Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

“She’s a filthy undead creature!” Zara shouted. “She should be put out of her misery, not standing up in front of the Council!”

Annabel blanched. Emma could feel Julian’s tension, knew what he was thinking: If Magnus were here, Magnus could explain: Annabel was not a revenant. She had been brought back to life. She was a living Shadowhunter. Magnus was a Downworlder that the Clave trusted, one of the few. None of this would be happening if he’d been able to join the meeting.

Magnus, Emma thought, oh Magnus, I hope you’re all right. I wish you were with us.

“The Sword will determine Annabel’s fitness to give testimony,” Jia said in a hard voice that carried to the back of the room. “That is the Law. Stand back and let the Mortal Sword work.”

The crowd fell silent. The Mortal Instruments were the highest power the Shadowhunters knew outside of the Angel himself. Even Zara closed her mouth.

“Take your time,” Robert said to Annabel. The compassion in his face surprised Emma. She remembered him forcing the blade into Julian’s hands, and Julian had been only twelve. She had been angry with Robert for a long time after that, though Julian didn’t appear to bear a grudge.

Annabel was panting like a frightened rabbit. She looked at Julian, who gave her an encouraging nod, and reached her hands out slowly.

When she took the Sword, a shudder went through her body, as if she’d touched an electric fence. Her face tensed—but she held the sword unharmed. Jia exhaled with visible relief. The Sword had proved it—Annabel was a Shadowhunter. The Hall remained silent, as everyone stared.

Both the Consul and the Inquisitor stepped back, giving Annabel space. She stood in the center of the dais, a lonely figure in an ill-fitting dress.

“What is your name?” Robert asked her, his tone deceptively mild.

“Annabel Callisto Blackthorn.” She spoke between quick breaths.

“And who are you standing on this dais with?”

Her blue-green eyes darted desperately between them. “I don’t know you,” she breathed. “You are Consul and Inquisitor—but not the ones I knew. You are clearly a Lightwood, but . . .” She shook her head before her face brightened. “Robert,” she said. “Julian called you Robert.”

Samantha Larkspear laughed derisively, and several of the other placard-bearers joined her. “There isn’t enough left of her brain to give decent evidence!”

“Be silent!” thundered Jia. “Miss Blackthorn, you knew—you were the lover of Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of Los Angeles?”

“He was only a warlock when I knew him, of no rank.” Annabel’s voice shook. “Please. Ask me if I killed him. I can’t stand much more of this.”

“What we discuss here is not your choice.” Jia didn’t seem angry, but Annabel visibly flinched.

“This is a mistake,” Livvy whispered to Emma. “They need to just ask her about Malcolm and end this. They can’t make this into an interrogation.”

“It’ll be fine,” Emma said. “It will.”

But her heart was racing. The other Blackthorns were watching with visible tension. On her other side, Emma could see Helen, gripping the arms of her seat. Aline was rubbing her shoulder.

“Ask her,” Julian said. “Just ask her, Jia.”

“Julian. Enough,” Jia said, but she turned to Annabel, her dark eyes expectant. “Annabel Callisto Blackthorn. Did you kill Malcolm Fade?”

“Yes.” Hate crystallized Annabel’s voice, strengthened it. “I cut him open. I watched him bleed to death. Zara Dearborn did nothing. She has been lying to you all.”

A gasp ran around the room. For a moment Julian relaxed, and the guards who had been holding him released their grips. Zara, red-faced, gaped from the crowd.

Thank the Angel, Emma thought. They’ll have to listen now.

Annabel faced the room, the Sword in her hand, and for that moment Emma could see what Malcolm must have fallen in love with. She looked proud, delighted, beautiful.

Something sailed past her head and smashed into the lectern. A bottle, Emma thought—glass shattered outward from it. There was a gasp, and then a giggle, and then other objects began flying through the air—the crowd seemed to be flinging whatever they had to hand.

Not the whole crowd, Emma realized. It was the Cohort and their supporters. There weren’t that many of them—but there were enough. And their hate was bigger than the whole room.

Emma met Julian’s eyes; she saw the despair in his. They had expected better. Even after everything that they’d been through, they’d expected better, somehow.

It was true that many Shadowhunters were now on their feet shouting at the Cohort to stop. But Annabel had crumpled to her knees, her head down, her hands still gripping the Sword. She hadn’t raised her hands to shield herself from the objects flying at her—they smacked into the floor and the lectern and the window: bottles and bags, coins and stones, even watches and bracelets.