Lord of Shadows
Page 96
There would be no mercy here.
A wolf leaped toward Kit. He raised Umbriel, swung it—and connected with nothing. The wolf had tumbled to the ground, as if shoved by an unseen hand.
There was a blast of wind. Kit’s gold hair blew across his face; he pushed it back with a hand stained red. The tents were rattling; more jars and bottles smashed. Blue lightning crackled, and a fork of it stabbed into the ground just in front of Barnabas.
“I see,” said a silky voice, “that I seem to have arrived here just in time.”
Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat’s eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked.
“Magnus Bane,” said Barnabas, with clear loathing. “The Ultimate Traitor.”
“Not my favorite nickname,” Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas’s direction. “I prefer ‘Our Lord and Master’ or maybe ‘Unambiguously the Hottest.’”
Barnabas shrank back. “These three Nephilim broke into the Market under false pretenses—”
“Did they break the Accords?”
Barnabas snarled. “One of them stabbed me.”
“Which one?” Magnus asked.
Barnabas pointed at Kit.
“Dreadful business,” Magnus said. His left hand was down by his side. Surreptitiously, he gave Kit a thumbs-up. “Was that before or after you attacked them?”
“After,” Kit said. One of Barnabas’s bodyguards started toward him; he jabbed out with his blade. This time the lightning that forked from Magnus’s hand snapped like a downed electrical wire between their feet.
“Stop,” he said.
“You have no authority here, Bane,” said Barnabas.
“Actually, I do,” said Magnus. “As the warlock representative to the Council of Shadowhunters, I have a great deal of authority. I imagine you know that.”
“Oh, we know entirely how in thrall to the Shadowhunters you are.” Barnabas was so furious, saliva flew when he spoke. “Especially the Lightwoods.”
Magnus raised a lazy eyebrow. “Is this about my boyfriend? Jealous, Barnabas?”
Kit cleared his throat. “Mr. Bane,” he said. He’d heard of Magnus Bane, everyone had. He was probably the most famous warlock in the world. His boyfriend, Alec, helped head up the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance, along with Maia Roberts and Lily Chen. “Livvy lost a lot of blood. Ty used a healing rune, but—”
Magnus’s face darkened with real anger. “She’s fifteen years old; she’s a child,” he snarled. “How dare you all.”
“Going to report us to the Council, Magnus?” said Hypatia, speaking for the first time. She hadn’t joined in the melee; she was leaning against the side of a stall, eyeing Magnus up and down. Shade seemed to have vanished; Kit had no idea where he’d gone.
“It seems to me we have two choices,” said Magnus. “You fight me, and you will not win, believe me, because I am very angry and I am older than any of you. And then I tell the Council. Or you let me walk away with these Nephilim children, we don’t fight, and I don’t report you to the Council. Thoughts?”
“I pick number two,” said the woman who’d thrown her bottles at the werewolves.
“She’s right, Barnabas,” said Hypatia. “Step back.”
Barnabas’s face was working. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, followed by his bodyguards. The other Downworlders began to shuffle away, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders hunched.
Kit dropped down on his knees next to Ty, who had barely moved. His eyes were darting back and forth, his lips almost white; he looked as if he was in shock.
“Ty,” Kit said hesitantly, and put a hand on the other boy’s arm. “Ty—”
Ty shook him off almost without seeming to register who he was. His arms were around Livvy, his fingers pressed to her wrist; Kit realized he was taking her pulse. It was clear she was alive. Kit could see the rise and fall of her chest. But Ty kept his fingers on her wrist regardless, as if the pulse of her heartbeat steadied him.
“Tiberius.” It was Magnus, kneeling down, heedless of the blood and mud spattering his expensive-looking coat. He didn’t reach out or try to touch Ty, just spoke in a low voice. “Tiberius. I know you can hear me. You have to help me get Livvy to the Institute. I can take care of her there.”
Ty looked up. He wasn’t crying, but the gray in his eyes had darkened to a searing charcoal. He looked stunned. “She’ll be all right?” he said.
“She’ll be fine.” Magnus’s voice was firm. Kit reached out to help Tiberius lift Livvy, and this time Ty let him do it. As they stood up, Magnus was already creating a Portal, a whirl of blue and green and rose colors, rising up against the shadows of the tents and stalls of the Market.
