"I don't know," said Kit, between his teeth. To his surprise, Hypatia raised her eyebrows, as if she knew something he didn't. "And it doesn't matter--we didn't come here to harm you or spy on you. We needed a warlock's help."
"But Nephilim have their own pet warlocks," said Barnabas, "those willing to betray Downworld as they grub for money in the pockets of the Clave. Though after what all of you did to Malcolm . . ."
"Malcolm?" Hypatia stood up straight. "These are Blackthorns? The ones responsible for his death?"
"He only died halfway," Ty said. "He came back as a sort of sea demon, for a while. He's dead now, obviously," he added, as if realizing that he had somehow put his foot in it.
"This is why Sherlock Holmes lets Watson do the talking," Kit said to him in a hissing whisper.
"Holmes never lets Watson do the talking," Ty snapped. "Watson is backup."
"I'm not backup," said Kit, and drew a knife from his pocket. He heard the werewolves laugh, mocking the dagger's puny dimensions, but it didn't bother him. "Like I said," he told them. "We came here to peacefully speak to a warlock and leave. I've grown up in Shadow Markets. I bear them no ill will, and neither do my companions. But if you attack us, we will fight back. And then there will be others, other Nephilim, who will come to avenge us. And for what? What good will it do?"
"The boy is right," said Shade. "War like this benefits no one."
Barnabas waved him away. His eyes had a fanatical gleam to them. "But setting an example does," he said. "Let the Nephilim know what it is like to find the crumpled bodies of your children dead on your doorstep and for there to be no restitution and no justice."
"Don't do this--" Livvy began.
"Finish them," said Barnabas, and his pack of werewolves, as well as a few of the onlookers, sprang toward them.
*
Outside the cottage, the lights of Polperro gleamed like stars against the dark hillsides. The sweep of the sea was audible, the soft sound of ocean rising and falling, the lullaby of the world.
It had certainly worked on Emma. Despite Julian's best efforts with the tea, she had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, Malcolm's diary open beside her, her body curled like a cat's.
She had been reading out loud to him from the diary before she'd fallen asleep. From the very beginning, when Malcolm had been found alone, a confused child who couldn't remember his parents and had no idea what a warlock was. The Blackthorns had taken him in, as far as Julian could tell, because they thought a warlock might be useful to them, a warlock they could control and compel. They had explained to him his true nature, and none too gently at that.
Of all the family, only Annabel had shown kindness to Malcolm. They had explored the cliffs and caves of Cornwall together as children, and she had shown him how they could exchange messages secretly using a raven as a carrier. Malcolm wrote lyrically of the seaside, its changes and tempests, and lyrically of Annabel, even when he did not know his own feelings. He loved her quick wit and her strong nature. He loved her protectiveness--he wrote of how she had defended him angrily to her cousins--and over time he began to marvel at not just the beauty of her heart. His pen skipped and stuttered as he wrote of her soft skin, the shape of her hands and mouth, the times when her hair came out of its plaits and floated around her like a cloud of shadow.
Julian had almost been glad when Emma's voice had trailed off, and she'd lain down--just to rest her eyes, she said--and fallen almost instantly asleep. He had never thought he would sympathize with Malcolm or think of the two of them as alike, but Malcolm's words could have been the story of the ruination of his own heart.
Sometimes, Malcolm had written, someone you have known all your life becomes no longer familiar to you, but strange in a marvelous way, as if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty. Annabel, you have taken my life, my life as dull as the edge of an unused blade, you have taken it apart and put it back together in a shape so strange and marvelous I can only wonder . . .
There was a loud thud, a sound as if a bird had flown into the glass of one of the windows. Julian sat up straight, reaching for the dagger he'd placed on the low table next to the sofa.
The thud came again, louder.
Julian rose to his feet. Something moved outside the window--the flash of something white. It was gone, and then there was another thud. Something thrown against the glass, like a child throwing pebbles at a friend's window to get their attention.
Julian glanced at Emma. She had rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed.
He went to the door and turned the knob slowly, trying to prevent it from squeaking. It opened, and he stepped out into the night.
