Lord of Shadows
Page 166
“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.
“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.
“Stop!” Julian shouted, and the cold rage with which he spoke was enough to shock at least a few into silence. “By the Angel, this is the truth. She’s telling you the truth! About Malcolm, about the Unseelie King—”
“How are we supposed to know that?” hissed Dearborn. “Who says the Mortal Sword works on that—that thing? She is tainted—”
“She is a monster,” shouted Zara. “This is a conspiracy to try to drag us into a war with the Unseelie Court! The Blackthorns care about nothing but their lies and their filthy faerie siblings!”
“Julian,” Annabel gasped, the Mortal Sword held so tightly in her hands that blood began to bloom on her skin where she gripped the blade. “Julian, help me—Magnus—where’s Magnus—”
Julian struggled against the guards’ hold. Robert hurried forward, his big hands outstretched. “Enough,” he said. “Come with me, Annabel—”
“Leave me alone!” With a hoarse shout, Annabel flinched back from him, raising the blade in her hand. Emma was reminded suddenly and coldly of two things:
The Mortal Sword was not just an instrument of justice. It was a weapon.
And Annabel was a Shadowhunter, with a weapon in her hand.
“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.
“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.
“Stop!” Julian shouted, and the cold rage with which he spoke was enough to shock at least a few into silence. “By the Angel, this is the truth. She’s telling you the truth! About Malcolm, about the Unseelie King—”
“How are we supposed to know that?” hissed Dearborn. “Who says the Mortal Sword works on that—that thing? She is tainted—”
“She is a monster,” shouted Zara. “This is a conspiracy to try to drag us into a war with the Unseelie Court! The Blackthorns care about nothing but their lies and their filthy faerie siblings!”
“Julian,” Annabel gasped, the Mortal Sword held so tightly in her hands that blood began to bloom on her skin where she gripped the blade. “Julian, help me—Magnus—where’s Magnus—”
Julian struggled against the guards’ hold. Robert hurried forward, his big hands outstretched. “Enough,” he said. “Come with me, Annabel—”
“Leave me alone!” With a hoarse shout, Annabel flinched back from him, raising the blade in her hand. Emma was reminded suddenly and coldly of two things:
The Mortal Sword was not just an instrument of justice. It was a weapon.
And Annabel was a Shadowhunter, with a weapon in her hand.
