"We will stop you," Diana said. "The Clave will stop you. They will send Shadowhunters--"
"There aren't enough of you," said Malcolm, with glee. He had begun to pace up and down in front of the wall of sea demons that slavered behind him. "That's the beauty of the Dark War. You simply can't hold off every demon in the Pacific, not with your current numbers. Oh, I'm not saying you might not win eventually. You would. But think of the death toll in the meantime. Is one measly Blackthorn really worth it?"
"We're not going to give you one of our own to murder, Fade," said Diana. "You know better than that."
"You don't speak for the Clave, Diana," said Malcolm. "And they are not above sacrifices." He tried to grin. One rotted lip split, and black fluid spilled down his chin. "One for many."
Diana was breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling angrily. "And then what? All that death and destruction and what will you gain?"
"You will have also suffered," said Malcolm. "And that is enough for me, for now. That the Blackthorns suffer." His eyes raked the group in front of him. "Where are my Julian and Emma? And Mark? Too cowardly to face me?" He chuckled. "Too bad. I would have liked to see Emma's face when she laid eyes on me. You may tell her I said I hope the curse consumes them both."
Consumes who? Kit thought, but Malcolm's gaze had dipped to focus on him, and he saw the warlock's milky eyes glitter. "Sorry about your father, Herondale," said Malcolm. "It couldn't be helped."
Kit raised Adriel over his head. The seraph blade was hot under his grip, starting to flicker, but it cast a glow all around him, one he hoped illuminated him enough that the warlock could see it when he spat in his direction.
Malcolm's gaze flattened. He turned back to Diana. "I will give you until tomorrow night to decide. Then I will return. If you do not provide a Blackthorn to me, the coast will be ravaged. In the meantime--" He snapped his fingers, and a dim purple fire flickered in the air. "Enjoy amusing yourselves with my friends here."
He vanished as the sea demons surged forward toward the Centurions.
12
BY THE MOUNTAINS
Mark shoved his way through the Unseelie Court. He had been among these people before only for revels: the Court was not always in the same place, but moved around the Unseelie Lands. Mark could smell blood on the night air now as he darted among the close-packed gentry. He could smell panic and fear and hate. Their hate of Shadowhunters. The King was calling to the Court to be quiet, but the crowd was shouting for Emma to spill her father's blood.
No one was guarding Kieran. He slumped on his knees, the weight of his body pulling against the thorned ropes that held him as if they were barbed wire. Blood oozed sluggishly around the lacerations on his wrists, neck, and ankles.
Mark pushed past the last of the courtiers. This close, he could see that Kieran wore something around his neck on a chain. An elf-bolt. Mark's elf-bolt. Mark's stomach tightened.
"Kieran." He put his hand against the other boy's cheek.
Kieran's eyes fluttered open. His face was gray with pain and hopelessness, but his smile was gentle. "So many dreams," he said. "Is this the end? Have you come to bear me to the Shining Lands? You could not have chosen a better face to wear."
Mark ran his hands along the ropes of thorns. They were tough. A seraph blade could have cut them, but seraph blades did not work here, leaving him only ordinary daggers. An idea sparked in Mark's mind, and he reached up to gently unfasten the elf-bolt from Kieran's throat.
"Whatever gods have done this," Kieran whispered, "they are gracious to bring me the one my soul loves, in my last moments." His head fell back against the tree, exposing the scarlet gashes around his throat where the thorns had cut in. "My Mark."
"Hush." Mark spoke through a tightened throat. The elf-bolt was sharp, and he drew the blade of it against the ropes that bound Kieran's throat and then his wrists. They fell away, and Kieran gave a gasp of pain relieved.
"It is true, as they say," said Kieran. "The pain leaves you as you die."
Mark slashed away the ropes binding Kieran's ankles, and straightened up. "That is enough," he said. "I am Mark, not an illusion. You are not dying, Kieran. You are living." He took Kieran by the wrist and helped him to his feet. "You are escaping."
Kieran's gaze seemed dazzled by moonlight. He reached for Mark and laid his hands on Mark's shoulders. There was a moment where Mark could have drawn away, but he didn't. He stepped toward Kieran just as Kieran did toward him, and he could smell blood and cut vines on Kieran, and they were kissing.
