Lord of Shadows
Page 168
“Annabel, stop.” Julian spoke calmly, his hands up to show they were empty—empty? Emma fumed, where was his sword, where were his weapons?—his eyes wide and guileless. “This will only make things worse.”
Annabel was sobbing harsh breaths. “Liar. Get back, get away from me.”
“I never lied to you—”
“You told me they would give me Blackthorn Manor! You told me Magnus would protect me! But look!” She swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the whole room. “I am tainted to them—despised, a criminal—”
“You can still come back.” Julian’s voice was a marvel of steadiness. “Put the Sword down.”
For a moment, Annabel seemed to hesitate. Emma was at the foot of the dais steps; she saw Annabel’s grip loosen on the hilt of the Sword—
Jia stood up. Her robes were wet with Robert’s blood, her stele limp in her hand. “He’s dead,” she said.
It was like a key turning in the lock of a cage, freeing the occupants: The guards lunged up the steps, leaping toward Annabel, blades outstretched. She spun with inhuman quickness, striking at them, and the Sword slashed across both their chests. There were screams as they collapsed, and Emma was running up the stairs, drawing Cortana, leaping in front of Julian.
From here, she could see all of the Council Hall. It was a melee. Some were fleeing through the doors. The Blackthorns and Cristina were on their feet, fighting toward the dais, though a line of guards had appeared to hold them back. As Emma watched, Livvy ducked under a guard’s arm and began to shove her way toward them. A longsword glimmered in her hand.
Emma looked back at Annabel. It was clear this near to her that something had snapped inside her. She looked blank, her eyes dead and disconnected. Her gaze shifted past Emma. Alec had burst through the doors—he stared up at the dais, his face a mask of grief and shock.
Emma wrenched her eyes away from him as Annabel sprang for Julian like a cat, her sword cutting the air before her. Instead of raising Cortana to meet Annabel’s thrust, Emma threw herself to the side, knocking Julian to the polished floor of the dais.
For a moment he was against her; they were together, body to body, and she felt the parabatai strength flow through her. The Mortal Sword came down again and they sprang apart, redoubled in strength, as it sliced through the wood at their feet.
The room was full of screaming. Emma thought she heard Alec calling for Robert: Dad, please, Dad. She thought of the tapestry of him in Robert’s room. She thought of Isabelle. She whirled with Cortana in her hand, and the flat of the blade slammed against Maellartach.
Both swords shuddered. Annabel jerked her sword arm back, her eyes suddenly almost feral. Someone was shouting for Julian. It was Livvy, clambering up the side of the dais.
“Livvy!” Julian yelled. “Livvy, get out of here—”
Annabel swung again, and Emma raised Cortana, cutting on the upstroke, pushing closer, slamming her sword against Annabel’s with all the force in her body, bringing the blades together with a massive, echoing clang.
And the Mortal Sword shattered.
It cracked jaggedly along the blade, the top half shearing away. Annabel shrieked and stumbled backward, and black fluid spilled from the broken sword like sap from a felled tree.
Emma collapsed to her knees. It was as if the hand that held Cortana had been struck by lightning. Her wrist was humming and a ringing sounded all the way up her bones, making her body shake. She grabbed for Cortana’s hilt with her right hand, panicking, desperate not to drop it.
“Emma!” Julian was holding his own arm stiffly, Emma saw, as if he had been hurt too.
The humming was receding. Emma tried to get to her feet and stumbled; her teeth bit down into her lip with frustration. How dare her body betray her. “I’m fine—fine—”
Livvy gasped at the sight of the smashed Mortal Sword. She had reached the top of the dais; Julian reached out, and Livvy tossed him the sword she was holding. He caught it neatly and spun to face Annabel, who was staring down at the broken weapon in her hand. The Consul had seen what had happened too, and was striding toward them.
“It’s over, Annabel,” Julian said. He didn’t look triumphant; he looked weary. “It’s done.”
Annabel gave a growl low in her throat and lunged. Julian raised his blade. But Annabel whipped past him, her black hair seeming to soar around her. Her feet left the ground, and for a moment she was truly beautiful, a Shadowhunter in full flowering glory, just before she landed lightly on the wooden floor at the dais’s edge and drove her jagged, broken half blade into Livvy’s heart.
Livvy’s eyes shot wide. Her mouth formed an O, as if she were astonished by discovering something small and surprising, like a mouse on the kitchen counter. An overturned vase of flowers, a broken wristwatch. Nothing huge. Nothing terrible.
