Despite the look of clear reluctance on his face, Robert nodded. "Very well," he said. "Everyone wants to hear you speak, Julian Blackthorn. So speak."
Julian spoke. Calmly and without flourishes, he began to describe the investigation, from the first bodies found to their realization that evening of Malcolm's guilt.
Emma watched her parabatai as he spoke, and wondered how things would have turned out differently if Sebastian Morgenstern hadn't attacked the L.A. Institute five years ago.
In Emma's mind, for years now, there had been two Julians. Julian before the attack, who was like everyone else--loving his family but annoyed by them too; a brother among brothers and sisters with whom he squabbled and argued and teased and laughed.
And Julian after. Julian, still a child, teaching himself how to feed and change a baby, cooking four different meals for four younger siblings who liked and disliked different things; Julian hiding his uncle's sickness from a mass of adults who would have taken his children away from him; Julian waking up from screaming nightmares that something had happened to Ty or Livvy or Dru.
Emma had been there to hold him, but she had never quite understood--how could she have, when she didn't know about Arthur, didn't know how alone Julian truly was? She only knew that the nightmares had faded and a quiet strength had settled over Jules, a hard determination before which the softness of childhood gave way.
He hadn't been a boy in a long, long time. It had been that boy that Emma had thought could be her parabatai. She would never have fallen in love with that Julian. But she had fallen in love with this one, without knowing it, because how could you fall in love with someone you only half-guessed existed?
She wondered if Mark recognized the same dissonance in some way, if he saw the strangeness in how Julian stood and spoke to the Inquisitor now, as if they were two adults together. If he saw the care with which Julian told the story of what had happened: the key details he left out, the way he made it seem natural, inevitable, that they hadn't told the Clave what they were doing. The way he left out Kit and Johnny Rook. He wove a tale of a series of events that was nobody's fault, that no one could have foreseen or prevented, and he did it without a shred of guile ever showing on his face.
When he was done, Emma shivered inside. She loved Julian, she would always love Julian. But for just that moment, she was a little afraid of him too.
"Malcolm was creating murderers?" Robert echoed when Julian had stopped speaking.
"It makes sense," said Magnus. He stood with his chin cupped in his hand, one long finger tapping against his cheekbone. "One of the reasons necromancy is forbidden is that so many necessary ingredients are things like the hand of a murderer who killed in cold blood, or the eye of a hanged man which still holds the image of the last thing he saw. Obtaining those ingredients by orchestrating the situations that create them was ingenious." He seemed to notice Robert glaring at him. "Very evil, also," he added. "Very."
"Your nephew tells a convincing story, Arthur," said Robert. "But you are notably absent from it. How did you not notice all this was going on?"
Julian had woven his story to make Arthur's absence seem natural. But Robert was like a dog with a bone. Emma supposed that was why he had been elected to the position of Inquisitor.
Emma looked across the room and met Clary's green gaze with her own. She thought of Clary kneeling in front of her in Idris, holding her hands, complimenting Cortana. She thought of how the kindnesses that were shown to children were things they never forgot.
"Robert," Clary said. "There's no need for this. They made difficult decisions, but they weren't wrong decisions."
"Then let me ask Arthur this, Clary," said Robert. "What punishment would he choose for Nephilim, even young Nephilim, who break the Law?"
"Well, that would depend," Arthur said, "on whether they were punished already, five years ago, by losing their father and brother and sister."
Robert flushed darkly. "It was the Dark War that took their family--"
"It was the Clave that took Mark and Helen," said Magnus. "We expect betrayal from our enemies. Not from those who are supposed to care for us."
"We would have protected Mark," said Robert Lightwood. "There was no need to fear the Clave."
Arthur was pale, his eyes dilated. Yet Emma had never heard him speak so eloquently, or with such clarity. It was bizarre. "Would you have?" he demanded. "In that case, why is Helen still at Wrangel Island?"
"She's safer there," snapped Robert. "There are those--not myself--who still hate the faeries for the betrayal of the Dark War. How do you think they would treat her if she were among other Shadowhunters?"
"So you couldn't have protected Mark," said Arthur. "You admit it."