The curve of Kieran's lips under his own was as familiar to Mark as the taste of sugar or the feel of sunlight. But there was no sugar or sunlight here, nothing bright or sweet, only the dark pressure of the Court all around them and the scent of blood. And still his body responded to Kieran's, pressing the other boy up against the bark of the tree, gripping him, hands sliding on his skin, scars and fresh wounds under his fingertips.
Mark felt himself lifted up and out of his body, and he was in the Hunt again, hands gripped in Windspear's mane, leaning low into the wind that tore his hair and seared his throat and carried away his laughter. Kieran's arms were around him, the only warm thing in a cold world, and Kieran's lips against his cheek.
Something sang by his ear. He jerked away from Kieran. Another object whistled by and he instinctively crowded Kieran against the tree.
Arrows. Each arrow tipped with flame, they ripped their way through the Court like deadly fireflies. One of the Unseelie princes was racing toward Mark and Kieran, raising a bow as he came.
They had been noticed after all, it seemed.
*
The grass in front of the Institute seemed to boil, a mass of sea demons and Centurions, whipping tentacles and slashing seraph blades. Kit half-threw himself down the stairs, almost knocking into Samantha, who, alongside her twin, was battling furiously with a grotesque gray creature covered with sucking red mouths.
"Look where you're going!" she yelled, and then shrieked as a tentacle snaked around her chest. Kit whipped Adriel forward, severing the tentacle just above Samantha's shoulder. The demon shrieked from all its mouths and vanished.
"Disgusting," said Samantha, who was now covered in thick grayish demon-blood. She was frowning, which seemed ungrateful to Kit, but he hardly had time to worry about it; he was already turning to raise his sword against a spiny-looking creature with nubbly, stony skin like a starfish.
He thought of Ty on the beach with the starfish in his hand, smiling. It filled him with rage--he hadn't realized before how much demons seemed like the beautiful things of the world had been warped and sickened and made revolting.
The blade came down. The demon shrieked and flinched back--and arms were suddenly around Kit, dragging him backward.
It was Diana. She was half-drenched in blood, some human and some demon. She seized hold of Kit's arm, pulling him back toward the stairs, the Institute.
"I'm fine--I don't need help--" he panted, wrenching at her grip.
She plucked Adriel out of his hand and threw it toward Diego, who caught the blade and spun to drive it into the thick body of a jellyfish demon, bringing his ax down with the other hand. It was very impressive, but Kit was too angry to care.
"I don't need help!" he shouted again, as Diana hauled him up the steps. "I don't need to be saved!"
She spun him around to look at her. One of her sleeves was bloody, and there was a red mark on her throat where her necklace had been ripped away. But she was as imperious as always. "Maybe you don't," she said. "But the Blackthorns do, and you are going to help them."
Stunned, Kit stopped fighting. Diana let go of him and shouldered the doors of the Institute open, stalking inside; after one last glance back, he followed.
*
The moments after Julian seized Erec and put his knife to his throat were chaotic. Several of the faeries near the pavilion howled; the knights fell back, looking terrified. The Unseelie King was shouting.
Julian kept his mind focused: Hold your prisoner. Keep the knife to his throat. If he gets away, you have nothing. If you kill him too quickly, you have nothing. This is your advantage. Take it.
At a command from the King, the knights moved aside, forming a sort of tunnel for Julian to walk down, marching Erec ahead of him. The tunnel ended below the King's throne. The King was standing at the edge of the pavilion, his white cloak snapping in the breeze.
Erec didn't struggle, but when they reached the pavilion, he craned his head back to look up at his father. Julian could feel them lock eyes.
"You won't cut my son's throat," said the Unseelie King, gazing down at Julian with a look of disdain. "You're a Shadowhunter. You have a code of honor."
"You're thinking of Shadowhunters the way they used to be," said Julian. "I came of age in the Dark War. I was baptized in blood and fire."
"You are soft," said the King, "gentle as angels are gentle."
Julian settled the knife more firmly into the curve of Erec's throat. The faerie prince smelled like fear and blood. "I killed my own father," he said. "You think I won't kill your son?"
