“And fear will make them agreeable,” said Horace. “Zara?”
“The warlocks are growing sicker,” Zara said with relish. “No reported transformations yet, but many Institutes have taken in warlocks in an effort to heal them. Once they turn into demons, you can imagine the bloody chaos that will ensue.”
“Which should make it easy to enact martial law and rid ourselves of the rest of the warlocks,” said Horace.
The fact that the blight would serve not just to frighten Shadowhunters but also to harm warlocks had always been seen as a plus by Horace, though Manuel saw little point in an exercise that would seriously limit the Shadowhunters’ ability to do things like open Portals and heal unusual illnesses. That was the problem with true believers. They were never practical. Ah well. Some warlocks would probably survive, he reasoned. Once all the Cohort’s demands were met, they could afford to be generous and destroy the blight for good. It wasn’t as if Horace was fond of the blight, or its propensity to deaden angelic magic. It was simply a useful tool, as the Larkspears had been.
“Are you not worried that the transformed warlocks will get out of control and slaughter Shadowhunters? Even mundanes?”
“I am not,” said Horace. “A properly trained Shadowhunter should be able to handle a warlock turned demon. If they cannot, then we have done our society a favor in culling them.”
“My question is whether Oban can be trusted,” said Zara, curling her lip. “He is a faerie, after all.”
“He can,” said Manuel. “He is far more malleable than his father was. He wants his kingdom, and we want ours. And if we bring him Prince Kieran’s head as promised, he will be very pleased indeed.”
Horace sighed. “If only these arrangements did not have to be secret. The whole of the Clave should glory in the rightness of our plan.”
“But they don’t like faeries, Papa,” said Zara, who was, as always, incredibly literal. “They wouldn’t like making deals with them or encouraging them to bring the blight into Idris, even if it was for a worthy cause. It is illegal to work with demonic magic—though I know it’s necessary,” she added hastily. “I wish Samantha and Dane were still around. Then we could talk to them.”
Manuel thought with little interest of Dane, undone by his own stupidity, and of Samantha, currently raving her head off in the Basilias. He doubted either of them would have been much help even in their former states.
“It is a lonely burden, daughter, to be the ones tasked with doing the right thing,” said Horace pompously.
Zara got up from her chair and patted his shoulder. “Poor Papa. Do you want to look into the scrying mirror one more time? It always cheers you up.”
Manuel sat up in his chair. The scrying mirror was one of the few things he didn’t find boring. Oban had magicked it to reflect the fields before the Unseelie Tower.
Zara held the mirror up so that the light from the demon towers sparked off its silver handle. She gave a little squeal as the glass turned clear, and through it they saw the green fields of Unseelie and the anthracite tower. Lined up in front of the tower were row upon row of Unseelie warriors, so many that the view of them filled the scene even as the rows diminished into the distance: an army without limit, without end. Their swords shone in the sunlight like a vast field planted with razor-sharp blades.
“What do you think?” said Horace with pride, as if he himself had put together the army. “Spectacular, isn’t it, Annabel?”
The woman with the long dark-brown hair, sitting silently in the corner of the room, nodded calmly. She wore clothes that matched the ones she had worn that bloody day in the Council Hall; Zara had dredged up near-exact copies, but it was Manuel who had first thought of deploying them, as if they were themselves a weapon.
There were few things stronger than fear. Since the Council meeting, the Shadowhunters had been terrified of Annabel Blackthorn. If she appeared before them, they would cower behind Horace. His ability to protect them would be all they cared about.
And when it came to Julian Blackthorn and the rest of his irritating family, there would be more than just fear. There would be rage. Hatred. All emotions the Cohort could exploit.
Horace gave a nervous laugh and turned back to studying the mirror.
Hidden by the lengthening shadows, Manuel grinned savagely. Absolutely nobody was prepared for what was coming.
Just the way he liked it.
24
THE LONG NIGHT-TIME
Aline Penhallow, Head of the Los Angeles Institute:
White banners of mourning fly over our capital city today, and green flags to speed the healing of our hearts.