Before Robert could speak, Julian said, "Uncle Arthur, you can tell him the truth."
Arthur looked puzzled; as clearheaded as he had seemed, he didn't seem to know what Julian meant. He was breathing quickly, too, as he had in the Sanctuary when his head pained him.
Julian turned to Robert. "Arthur wanted to go to the Council as soon as the Fair Folk brought Mark here," he said. "We begged him not to. We were afraid our brother would be taken away. We thought if we could just solve the murders, if Mark helped us do it, it might make him look better in the eyes of the Council. Help convince them to let him stay."
"But do you understand what you did?" the Inquisitor demanded. "Malcolm--if he was in pursuit of dark power--he could have posed a threat to all the Clave." Robert didn't sound convinced, though.
"He wasn't in pursuit of power," said Julian. "He wanted to raise someone he loved from the dead. It was evil, what he did. And he's died for it, as he should have. But it was his only goal and only plan. He never cared about the Clave or Shadowhunters. He only cared about her."
"Poor Malcolm," said Magnus quietly. "To lose the person he loved, that way. We all knew that he had loved a girl who had become an Iron Sister. We had no idea of the truth."
"Robert," Jace said. "These kids haven't done anything wrong."
"Perhaps not, but I'm the Inquisitor. I can hardly conceal this. With Malcolm Fade dead, having taken the Black Volume to the bottom of the ocean with him, and with all of this having happened without the head of the Institute having noticed--"
Julian stepped forward. "There's something Uncle Arthur isn't telling you," he said. "He wasn't just letting us run around wild while he did nothing. He's been tracking down a different source of dark magic."
Julian looked at Magnus as he spoke. Magnus, who had helped them in the past. He seemed to be willing Magnus to understand and believe him.
"It's no coincidence that Anselm Nightshade is in the Sanctuary," Julian went on in a hard voice. "Arthur brought him because he knew you were coming."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "Is that true? Arthur?"
"You'd better tell them," Julian said, looking hard at his uncle. "They're going to find out anyway."
"I--" Arthur was staring at Julian. There was a blankness on his face that made Emma's stomach knot up. Julian appeared to be almost willing Arthur to follow his lead. "I didn't want to mention it," Arthur said, "because it seemed to pale in comparison to what we learned about Malcolm."
"Mention what?"
"Nightshade's been using dark magic for profit," said Julian. His kept his expression calm, a touch regretful. "He's been making money hand over fist using addictive powders in the pizza he makes."
"That's--totally right!" said Emma, speaking over Arthur's stunned silence. "There are people all over the city so addicted that they would do anything for him just to get more."
"Pizza thralls?" said Jace. "This is without doubt, the weirdest--" He broke off as Clary stomped on his foot. "Seems serious," he said. "I mean, addictive demon powders and all."
Julian crossed the room to the hall closet and yanked it open. Several pizza boxes slid out.
"Magnus?" Julian said.
Magnus threw the end of his scarf over his shoulder and approached Jul
ian and the boxes. He lifted the lid of a pizza box with as much gravity as if he were opening a locked treasure chest.
He held his hand out over the box, turning it from left to right. Then he looked up.
"Arthur's right," he said. "Dark magic."
A cry echoed from inside the Sanctuary. "Betrayal!" Anselm shouted. "Et tu, Brute?"
"He can't get out," said Arthur, looking dazed. "The outside doors are locked."
Robert took off running into the Sanctuary. After a moment Jace and Clary followed, leaving only Magnus, hands in his pockets, remaining in the foyer.
Magnus regarded Julian with serious green-gold eyes. "Nicely done," he said. "I don't know quite how else to describe it, but--nicely done."
Julian looked over at Arthur, who was leaning back against the wall by the Sanctuary door, his eyes half-shut, pain etched on his face. "I'll burn in Hell for this," he muttered in a low voice.
"There is no shame in burning for your family," said Mark. "I will burn beside you, gladly."
Julian looked at him, surprise and gratitude written across his face.