It was cool and dark, the moon dangling over the water like a pearl on the end of a chain. Around the house was uneven ground that fell away almost sheerly on one side to the ocean. The surface of the water was darkly transparent, the shape of rocks visible through it as if Julian was looking through black glass.
"Julian," said a voice. "Julian Blackthorn."
He turned. The house was behind him. Ahead of him was Peak Rock, the tip of the cliff, and dark grass growing out of gaps between the gray stones.
He raised his hand, the witchlight rune-stone in it. Light rayed out, illuminating the girl standing in front of him.
It was as if she'd stepped out of his own drawing. Dark hair, straight as a pin, an oval face like a sad Madonna, framed by the hood of an enormous cloak. Beneath the cloak he could see thin, pale ankles and cracked shoes.
"Annabel?" he said.
*
The knife flew from Kit's hand. It shot across the distance between him and the approaching mob and drove straight into Barnabas Hale's shoulder. The snake-scaled warlock staggered backward and fell, yelling in pain.
"Kit!" Livvy said, in amazement; he could tell she wasn't sure he'd done the right thing, but he'd never forgotten an Emerson quote that was a favorite of his father's: When you strike at a king, you must kill him.
One warlock was more powerful than a pack of werewolves, and Barnabas was their leader. Two reasons to take him out of the fight. But there was no more time to think about that, because the Downworlders were on them.
"Umbriel!" shouted Livvy. A blazing blade shot from her hand. She was a whirl of motion, her saber training making her fast and graceful. She spun in a deadly circle, her hair whipping around her. She was a gorgeous blur of light and dark, and arcs of blood followed her blade.
Ty, wielding a shortsword, had backed up against the pillar of a stall, which was clever because the stall owner was shouting at the Downworlders to get back even as they advanced.
"Oi! Get away!" yelled the stall owner, and her wares began to fly through the air, bottles of tinctures splattering against the surprised faces of werewolves and vampires. Some of the substances seemed corrosive--at least one werewolf fell back with a yell, clutching a sizzling face.
Ty smiled, and despite everything that was happening, it made Kit want to smile, too. He filed it away as a memory to revisit later, considering that right now a massive werewolf with shoulders like flying buttresses was careening toward him. He reached out and yanked a pole free of Shade's tent, causing the whole structure to tilt.
Kit swung out with the pole. It wasn't the hardest metal, but it was flexible, like a massive whip. He heard the crunch of bone against skin as it slammed the leaping werewolf directly in the sternum. With a grunt of agony, the lycanthrope went sailing past Kit's head.
Kit's body thrummed with excitement. Maybe they could do it. Maybe the three of them could fight their way out of this. Maybe that was what it meant to have Heaven in your blood.
Livvy screamed.
Kit knocked a vampire out of his way with a vicious whack of the pole, and spun to see what had happened. One of the bottles flying through the air had smashed against her side. It
was clearly an acidic substance--it was burning through the material of her clothes, and though her hand was clamped against the wound, Kit could see blood between her fingers.
She was still slashing out with her other hand, but the Downworlders, like sharks smelling blood, had turned away from Ty and Kit and were moving toward her. She hit out, spearing two, but without being able to properly shield her body, her circle of protection was shrinking. A vampire stepped nearer, licking his lips.
Kit began to run toward her. Ty was ahead of him, using his shortsword to hack his way through the crowd. Blood was pattering down on the ground at Livvy's feet. Kit's heart tensed with panic. She slumped just as Ty reached her and the two of them went down on the ground, Livvy in her brother's arms. Umbriel clattered from her hand.
Kit staggered toward the two of them. He threw his pole aside, hitting several werewolves, and snatched up Livvy's seraph blade.
Ty had put down the shortsword. He was holding his sister, who was unconscious, her hair spilling across his shoulders and chest. He had his stele out and was tracing a healing rune on her skin, though his hand was shaking and the rune was uneven.
Kit held up the blazing sword. The light of it made the Downworlders cringe back slightly, but he knew it wasn't enough: They would press on, and tear him apart, and then they would tear apart Livvy and Ty. He saw Barnabas, his suit soaked in blood, leaning on the arm of a bodyguard. His eyes, fixed on Kit, were filled with hate.