Heroes of the Dark War Jonathan Herondale and Clarissa Fairchild have been slain by Unseelie hands. They were on a mission for the Clave, and their deaths will be celebrated as the deaths of heroes. Their bodies have not yet been recovered.
Such a brutal breakage of the Cold Peace must be reckoned with. Starting this morning, at sunrise in Alicante, we shall consider ourselves in a state of War with Faerie-kind. Members of the Council will reach out to the Court to seek parley and reparations. If a faerie is seen outside their Lands, you are free to capture them and bring them to Alicante for questioning. If you must slay the faerie in question, you will not be in breach of the Accords.
Faeries are cunning, but we will prevail and avenge our fallen heroes. As always in a state of War, individual Shadowhunters are expected to return to Idris to report for duty within forty-eight hours. Please notify the Clave of your travel plans as Portal activity into Idris will be monitored.
Horace Dearborn, Inquisitor
NB: As our Consul, Jia Penhallow, is suspected of involvement with faeries, she is being held in the Gard tower until such time as she can be questioned.
“Jia?” Emma said in disbelief. “They jailed the Consul?”
“Aline is trying to reach Patrick,” said Helen in a low voice. “House arrest is one thing, but this is another. Aline’s frantic.”
“Who knows you’re alive?” Alec demanded, turning to Jace. “Who knows that what’s in this letter isn’t true?”
Jace looked startled. “The people in this house. Magnus—where is Magnus?”
“Sleeping,” Alec said. “So, besides us?”
“Simon and Izzy. Mom. Maia and Bat. That’s all.” He swiveled around in his chair. “Why? Do you think we should go to Alicante? Expose their lies?”
“No,” Julian said. His voice was quiet but firm. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Helen said.
“Because this isn’t a mistake,” said Julian. “This is a false flag operation. They believe you’re dead—they wouldn’t risk this if they didn’t—and they’re pinning the blame on Faerie to encourage a war.”
“Why would anyone want war?” said Helen. “Didn’t they see what the last one did?”
“People seize power in wars,” said Julian. “If they make faeries the enemy, they can make themselves the heroes. Everyone will forget the complaints they had about the current Council. They’ll unite behind them in a common cause. A war can begin with a single death. Here they have two—and both are famous, heroes to the Clave.”
Both Jace and Clary looked uncomfortable.
“I see a flaw in this plan,” said Jace. “They still have to fight and win a war.”
“Maybe,” said Julian. “Maybe not. It depends what their plan is.”
“I see another flaw,” said Clary. “We’re not actually dead. It’s pretty cocky of them to think they can get away with pretending we are.”
“I think they believe it,” said Emma. “The fight in the Court was chaos. They probably don’t realize who went through the Portal into Thule and who didn’t. And who knows what Manuel told them. He likes to bend the truth anyway, and without the Mortal Sword, he can bend away. I bet he wants a war.”
“But surely the Council won’t truly support the idea of a war with Faerie,” said Clary. “Or do you really think the whole Counc
il is lost to us?”
Emma was surprised; Clary was looking at Julian as if she were deeply invested in his answer, though she was five years older. It was strange to think Julian’s sharp brilliance didn’t just belong to her, to his family.
“Enough of them are,” said Julian. “Enough of them have already gotten behind the Cohort and this message. Otherwise they wouldn’t be demanding we all return to Alicante in two days.”
“But we’re not going to do that,” said Mark. “We cannot go back to Alicante now. It is under the Cohort’s control.”
“And last time we were there, Horace sent us on a suicide mission,” Emma pointed out. “I don’t think we’d all be safe in Idris.” It was a sobering thought—Idris was their homeland, meant to be the safest place in the world for Shadowhunters.
“We’re not going,” Helen said. “Not only would it be unsafe but it would mean abandoning the warlocks to the ravages of the blight.”