"And so will I," said Emma. She looked at Magnus. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm the one who killed Malcolm. I know he was your friend, and I wish--"
"He was my friend," said Magnus, his eyes darkening. "I knew he had loved someone who died. I didn't know the rest of the story. The Clave betrayed him, just like they betrayed you. I've lived a long time--I've seen many betrayals, and many broken hearts. There are those who let their grief devour them. Who forget that others also feel pain. If Alec died--" He looked down at his hands. "I have to think I wouldn't be like that."
"I'm just glad I finally know what happened to my parents," Emma said. "Finally, I know."
Before anyone could add anything, there was an explosion of noise at the entrance to the Sanctuary. Jace appeared suddenly, skidding backward, his fancy blazer ripped and his blond hair mussed. He turned a smile on the rest of them, so bright it seemed to light up the room.
"Clary's got Nightshade pinned in a corner," he said. "He's pretty nimble for such an old vampire. Thanks for the exercise, by the way--and to think I thought tonight was going to be boring!"
After everything had been sorted out with the Inquisitor, who had hauled off Anselm Nightshade (still vowing revenge), and most of the Institute's inhabitants had crawled off to bed, Mark went to the front door and looked out.
It was nearly dawn. Mark could see the sunrise, far in the distance, at the eastern edge of the beach's curve. A pearlescent lightening of the water, as if white paint were spilling into the world through a crack in the sky.
"Mark," said a voice at his shoulder.
He turned. It was Jace Herondale.
It was strange looking at Jace and Clary, strange in a way he doubted it was for his siblings. After all, the last time he'd seen them they'd been Julian's age. They'd been the last Shadowhunters he'd seen before he'd disappeared into the Hunt.
They were far from unrecognizable--they were probably only twenty-one or twenty-two. But up close Mark could see that Jace had acquired an indefinable aura of decisiveness and adulthood. Gone was the boy who had looked into Mark's eyes and said in a shaking voice, The Wild Hunt. You're one of them now.
"Mark Blackthorn," Jace said. "I'd be polite and say you've changed, but you haven't."
"I have," Mark said. "Just not in a way you can see."
Jace seemed to take this with good grace; he nodded and looked out toward the ocean. "A scientist said once that if the ocean were as clear as the sky, if we could see everything in it, no one would ever go into the sea. It's that horrifying, what lives in the water, five miles down."
"There speaks one who does not know the terrors of the sky," said Mark.
"Maybe not," Jace said. "Do you still have the witchlight I gave you?"
Mark nodded. "I kept it with me through Faerie."
"I've only ever given witchlight rune-stones to two people in my life," said Jace. "Clary and you." He cocked his head to the side. "There was something about you, when we found you in the tunnels. You were frightened, but you weren't going to give up. I never had the slightest doubt I'd see you again."
"Really?" Mark looked at him skeptically.
"Really." Jace smiled his easy, charming smile. "Just remember that the New York Institute is on your side," he said. "Remind Julian if you're ever in trouble again. It's not simple running an Institute. I ought to know."
Mark began to protest, but Jace had already turned and gone back inside to rejoin Clary. Mark somehow doubted Jace would have paid any attention to his protest if he'd made it. He'd clearly seen the situation for what it was, but wasn't planning on doing anything to upset the balance.
Mark scanned the horizon again. Dawn was spreading. The road and the highway, the desert trees, all were thrown into sharp relief by the increasing light. And there by the edge of the road stood Kieran, looking out toward the sea. Mark could see him only as a shadow, but even as a shadow Kieran could never have been anyone else.
He went down the steps and over to where Kieran was standing. He had not changed his clothes, and the blade of his sword, which hung by his side, was stained with gore.
"Kieran," Mark said.
"You will stay?" Kieran asked, and then caught himself with a rueful look. "Of course, you will stay."
"If you're asking if I'm going to remain with my family or go back to the Wild Hunt, then yes, you have your answer," said Mark. "The investigation is over. The murderer and his Followers are gone."
"That was not the letter of the bargain," said Kieran. "The Shadowhunters were to release the murderer into the custody of Faerie, for us to mete out justice."
"Given that Malcolm is dead, and the magnitude of Iarlath's betrayal, I expect your folk to look with leniency upon my choice," said Mark.