Ty turned suddenly to Kit. “Can you take her?” he said. “Carry Livvy?”
Kit nodded in astonishment. For Ty to let him carry his twin was a sign of trust that shocked him. He lifted Livvy in his arms, the scent of blood and magic in his nose.
“Come on!” Magnus called. The Portal was wide open now: Kit could see the shape of the London Institute through it.
Ty didn’t turn. He had slammed his headphones down over his ears and was running through the empty lane of the Market. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were warding off blows that came from all sides, but his hands were steady when he reached the stall at the end, the one with the caged faeries. He began seizing the cages, yanking them open one by one. The pixies and nixies and hobgoblins inside poured out, yelping with joy at their freedom.
“You! You, stop that!” shouted the stall owner, running back to prevent further destruction, but it was already too late. Ty flung the last cage toward him and it burst open, releasing a furious, clawing hobgoblin, who fastened his teeth into his former captor’s shoulder.
“Ty!” Kit called, and Ty ran back toward the open Portal. Knowing Ty was behind him, Kit stepped into it, holding Livvy tight, and let the whirlwind take him.
* * *
Annabel came toward him silently, her cracked shoes making no sounds on the rock. Julian couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot with disbelief.
He knew she was alive. He’d watched her kill Malcolm. But somehow he’d never imagined her as so tangible and distinct. So human. She seemed like someone he might meet anywhere: in a movie theater, at the Institute, at the beach.
He wondered where she’d gotten the clothing from. The cloak didn’t seem like something you’d find hanging on a washing line, and he doubted she had any money.
The high rocks threw their shadows down as she came closer to him, pushing her hood back. “How did you find this place?” she demanded. “This house?”
He held up his hands and she stopped, only a few feet from him. The night wind picked up strands of her hair and they seemed to dance.
“The piskies told me where you were,” she said. “Once they were Malcolm’s friends, and still they hold affection for me.”
Was she serious? Julian couldn’t tell.
“You should not be here,” she said. “You should not be looking for me.”
A wolf leaped toward Kit. He raised Umbriel, swung it—and connected with nothing. The wolf had tumbled to the ground, as if shoved by an unseen hand.
There was a blast of wind. Kit’s gold hair blew across his face; he pushed it back with a hand stained red. The tents were rattling; more jars and bottles smashed. Blue lightning crackled, and a fork of it stabbed into the ground just in front of Barnabas.
“I see,” said a silky voice, “that I seem to have arrived here just in time.”
Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat’s eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked.
“Magnus Bane,” said Barnabas, with clear loathing. “The Ultimate Traitor.”
“Not my favorite nickname,” Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas’s direction. “I prefer ‘Our Lord and Master’ or maybe ‘Unambiguously the Hottest.’”
Barnabas shrank back. “These three Nephilim broke into the Market under false pretenses—”
“Did they break the Accords?”
Barnabas snarled. “One of them stabbed me.”
“Which one?” Magnus asked.
Barnabas pointed at Kit.
“Dreadful business,” Magnus said. His left hand was down by his side. Surreptitiously, he gave Kit a thumbs-up. “Was that before or after you attacked them?”
“After,” Kit said. One of Barnabas’s bodyguards started toward him; he jabbed out with his blade. This time the lightning that forked from Magnus’s hand snapped like a downed electrical wire between their feet.
“Stop,” he said.
“You have no authority here, Bane,” said Barnabas.
“Actually, I do,” said Magnus. “As the warlock representative to the Council of Shadowhunters, I have a great deal of authority. I imagine you know that.”
“Oh, we know entirely how in thrall to the Shadowhunters you are.” Barnabas was so furious, saliva flew when he spoke. “Especially the Lightwoods.”
Magnus raised a lazy eyebrow. “Is this about my boyfriend? Jealous, Barnabas?”
Kit cleared his throat. “Mr. Bane,” he said. He’d heard of Magnus Bane, everyone had. He was probably the most famous warlock in the world. His boyfriend, Alec, helped head up the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance, along with Maia Roberts and Lily Chen. “Livvy lost a lot of blood. Ty used a healing rune, but—”
Magnus’s face darkened with real anger. “She’s fifteen years old; she’s a child,” he snarled. “How dare you all.”
