Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

“Julian Blackthorn,” sneered Dearborn. “My daughter told me about you—your uncle was mad, your whole family’s mad, only a madman would find this a good idea—”

“Do not,” said Annabel, and her voice rang out clear and strong, “speak that way to him. He is my blood kin.”

“Blackthorns,” said Dearborn. “Seems they’re all mad, dead, or both!”

If he’d expected a laugh, he didn’t get one. The room was silent.

“Sit,” the Consul said to Dearborn coldly. “It appears your family has an issue with the way Nephilim are meant to comport themselves. Interrupt me again and you’ll be thrown out of the Hall.”

Dearborn sat, but his eyes gleamed with rage. He wasn’t the only one. Emma scanned the room quickly and saw clusters of hateful glares directed at the dais. She choked back her nerves; Julian had pushed his way into the aisle and was standing facing the front of the room. “Annabel,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Tell them about the King.”

“The Unseelie King,” Annabel said softly. “The Lord of Shadows. He was in league with Malcolm. It is important you all know this, because even now, he plans the destruction of all Shadowhunters.”

“But the Fair Folk are weak!” A man in an embroidered gandora was on his feet, dark eyes sparking with concern. Cristina murmured into Emma’s ear that he was the head of the Marrakech Institute. “Years of the Cold Peace have weakened them. The King cannot hope to stand against us.”

“Not in a clash of equal armies, no,” Annabel said in her small voice. “But the King has harnessed the power of the Black Volume, and he has learned how to destroy the power of the Nephilim. How to cancel out runes, seraph blades, and witchlight. You would be fighting his forces with no more power than mundanes—”

“This absolutely cannot be true!” It was a thin, dark-haired man Emma remembered from the long-ago discussion of the Cold Peace. Lazlo Balogh, head of the Budapest Institute. “She is lying.”

“She has no reason to lie!” Diana was on her feet now too, her shoulders set back in a fighting stance. “Lazlo, of all the people—”

“Miss Wrayburn.” The Hungarian man’s expression hardened. “I think we all know you should recuse yourself from the discussion.”

Diana froze.

“You fraternize with faeries,” he went on, smacking his lips as he spoke. “You’ve been observed.”

“Oh, by the Angel, Lazlo,” said the Consul. “Diana has nothing to do with this other than having the bad fortune to disagree with you!”

“Lazlo’s right,” said Horace Dearborn. “The Blackthorns are faerie sympathizers, betrayers of the Law—”

“But we’re not liars,” said Julian. His voice was steel edged in ice.

Dearborn took the bait. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your daughter didn’t kill Malcolm Fade,” said Julian. “Annabel did.”

Zara popped to her feet like a puppet jerked upward on strings. “That’s a lie!” she shrieked.

“It is not a lie,” said Annabel. “Malcolm raised me from the dead. He used the blood of Arthur Blackthorn to do it. And for that, and for his torture and abandonment of me, I killed him.”

Now the room exploded. Shouts echoed off the walls. Samantha and Dane Larkspear were on their feet, shaking their fists. Horace Dearborn was roaring that Annabel was a liar, that all Blackthorns were.

“Enough!” shouted Jia. “Silence!”

“La Spada Mortale.” A small olive-skinned woman rose from a place near the back. She wore a plain dress, but her thick necklace sparkled with jewels. Her hair was a deep gray, worn nearly to her hips, and her voice carried enough authority to cut through the noise in the room.

“What did you say, Chiara?” Jia demanded. Emma knew her name—Chiara Malatesta, head of the Rome Institute in Italy.

“The Mortal Sword,” said Chiara. “If there is a question of whether this person—if that’s what she can be called—is telling the truth, ply her with Maellartach. Then we can dispense with pointless arguments about whether she’s lying.”

“No.” Annabel’s eyes darted around the room in a panic. “Not the Sword—”

“See, she’s lying,” said Dane Larkspear. “She fears the Sword will reveal the truth!”

“She fears the Sword because she was tortured by the Council!” Julian said. He started toward the dais, but two of the Council guards seized him, holding him back. Emma started to rise, but Helen pressed her firmly back into her seat.

“Not yet,” Helen whispered. “It will make things worse—she has to at least try—”

But Emma’s heart was racing. Julian was still being restrained from approaching the dais. Every nerve in her body was shrieking as Robert Lightwood moved away and returned carrying something long and sharp and silver. Something that gleamed like dark water. She saw—she felt—Julian inhale sharply; he had held the Mortal Sword himself before and knew the pain it caused.

“Don’t do this!” he said, but his voice was drowned in the swell of other voices, the clamor in the room as various Shadowhunters rose to their feet, craning for a glimpse of what was going on.