Annabel stepped back, breathing hard. She no longer looked beautiful. Her dress, her arm, was soaked in red and black.
Livvy raised her hand and wonderingly touched the hilt protruding from her chest. Her cheeks flared red.
“Ty?” she whispered. “Ty, I—”
Her knees went out from under her. She thudded hard to the ground on her back. The blade was like an ugly massive insect fastened to her chest, a metal mosquito sucking the blood that ran from her wound, red mixed with the black of the sword, spilling across the floor.
In the aisle of the Council Hall, Ty looked up, his face turning the color of ashes. Emma had no idea if he could see them through the teeming crowd—see his sister, see what had happened—but his hands flew to his chest, pressing over his heart. He pitched to his knees, soundlessly, just as Livvy had, and crumpled to the ground.
Julian made a noise. It was a noise Emma couldn’t have described, not as human a sound as a howl or a scream. It sounded like it was ripped out of the inside of him, like something brutal was tearing through his chest. He dropped the longsword Livvy had risked so much to bring him, fell to his knees, and crawled to her, pulling her into his lap.
“Livvy, Livvy, my Livvy,” he whispered, cradling her, feverishly stroking her blood-wet hair away from her face. There was so much blood. He was covered in it in seconds; it had soaked through Livvy’s clothes, even her shoes were drenched in it. “Livia.” His hands shook; he fumbled out his stele, put it to her arm.
The healing rune vanished as quickly as he drew it.
Emma felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. There were wounds that were beyond an iratze’s power. Healing runes only vanished from skin when occult poison was involved—or when the person was already dead.
“Livia.” Julian’s voice rose, cracking and tumbling over itself like a wave breaking far out to sea. “Livvy, my baby, please, sweetheart, open your eyes, it’s Jules, I’m here for you, I’m always here for you, please, please—”
Blackness exploded behind Emma’s eyes. The pain in her arm was gone; she felt nothing at all but rage. Rage that bleached everything else out of the world except the sight of Annabel cringing against the lectern, staring at Julian cradling his sister’s dead body. At what she’d done.
Emma whirled and stalked toward Annabel. There was nowhere she could go. The guards had circled the dais. The rest of the room was a seething mass of confusion.
Annabel was sobbing harsh breaths. “Liar. Get back, get away from me.”
“I never lied to you—”
“You told me they would give me Blackthorn Manor! You told me Magnus would protect me! But look!” She swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the whole room. “I am tainted to them—despised, a criminal—”
“You can still come back.” Julian’s voice was a marvel of steadiness. “Put the Sword down.”
For a moment, Annabel seemed to hesitate. Emma was at the foot of the dais steps; she saw Annabel’s grip loosen on the hilt of the Sword—
Jia stood up. Her robes were wet with Robert’s blood, her stele limp in her hand. “He’s dead,” she said.
It was like a key turning in the lock of a cage, freeing the occupants: The guards lunged up the steps, leaping toward Annabel, blades outstretched. She spun with inhuman quickness, striking at them, and the Sword slashed across both their chests. There were screams as they collapsed, and Emma was running up the stairs, drawing Cortana, leaping in front of Julian.
From here, she could see all of the Council Hall. It was a melee. Some were fleeing through the doors. The Blackthorns and Cristina were on their feet, fighting toward the dais, though a line of guards had appeared to hold them back. As Emma watched, Livvy ducked under a guard’s arm and began to shove her way toward them. A longsword glimmered in her hand.
Emma looked back at Annabel. It was clear this near to her that something had snapped inside her. She looked blank, her eyes dead and disconnected. Her gaze shifted past Emma. Alec had burst through the doors—he stared up at the dais, his face a mask of grief and shock.
Emma wrenched her eyes away from him as Annabel sprang for Julian like a cat, her sword cutting the air before her. Instead of raising Cortana to meet Annabel’s thrust, Emma threw herself to the side, knocking Julian to the polished floor of the dais.
For a moment he was against her; they were together, body to body, and she felt the parabatai strength flow through her. The Mortal Sword came down again and they sprang apart, redoubled in strength, as it sliced through the wood at their feet.
The room was full of screaming. Emma thought she heard Alec calling for Robert: Dad, please, Dad. She thought of the tapestry of him in Robert’s room. She thought of Isabelle. She whirled with Cortana in her hand, and the flat of the blade slammed against Maellartach.