“Going to report us to the Council, Magnus?” said Hypatia, speaking for the first time. She hadn’t joined in the melee; she was leaning against the side of a stall, eyeing Magnus up and down. Shade seemed to have vanished; Kit had no idea where he’d gone.
“It seems to me we have two choices,” said Magnus. “You fight me, and you will not win, believe me, because I am very angry and I am older than any of you. And then I tell the Council. Or you let me walk away with these Nephilim children, we don’t fight, and I don’t report you to the Council. Thoughts?”
“I pick number two,” said the woman who’d thrown her bottles at the werewolves.
“She’s right, Barnabas,” said Hypatia. “Step back.”
Barnabas’s face was working. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, followed by his bodyguards. The other Downworlders began to shuffle away, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders hunched.
Kit dropped down on his knees next to Ty, who had barely moved. His eyes were darting back and forth, his lips almost white; he looked as if he was in shock.
“Ty,” Kit said hesitantly, and put a hand on the other boy’s arm. “Ty—”
Ty shook him off almost without seeming to register who he was. His arms were around Livvy, his fingers pressed to her wrist; Kit realized he was taking her pulse. It was clear she was alive. Kit could see the rise and fall of her chest. But Ty kept his fingers on her wrist regardless, as if the pulse of her heartbeat steadied him.
“Tiberius.” It was Magnus, kneeling down, heedless of the blood and mud spattering his expensive-looking coat. He didn’t reach out or try to touch Ty, just spoke in a low voice. “Tiberius. I know you can hear me. You have to help me get Livvy to the Institute. I can take care of her there.”
Ty looked up. He wasn’t crying, but the gray in his eyes had darkened to a searing charcoal. He looked stunned. “She’ll be all right?” he said.
“She’ll be fine.” Magnus’s voice was firm. Kit reached out to help Tiberius lift Livvy, and this time Ty let him do it. As they stood up, Magnus was already creating a Portal, a whirl of blue and green and rose colors, rising up against the shadows of the tents and stalls of the Market.
Ty turned suddenly to Kit. “Can you take her?” he said. “Carry Livvy?”
Kit nodded in astonishment. For Ty to let him carry his twin was a sign of trust that shocked him. He lifted Livvy in his arms, the scent of blood and magic in his nose.
“Come on!” Magnus called. The Portal was wide open now: Kit could see the shape of the London Institute through it.
Ty didn’t turn. He had slammed his headphones down over his ears and was running through the empty lane of the Market. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were warding off blows that came from all sides, but his hands were steady when he reached the stall at the end, the one with the caged faeries. He began seizing the cages, yanking them open one by one. The pixies and nixies and hobgoblins inside poured out, yelping with joy at their freedom.
“You! You, stop that!” shouted the stall owner, running back to prevent further destruction, but it was already too late. Ty flung the last cage toward him and it burst open, releasing a furious, clawing hobgoblin, who fastened his teeth into his former captor’s shoulder.
“Ty!” Kit called, and Ty ran back toward the open Portal. Knowing Ty was behind him, Kit stepped into it, holding Livvy tight, and let the whirlwind take him.
* * *
Annabel came toward him silently, her cracked shoes making no sounds on the rock. Julian couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot with disbelief.
He knew she was alive. He’d watched her kill Malcolm. But somehow he’d never imagined her as so tangible and distinct. So human. She seemed like someone he might meet anywhere: in a movie theater, at the Institute, at the beach.
He wondered where she’d gotten the clothing from. The cloak didn’t seem like something you’d find hanging on a washing line, and he doubted she had any money.
The high rocks threw their shadows down as she came closer to him, pushing her hood back. “How did you find this place?” she demanded. “This house?”
He held up his hands and she stopped, only a few feet from him. The night wind picked up strands of her hair and they seemed to dance.
“The piskies told me where you were,” she said. “Once they were Malcolm’s friends, and still they hold affection for me.”
Was she serious? Julian couldn’t tell.
“You should not be here,” she said. “You should not be looking for me.”