A look of surprise passed over the King's face. Adaon spoke. "He is telling the truth," he said. "Many were in the Hall of Accords during the war. It was witnessed. He is a ruthless one, that one."
The King frowned. "Adaon, be silent." But he was clearly troubled. Shadows moved behind his eyes. "The price you would pay for spilling the blood of my family in my Court would be unspeakable," he said to Julian. "Not just you would pay it. All the Clave would pay it."
"Then don't make me," Julian said. "Let us depart in peace. We will take Erec with us, for the distance of a mile, then let him go. No one is to follow us. If we sense we are being followed, we will kill him. I will kill him."
Erec cursed and spat. "Let him kill me, Father," he said. "Let my blood begin the war we know is coming."
The King's eyes rested for a moment on his son. He is the King's favorite, Mark had said. But Julian couldn't help but wonder if the King was more concerned about the war to come, controlling how and when it began, than he was about Erec's fate.
"You think angels are gentle," said Julian. "They are anything but. They bring justice in blood and heavenly fire. They take vengeance with fists and iron. Their glory is such it would burn out your eyes if you looked at them. It is a cold and brutal glory." He met the King's gaze: his angry eye, and his empty one. "Look at me, if you doubt what I say I will do," said Julian. "Look at my eyes. Faeries see much, they say. Do you think I am someone who has anything to lose?"
*
They were in the entryway: Ty, Livvy, Arthur, and the younger ones, Dru holding Tavvy in her arms.
They lit up when Diana and Kit came in, though Kit didn't know if that was for him, or for her. Arthur was sitting on the stairs, silent and staring in his bloodstained bathrobe. He lunged to his feet at the sight of them, though he clung to the banister with one hand.
"We heard everything," Livvy said. She was gray with shock, her hand in Ty's. "Malcolm wants Blackthorn blood and he has an army of demons--"
"When he says 'Blackthorn blood,' there isn't any chance he just means, like, an ounce?" said Kit. "Maybe a pint?"
Everyone glared at him except Ty. "I thought of that too," Ty said, looking delightedly at Kit. "But spells are written in archaic language. 'Blackthorn blood' means a Blackthorn life."
"He isn't getting what he wants," said Diana. She shrugged off her blood-soaked jacket and threw it on the floor. "We need a Portal. Now." She dug around for her phone in her jeans pocket, found it, and began to dial.
"But we can't just disappear," said Livvy. "Malcolm will release all those demons! People will be killed!"
"You can't bargain with Malcolm," said Diana. "He lies. He could get the Blackthorn blood he wants and still release the demons. Getting you safe and then striking against him is the better bet."
"But--"
"She's right," said Kit. "Malcolm promised all sorts of things to my dad, including keeping him safe. In the end, it turned out he'd made sure that if anything happened to him, my father would die too."
"Catarina?" Diana turned aside, the phone pressed to her ear. "I need a favor. A big one."
"We'll be seen as cowards," said Dru unhappily. "Running away like this--"
"You are children," said Arthur. "No one would expect you to stand and fight." He went across the room to the window. No one moved to join him. The sounds coming from outside were enough. Tavvy had his face pressed against his sister's shoulder.
"To London?" said Diana. "That's fine. Thanks, Catarina." She hung the phone up.
"London?" said Livvy. "Why London?"
"Why don't we go to Idris?" said Dru. "Where Emma and Jules are."
"Catarina can't open up a Portal to Idris," said Diana, not meeting Dru's gaze. "But she has an arrangement with the London Institute."
"Then we should contact the Clave!" said Dru. She jumped back as the air in front of her began to shimmer.
"We need to get our things," said Tavvy, looking at the growing shimmer with worry. It was spreading, a sort of pinwheel now of whirling colors and moving air. "We can't go with nothing."
"We don't have time for any of that," said Diana. "And we don't have time to contact the Clave. And there are Blackthorn houses in London, safe places, people you know--"
"But why?" Livvy began. "If the Clave--"
"It's entirely possible the Clave would prefer to trade one of you to Malcolm," said Arthur. "Isn't that what you mean, Diana?"