"My folk?" Kieran echoed. "You know they are not lenient. They have not been lenient with me." Mark thought of the first time he had seen Kieran's black eyes staring out defiantly from the tangle of his dark hair. He thought of the glee of the other Hunters at having a prince to torment and mock. How Kieran had borne it, with an arrogant curl to his lip and a lift of his chin. How he had borne the fact that his father had thrown him to the Hunt the way a man might throw a bone to a dog. Kieran had not had a brother who loved him and fought to get him back. He had not had Julian. "But I will fight for you," he said, meeting Mark's gaze. "I will tell them it is your right to stay." He hesitated. "Will we--see each other again?"
"I don't think so, Kieran," said Mark, as gently as he could. "Not after all that has happened."
A brief ripple of pain, quickly hidden, passed across Kieran's face. The color of his hair had faded to a silvery-blue, not unlike the shade of the ocean in the morning. "I did not expect a different answer," he said. "I hoped, though. It is hard to kill hope. But I suppose I lost you a long time ago."
"Not that long," said Mark. "You lost me when you came here with Gwyn and Iarlath and you let them whip my brother. I could forgive you for any pain incurred by me. But I will never forgive you for what Julian and Emma suffered."
"Emma?" said Kieran, his brows drawing together. "I thought it was the other girl who had drawn your fancy. Your princess."
Mark gave a choked laugh. "By the Angel," he said, and saw Kieran blanch at the Shadowhunter words. "Your imagination is limited by your jealousy. Kieran . . . everyone who lives under this roof, whether they are bound by blood or not, we are tied together by an invisible net of love and duty and loyalty and honor. That is what it means to be a Shadowhunter. Family--"
"What would I know of family? My father sold me to the Wild Hunt. I do not know my mother. I have three dozen brothers, all of whom would gladly see me dead. Mark, you are all I have."
"Kieran--"
"And I love you," Kieran said. "You are all that exists on the earth and under the sky that I do love."
Mark looked into Kieran's eyes, the silver and the black, and he saw in them, as
he always had, the night sky. And he felt that treacherous pull under his rib cage, the one that said that the clouds could be his road. That he need never worry about human concerns: money and shelter and rules and laws. He could ride through the skies over glaciers, through the treetops of forests no human being knew existed. He could sleep in the ruins of cities lost for centuries. His shelter could be a single blanket. He could lie in Kieran's arms and count the stars.
But he had always given the stars his brothers' and sisters' names. There was beauty in the idea of freedom, but it was an illusion. Every human heart was chained by love.
Mark drew his elf-bolt necklace up over his head. He reached out and took Kieran's hand, turning it over so it was palm up, and dropped the necklace into it.
"I will draw no more bows for the Wild Hunt," he said. "Keep this and perhaps remember me."
Kieran's hand tightened on the arrowhead, his knuckles whitening. "The stars will go out before I forget you, Mark Blackthorn."
Lightly, Mark touched Kieran's cheek. The faerie prince's eyes were wide and tearless. But in them Mark could see a great wilderness of loneliness. A thousand dark nights spent riding with no home to arrive at. "I do not forgive you," he said. "But you came to help us, at the end. I do not know what would have happened if you hadn't. So if you need me--if it is a true need--send for me and I will come."
Kieran half-closed his eyes. "Mark--"
But Mark had already turned away. Kieran stood and watched him go, and though he did not move or speak, at the edge of the bluff Windspear reared up and cried out, his hooves pawing at the sky.
Julian's window looked out over the desert. At any point during the past five years he could have switched out for Mark's room, which had a view of the ocean, but it would have felt like giving up on the idea that Mark would ever come back. And besides, his was the only room with a window seat, lined with now slightly threadbare cushions. He and Emma had spent hours there together, reading and drawing, the sun through the glass turning her pale hair to fire.
He was sitting there now, the window cranked open to carry away the scents that still seemed to hang over him, even after a shower: blood and wet stone, seawater and dark magic.
Everything ended eventually, he thought. Even the strangest night of his life. Clary had taken him and Emma aside after Anselm had been captured, hugged them, reminded them that they could always call. He knew Clary was, in her quiet way, trying to tell him, tell both of them, that it was all right to lay their burdens on her.
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