Both swords shuddered. Annabel jerked her sword arm back, her eyes suddenly almost feral. Someone was shouting for Julian. It was Livvy, clambering up the side of the dais.
“Livvy!” Julian yelled. “Livvy, get out of here—”
Annabel swung again, and Emma raised Cortana, cutting on the upstroke, pushing closer, slamming her sword against Annabel’s with all the force in her body, bringing the blades together with a massive, echoing clang.
And the Mortal Sword shattered.
It cracked jaggedly along the blade, the top half shearing away. Annabel shrieked and stumbled backward, and black fluid spilled from the broken sword like sap from a felled tree.
Emma collapsed to her knees. It was as if the hand that held Cortana had been struck by lightning. Her wrist was humming and a ringing sounded all the way up her bones, making her body shake. She grabbed for Cortana’s hilt with her right hand, panicking, desperate not to drop it.
“Emma!” Julian was holding his own arm stiffly, Emma saw, as if he had been hurt too.
The humming was receding. Emma tried to get to her feet and stumbled; her teeth bit down into her lip with frustration. How dare her body betray her. “I’m fine—fine—”
Livvy gasped at the sight of the smashed Mortal Sword. She had reached the top of the dais; Julian reached out, and Livvy tossed him the sword she was holding. He caught it neatly and spun to face Annabel, who was staring down at the broken weapon in her hand. The Consul had seen what had happened too, and was striding toward them.
“It’s over, Annabel,” Julian said. He didn’t look triumphant; he looked weary. “It’s done.”
Annabel gave a growl low in her throat and lunged. Julian raised his blade. But Annabel whipped past him, her black hair seeming to soar around her. Her feet left the ground, and for a moment she was truly beautiful, a Shadowhunter in full flowering glory, just before she landed lightly on the wooden floor at the dais’s edge and drove her jagged, broken half blade into Livvy’s heart.
Livvy’s eyes shot wide. Her mouth formed an O, as if she were astonished by discovering something small and surprising, like a mouse on the kitchen counter. An overturned vase of flowers, a broken wristwatch. Nothing huge. Nothing terrible.
Annabel stepped back, breathing hard. She no longer looked beautiful. Her dress, her arm, was soaked in red and black.
Livvy raised her hand and wonderingly touched the hilt protruding from her chest. Her cheeks flared red.
“Ty?” she whispered. “Ty, I—”
Her knees went out from under her. She thudded hard to the ground on her back. The blade was like an ugly massive insect fastened to her chest, a metal mosquito sucking the blood that ran from her wound, red mixed with the black of the sword, spilling across the floor.
In the aisle of the Council Hall, Ty looked up, his face turning the color of ashes. Emma had no idea if he could see them through the teeming crowd—see his sister, see what had happened—but his hands flew to his chest, pressing over his heart. He pitched to his knees, soundlessly, just as Livvy had, and crumpled to the ground.
Julian made a noise. It was a noise Emma couldn’t have described, not as human a sound as a howl or a scream. It sounded like it was ripped out of the inside of him, like something brutal was tearing through his chest. He dropped the longsword Livvy had risked so much to bring him, fell to his knees, and crawled to her, pulling her into his lap.
“Livvy, Livvy, my Livvy,” he whispered, cradling her, feverishly stroking her blood-wet hair away from her face. There was so much blood. He was covered in it in seconds; it had soaked through Livvy’s clothes, even her shoes were drenched in it. “Livia.” His hands shook; he fumbled out his stele, put it to her arm.
The healing rune vanished as quickly as he drew it.
Emma felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. There were wounds that were beyond an iratze’s power. Healing runes only vanished from skin when occult poison was involved—or when the person was already dead.
“Livia.” Julian’s voice rose, cracking and tumbling over itself like a wave breaking far out to sea. “Livvy, my baby, please, sweetheart, open your eyes, it’s Jules, I’m here for you, I’m always here for you, please, please—”
Blackness exploded behind Emma’s eyes. The pain in her arm was gone; she felt nothing at all but rage. Rage that bleached everything else out of the world except the sight of Annabel cringing against the lectern, staring at Julian cradling his sister’s dead body. At what she’d done.
Emma whirled and stalked toward Annabel. There was nowhere she could go. The guards had circled the dais. The rest of the room was a seething mass of confusion.