Diana said nothing. The whirling pinwheel was resolving into a shape: the shape of a door, tall and broad, surrounded by glowing runes.
"As would the Centurions, at least some of them," said Diana. "We are running from them, as much as from anyone else. They are already vanquishing the sea demons. There is little time."
"Diego would never--" Dru began indignantly.
"Diego isn't in charge," said Diana. The Portal had resolved into a steadily wavering door, which was open; through it, Kit could see a living room of sorts, with faded, flowered wallpaper. It seemed incongruous in the extreme. "Now, come--Drusilla, you first--"
With a look of despairing anger, Drusilla crossed the room and stepped through the Portal, still holding Tavvy. Kit watched in stunned amazement as they spun away, vanishing.
Livvy moved toward the Portal next, hand in hand with Ty. She paused in front of it, the force of the magic that pulsed through it lifting her hair. "But we can't leave this place to Zara and the Cohort," she protested, turning toward Diana. "We can't let them have it--"
"Better than any of you dying," Diana said. "Now, go."
But it was Ty who hesitated. "Kit's coming, right?"
Diana looked at Kit. He felt his throat hurt; he didn't know why.
"I'm coming," he said. He watched as Livvy and Ty stepped into the colorful void, watched as they vanished. Watched as Diana followed. Stepped up to the Portal himself, and paused there, looking at Arthur.
"Did you want to go first?" he said.
Arthur shook his head. There was an odd look on his face--odd even for Arthur. Though Arthur hadn't been that odd tonight, Kit thought. It was as if the emergency had forced him to hold himself together in a way he normally couldn't.
"Tell them," he said, and the muscles in his face twitched. Behind him, the front door shook; someone was trying to open it. "Tell them--"
"You'll be able to tell them yourself, in a minute," said Kit. He could feel the force of the Portal pulling at him. He even thought he could hear voices through it--Ty's voice, Livvy's. Yet he stood where he was.
"Is something going on?" he said.
Arthur moved toward the Portal. For a moment, Kit relaxed, thinking Arthur was going to step into it beside him. Instead he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Tell Julian thank you," Arthur said, and shoved, hard.
Kit fell into the whirling, soundless nothingness.
*
/> The faerie prince let fly his arrow.
Kieran moved faster than Mark would have thought possible. He swung his body around, covering Mark's. The arrow whistled through the air, singing like a deadly bird. Mark only had time to grab for Kieran to push him away when the arrow struck, burying itself in Kieran's back just below his shoulder blade.
He slumped against Mark's shoulder. With his free hand, Mark pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it; the prince fell, screaming, the blade in his thigh.
Mark began to drag Kieran from the clearing. The arrows had stopped, but fire was blooming from the banners with their mark of the broken crown. They had caught fire. The gentry faeries were screaming and milling, many breaking free to run.
Still holding Kieran, Mark vanished into the forest.
*
"Emma," Cristina whispered. The clearing was thick with noise; laughter, hoots and jeers. In the distance she could see Julian with his knife to Erec's throat; gasps rose up as he pushed his way toward the King's pavilion, though the King, distracted by Emma, had not yet seen.
Emma was kneeling on the ground, gripping the arm of the wounded Faerie champion. She looked up and saw Cristina, and her eyes brightened.
"Help me with my dad," Emma said. She was tugging at her father's arm, trying to get it looped around her neck. He lay motionless, and for a moment Cristina feared he was dead.
He pulled away from Emma and lumbered to his feet. He was a slender man, tall, and the family resemblance was clear: He had Emma's features, the shape of her eyes. His were blank, though, their blue dulled to milkiness.
"Let me go," he said. "Bitch Nephilim girl. Let me go. This has gone far enough."
Cristina's blood froze at his words. The King burst out into another round of laughter. Cristina caught at Emma, pulling her toward her. "Emma, you can't believe everything you see here."
"This is my father," said Emma. Cristina was holding her wrist; she could feel the pulse pounding in Emma's veins. Emma held her free hand out. "Dad," she said. "Please. Come with me."
"You are Nephilim," said Emma's father. Faintly, on his throat, the white scars of old Marks were visible. "If you touch me, I will drag you to the feet of my King, and he will have you killed."