She was halfway there when a gray-skinned, red-eyed darkling lunged toward her, sinking its teeth into her already injured leg.
Cristina screamed. Emma and Diego both turned as Cristina stabbed down with a dagger and the darkling fell away, choking on blood. There was a rip in the leg of Cristina’s gear.
Diego tore across the grass toward her. The moment had cost Emma her concentration; she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and found Belinda hurtling toward her, her left hand outstretched. It fastened around Emma’s throat.
She choked, grasping at Belinda’s other arm. She yanked hard, and as Belinda staggered away from her, her glove slipped off.
Her right arm ended in a bare stump. Belinda’s face contorted, and Emma heard Cristina exclaim. She had her dagger out, though the leg of her gear was soaked with blood. Diego stood beside her, a massive shadow against the shape of the Institute.
“Your hand’s missing,” Emma gasped, raising Cortana between her and Belinda. “Just like Ava’s—”
The Institute doors slammed open. Light so bright it was blinding blazed up and Emma froze, bloody sword in hand. She looked up to see Julian in the doorway.
He stood with a seraph blade raised over his head and it burned with light like a star. It bleached the sky, the moon. The Followers actually fell back from it, as if it were the light of a crashing aircraft.
In that still moment, Emma looked directly at Jules and saw him look back at her. A fierce pride rose inside her. This was her Julian. A gentle boy with a gentle soul, but every soul contains its own opposite, and the opposite of gentleness was ruthlessness—the beautiful wreckage of mercy.
She could see it on his face. To save her he would kill everyone else in the vicinity. He wouldn’t think twice until it was over, when he’d wash the blood down the drain of the sink like scarlet paint. And he would not regret it.
“Stop,” Julian said, and though he didn’t shout, didn’t yell, the Followers who were still moving froze in place, as if they could read his expression just like Emma could. As if they were afraid.
Emma grabbed Sterling by the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Come on,” she said, and began pushing through the crowd, dragging him toward the Institute. If she could just get him inside—
But Belinda was suddenly pushing herself forward, shoving among the other Followers to get close to the Institute steps. There was still no blood around the rip in her sweater. Her glove was back on her hand. Her dark hair was coming out of its elaborately crafted Victory rolls, and she looked furious.
She bounded forward, placing herself between Emma and the stairs. Cristina and Diego were just behind them; Cristina was wincing, her face pale.
“Julian Blackthorn!” Belinda shouted. “I demand that you let us take this man”—she pointed at Sterling—“away from here! And that you cease interfering in our business! The Followers of the Guardian have nothing to do with you or your Laws!”
Julian descended a single step. The glow of his seraph blade lit his eyes to an eerie undersea green. “How dare you come here,” he said flatly. “How dare you invade the space of the Nephilim; how dare you make demands. Your idiot cult wasn’t our business, no, until you started murdering. Now it’s our business to make you stop. And we will.”
Belinda gave a harsh laugh. “There are three hundred of us—there are barely any of you—and you’re children—”
“Not all of us are children,” said another voice, and Malcolm Fade stepped out onto the stairs beside Julian.