“But Jace and Clary can’t go to Lake Lyn,” said Alec. His black hair was standing up in a ruffled mess, and his hands were tightened into fists. “All Portal activity is being monitored.”
“That’s why you didn’t leave at dawn,” Emma said, wondering how long Clary and Jace had been sitting here, staring at the letter in horror.
“But there has to be some way,” Jace said, gazing at Alec with desperation. “Clary and I can travel overland, or—”
“You can’t,” Emma interrupted. “There are pieces of this I don’t understand, but I can tell you one thing. The Cohort is using your deaths to get what they want. If the two of you go to Alicante and the Cohort hears about it, even a whisper, they’ll put everything they’ve got into killing you.”
“Emma’s right,” said Julian. “They have to keep believing you’re dead.”
“Then I’ll go,” Alec said. “Clary can make me a Portal to somewhere near Idris and I can cross the border on foot—”
“Alec, no. Magnus needs you here,” Clary said. “Besides, you’re the head of the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance. The Cohort would love to get their hands on you.”
Kieran rose to his feet. “None of you can go,” he said. “What you Nephilim lack is subtlety. You would go galloping into Idris, bringing disaster down on all of us. Meanwhile, faeries can slip into Idris as swift as a shadow and bring back what you need.”
“Faeries?” Jace raised an eyebrow. “You seem to be one faerie. Maybe two if you count half of Helen and half of Mark.”
Kieran looked annoyed.
“Faeries are forbidden to even set foot on the soil of Idris,” said Alec. “There are probably wards up, and sensors—”
“Isn’t it convenient that there are faerie steeds who fly,” Kieran said, “and riders who ride those steeds, and that I am one?”
“This is kind of a rude way of offering help,” said Jace, and caught Clary’s eye. “But I’m all in,” he added. “Are you offering to fly into Idris and collect the water?”
Kieran had begun to pace. His dark hair had turned deep blue, threaded with white strands. “You will need more than one faerie. You will need a legion. Those who can fly into Idris, collect the water, destroy the blight, and bring the cure to warlocks all over the world. You need the Wild Hunt.”
“The Hunt?” said Mark. “Even with Gwyn as a friend of Diana’s, I do not think the Hunt would do this for Nephilim.”
Kieran drew himself up. For the first time, Emma saw some of his father in his stance and in the set of his jaw. “I am a prince of Faerie, and a Hunter,” he said. “I killed the Unseelie King with my own hands. I believe they will do it for me.”
* * *
On the roof, Kit could hear voices floating up from the kitchen below—raised and frantic voices. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about, though.
“A letter from Livvy,” he said, turning around to look at Ty. The other boy was sitting at the roof’s edge, his legs dangling over the side. Kit hated how close Ty was willing to get to the edges of things: Sometimes it seemed like he had no sense of spatial danger, the reality of what would happen if he fell. “The other Livvy, in the other universe.”
Ty nodded. His too-long hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back impatiently. He was wearing a white sweater with holes in the cuffs that he’d pushed his thumbs through, as if he were hooking the sleeves on. “Emma gave it to me. I wondered if you wanted to read it.”
“Yes,” Kit said. “I do.”
Ty held it out to him and Kit took the light envelope, looked at the scrawl on the cover. Tiberius. Did it look like Livvy’s handwriting? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember studying her handwriting; he knew he was forgetting the sound of her voice.
The sun was beating down on the roof, making Ty’s gold locket spark. Kit opened the letter and began to read.
Ty,
I’ve thought so many times about what I would say to you if you reappeared suddenly. If I was walking along the street and you popped out of thin air, walking along beside me like you always used to, with your hands in your pockets and your head tilted back.
Mom used to say you walked celestially, looking up at the sky as if you were scanning the clouds for angels. Do you remember that?
In your world I am ashes, I am ancestors, my memories and hopes and dreams have gone to build the City of Bones. In your world, I am lucky, because I do not have to live in a world without you. But in this world, I am you. I am the twinless twin. So I can tell you this:
When your twin leaves the earth you live on, it never turns the same way again: the weight of their soul is gone, and everything is off balance. The world rocks under your feet like an unquiet sea. I can’t tell you it gets easier. But it does get steadier; you learn how to live with the new rocking of the new earth, the way sailors gain sea legs. You learn. I promise.