There would be no mercy here.
A wolf leaped toward Kit. He raised Umbriel, swung it--and connected with nothing. The wolf had tumbled to the ground, as if shoved by an unseen hand.
There was a blast of wind. Kit's gold hair blew across his face; he pushed it back with a hand stained red. The tents were rattling; more jars and bottles smashed. Blue lightning crackled, and a fork of it stabbed into the ground just in front of Barnabas.
"I see," said a silky voice, "that I seem to have arrived here just in time."
Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat's eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked.
"Magnus Bane," said Barnabas, with clear loathing. "The Ultimate Traitor."
"Not my favorite nickname," Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas's direction. "I prefer 'Our Lord and Master' or maybe 'Unambiguously the Hottest.' "
Barnabas shrank back. "These three Nephilim broke into the Market under false pretenses--"
"Did they break the Accords?"
Barnabas snarled. "One of them stabbed me."
"Which one?" Magnus asked.
Barnabas pointed at Kit.
"Dreadful business," Magnus said. His left hand was down by his side. Surreptitiously, he gave Kit a thumbs-up. "Was that before or after you attacked them?"
"After," Kit said. One of Barnabas's bodyguards started toward him; he jabbed out with his blade. This time the lightning that forked from Magnus's hand snapped like a downed electrical wire between their feet.
"Stop," he said.
"You have no authority here, Bane," said Barnabas.
"Actually, I do," said Magnus. "As the warlock representative to the Council of Shadowhunters, I have a great deal of authority. I imagine you know that."
"Oh, we know entirely how in thrall to the Shadowhunters you are." Barnabas was so furious, saliva flew when he spoke. "Especially the Lightwoods."
Magnus raised a lazy eyebrow. "Is this about my boyfriend? Jealous, Barnabas?"
Kit cleared his throat. "Mr. Bane," he said. He'd heard of Magnus Bane, everyone had. He was probably the most famous warlock in the world. His boyfriend, Alec, helped head up the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance, along with Maia Roberts and Lily Chen. "Livvy lost a lot of blood. Ty used a healing rune, but--"
Magnus's face darkened with real anger. "She's fifteen years old; she's a child," he snarled. "How dare you all."
"Going to report us to the Council, Magnus?" said Hypatia, speaking for the first time. She hadn't joined in the melee; she was leaning against the side of a stall, eyeing Magnus up and down. Shade seemed to have vanished; Kit had no idea where he'd gone.
"It seems to me we have two choices," said Magnus. "You fight me, and you will not win, believe me, because I am very angry and I am older than any of you. And then I tell the Council. Or you let me walk away with these Nephilim children, we don't fight, and I don't report you to the Council. Thoughts?"
"I pick number two," said the woman who'd thrown her bottles at the werewolves.
"She's right, Barnabas," said Hypatia. "Step back."
Barnabas's face was working. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, followed by his bodyguards. The other Downworlders began to shuffle away, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders hunched.
Kit dropped down on his knees next to Ty, who had barely moved. His eyes were darting back and forth, his lips almost white; he looked as if he was in shock.
"Ty," Kit said hesitantly, and put a hand on the other boy's arm. "Ty--"
Ty shook him off almost without seeming to register who he was. His arms were around Livvy, his fingers pressed to her wrist; Kit realized he was taking her pulse. It was clear she was alive. Kit could see the rise and fall of her chest. But Ty kept his fingers on her wrist regardless, as if the pulse of her heartbeat steadied him.
"Tiberius." It was Magnus, kneeling down, heedless of the blood and mud spattering his expensive-looking coat. He didn't reach out or try to touch Ty, just spoke in a low voice. "Tiberius. I know you can hear me. You have to help me get Livvy to the Institute. I can take care of her there."
Ty looked up. He wasn't crying, but the gray in his eyes had darkened to a searing charcoal. He looked stunned. "She'll be all right?" he said.
"She'll be fine." Magnus's voice was firm. Kit reached out to help Tiberius lift Livvy, and this time Ty let him do it. As they stood up, Magnus was already creating a Portal, a whirl of blue and green and rose colors, rising up against the shadows of the tents and stalls of the Market.