I know you’re not exactly the Ty I had in this world, my brilliant, beautiful brother. But I know from Julian that you are beautiful and brilliant too. I know that you are loved. I hope that you are happy. Please be happy. You deserve it so much.
I want to ask if you remember the way we used to whisper words to each other in the dark: star, twin, glass. But I’ll never know your answer. So I’ll whisper to myself as I fold this letter up and slide it into the envelope, hoping against hope it will somehow reach you. I whisper your name, Ty. I whisper the most important thing:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Livvy
When Kit lowered the letter, the whole world looked a little too sharp and bright, as if he were seeing it through a magnifying glass. His throat hurt. “What—what do you think?”
I love you, I love you, I love you
Let him hear it, let him believe it and let go.
“I think . . .” Ty reached up for the letter and folded it back into his jacket pocket. “I think this isn’t my Livvy. I’m sure she’s a good person, but she isn’t mine.”
Kit sat down, a little suddenly. “What do you mean?”
Ty gazed out at the ocean, at its steady incursion and recession. “My Livvy would want to come back to me. This one didn’t. It would be interesting to meet this Livvy, but it’s probably good that she didn’t come back with Emma and Jules, because then we couldn’t bring back the right Livvy.”
“No,” Kit said. “No, you don’t get it. It’s not that she didn’t want to come back. She’s needed there. I’m sure she would have wanted to be with her family if she could. Imagine having to bear that loss—”
“I don’t want to.” Ty cut him off sharply. “I know she feels bad. I’m really sorry for her. I am.” He had taken a piece of thread from his pocket and was worrying at it with nervous hands. “But that’s not why I brought you the letter. You know what it is?”
“I guess I don’t,” Kit said.
“It’s the last thing we need for the spell,” Ty said. “It’s an object from another dimension.”
Kit felt as if he were on a roller coaster that had suddenly, precipitously, dro
pped. He was about to say something when Ty made a soft sound of wonder; he tilted his head back as above them flew a black-and-gray horse and a brown one, their hooves trailing gold and silver vapor. They both watched in silence as the horses landed on the grass in front of the Institute.
One of the riders was a familiar woman in a black dress. Diana. The other was Gwyn ap Nudd, leader of the Wild Hunt. They both watched in astonishment as Gwyn dismounted before going to help Diana down.
* * *
Dru clambered up onto the roof. Ty and Kit were already there, standing disturbingly close to the roof’s edge. She wasn’t surprised; she’d figured out a long time ago that whenever they wanted to talk in private, they disappeared up here, the way Emma and Julian used to when they were younger.
She hadn’t really talked to either of them since the time she’d gone into Ty’s room. She didn’t know what to say. Everyone else in the family—Helen, Mark—was talking about how well Ty was recovering, how strong he was being, how he was holding up in the face of Livvy’s death.
But she had seen his room torn apart and the blood on his pillowcases. It had made her look more closely at him—at how thin he was, and the scrapes across his knuckles.
After their father had died, Ty had gone through a phase of biting at his own hands. He would wake up in the night having gnawed the skin over his knuckles. She guessed he was doing that again, and that was why there was blood on his pillows. Helen and Mark couldn’t recognize it; they hadn’t been there years ago. Livvy would have known. Julian would have known, but he had only just gotten home. And besides, talking to anyone about it seemed like a betrayal of Ty.
The story of Thule haunted her, too—a world in which Ty was dead. In which she herself was missing. In which the Blackthorns were no longer a family. A world where Sebastian Morgenstern had ruled. Even the name Ash haunted her, as if she’d heard it before, though she had no memory of having done so. The idea of Thule was a dark nightmare, reminding her of the fragility of the bonds that held her to her family. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Ty.
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