Ty turned suddenly to Kit. "Can you take her?" he said. "Carry Livvy?"
Kit nodded in astonishment. For Ty to let him carry his twin was a sign of trust that shocked him. He lifted Livvy in his arms, the scent of blood and magic in his nose.
"Come on!" Magnus called. The Portal was wide open now: Kit could see the shape of the London Institute through it.
Ty didn't turn. He had slammed his headphones down over his ears and was running through the empty lane of the Market. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were warding off blows that came from all sides, but his hands were steady when he reached the stall at the end, the one with the caged faeries. He began seizing the cages, yanking them open one by one. The pixies and nixies and hobgoblins inside poured out, yelping with joy at their freedom.
"You! You, stop that!" shouted the stall owner, running back to prevent further destruction, but it was already too late. Ty flung the last cage toward him and it burst open, releasing a furious, clawing hobgoblin, who fastened his teeth into his former captor's shoulder.
"Ty!" Kit called, and Ty ran back toward the open Portal. Knowing Ty was behind him, Kit stepped into it, holding Livvy tight, and let the whirlwind take him.
*
Annabel came toward him silently, her cracked shoes making no sounds on the rock. Julian couldn't move. He was rooted to the spot with disbelief.
He knew she was alive. He'd watched her kill Malcolm. But somehow he'd never imagined her as so tangible and distinct. So human. She seemed like someone he might meet anywhere: in a movie theater, at the Institute, at the beach.
He wondered where she'd gotten the clothing from. The cloak didn't seem like something you'd find hanging on a washing line, and he doubted she had any money.
The high rocks threw their shadows down as she came closer to him, pushing her hood back. "How did you find this pla
ce?" she demanded. "This house?"
He held up his hands and she stopped, only a few feet from him. The night wind picked up strands of her hair and they seemed to dance.
"The piskies told me where you were," she said. "Once they were Malcolm's friends, and still they hold affection for me."
Was she serious? Julian couldn't tell.
"You should not be here," she said. "You should not be looking for me."
"I have no desire to hurt or harm you," Julian said. He wondered; if he moved closer to her, would he be able to grab her? Though the idea of using physical force to try to get the Black Volume sickened him. He realized he hadn't imagined how he was going to get it away from her. Finding her had been too much of a priority. "But I saw you kill Malcolm."
"I remember this place two hundred years past," she said as if he hadn't spoken. Her accent was British, but there was an oddness to it, a sound Julian had never heard before. "It looked much the same, though there were fewer houses, and more ships in the harbor." She turned to look back at the cottage. "Malcolm built that house himself. With his own magic."
"Why didn't you come inside?" Julian said. "Why did you wait for me out here?"
"I am barred," she said. "Malcolm's blood is on my hands. I cannot enter his home." She turned to face Julian. "How could you have seen me kill him?"
The moon had come out from behind a cloud. It lit the night up brilliantly, framing the ragged edges of the clouds with light.
"I watched Malcolm raise you," Julian said. "In a scrying glass of the Seelie Queen. She wanted me to see it."
"But why would the Queen want such a thing?" Her lips parted in realization. "Ah. To make you want to follow me. To make you want the Black Volume of the Dead and all its power."
She reached into her cloak and drew out the book. It was black, a dense sort of black that seemed to gather shadows into itself. It was tied closed with a leather strap. The words stamped onto its cover had long faded away.
"I remember nothing of my death," Annabel said softly, as Julian stared at the book in her hands. "Not how it was done, nor the time after it when I lay beneath the earth, nor when Malcolm learned of my death and disturbed my bones. I only discovered later that Malcolm had spent many years trying to raise me from the dead, but during that time none of the spells he cast worked. My body rotted and I did not wake." She turned the book over in her hands. "It was the Unseelie King who told him that the Black Volume was the key. The Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme and the spell. And it was the King who told Malcolm when Sebastian Morgenstern's attack on the Institute would come--when it would be empty. All the King asked in return was that Malcolm worked for him on spells that would weaken the Nephilim."
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