Lady Midnight (61 page)

As Julian and the rest flooded into the room, Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Well, well,” he said. “Kill the fatted calf and all that. The prodigals have returned.”

Clary’s hand flew to her mouth. “Emma, Julian—” She whitened. “
Mark?
Mark Blackthorn?”

Mark said nothing. None of them did. Julian realized that unconsciously, they had grouped themselves around Mark, a loose circle protecting him. Even Diego, wincing and blood-spattered, was part of it.

Mark stood silent, his ragged pale-blond hair a halo around his head, his pointed ears and polychrome eyes clearly visible in the bright light.

Magnus looked hard at Mark before glancing up toward the second floor. “Jace!” he called. “Get down here!”

Clary made a move toward the Blackthorns, but Magnus pulled her back gently. She was frowning. “Are you all right?” she said, directing the question to Emma but clearly meaning it for all of them. “Are you hurt?”

Before anyone could speak, there was a commotion at the top of the steps, and a tall figure appeared there.

Jace.

The first time Julian had really met Jace Herondale, who was famous throughout the Shadowhunter world, Jace had been about seventeen and Julian had been twelve. Emma, who had also been twelve, had not been shy about letting the world know she thought Jace was the handsomest and most amazing person who had ever graced the planet with his presence.

Julian had not agreed, but then, no one had asked him.

Jace descended the stairs in a manner that made Julian wonder if Jace thought he had a magnificent train trailing behind him—slowly, deliberately, and as if he were aware that he was the focus of all eyes.

Or maybe he was just used to being stared at. Emma had stopped going on about Jace at some point, but the Shadowhunter world in general considered him out of the ordinary in terms of looks. His hair was shockingly gold and so were his eyes. Like Magnus and Clary he looked like he had come from a party: He wore a wine-red blazer and an air of casual elegance. Reaching the bottom step, he glanced toward Julian—covered in blood and dirt—and then toward the rest of them, just as ragged and stained.

“Well, either you’ve been out fighting the forces of evil or you’ve come from a much wilder party than we have,” Jace said. “Hello, there, Blackthorns.”

Livvy sighed. She was looking at Jace the way Emma had when she was twelve. Dru, loyal to her crush on Diego, just glared.

“Why are you here?” Julian asked, though he knew the answer. Still, it was better to build up the idea that you were surprised. People trusted your answers more when they thought they weren’t rehearsed.

“Dark magic,” said Magnus. “A huge flare of it on the map. At the convergence site.” He slid his gaze toward Emma. “I thought you might do something with that bit of information I gave you.
Where ley lines are concerned, the convergence is always key.”

“Why didn’t you go there, then?” Emma asked. “To the convergence?”

“Magnus checked it out with a spell,” Clary said. “There was nothing there but some wreckage, so we Portaled here.”

“From my sister’s engagement party, to be precise,” said Jace. “There was an open bar.”

“Oh!” A look of happiness flitted across Emma’s face. “Isabelle’s marrying Simon?”

As far as Julian was concerned, no girl had ever been born who could compare to Emma, but when Clary smiled, she was very pretty. Her whole face lit up. It was something she and Emma had in common, actually. “Yeah,” Clary said. “He’s really happy.”

“Mazel tov to them,” said Jace, leaning against the banister rail. “Anyway, we were at the party, and Magnus got this alert about necromantic magic near the L.A. Institute, and he tried to reach Malcolm, but no luck. So we snuck out, just the four of us. Which is a big loss to the party if you ask me, because I was going to give a toast and it was going to be glorious. Simon would never be able to show his face in public again.”

“Not really the point of an engagement toast, Jace,” Clary said. She was looking worriedly at Diego—he
was
awfully pale.

“Four of you?” Emma looked around the room. “Is Alec here?”

Magnus opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment the doors of the Sanctuary burst open, and a tall, stocky man with dark hair emerged: Robert Lightwood, the current Inquisitor, second in command to the Consul of Idris, and in charge of investigating Shadowhunters who had broken the Law.

Julian had met the Inquisitor exactly once before, when he’d been forced to stand up in front of the Council and give his account of Sebastian’s attack on the Institute. He remembered holding the Mortal Sword in his hand. The feeling of the truth being dragged out
of you with knives and hooks, of your internal organs tearing apart.

He had never lied when he was asked about the attack, had never wanted or planned to. But it hurt just the same. And bearing the Mortal Sword, even for such a short time, had forged an indelible bond in his mind between truth and pain.

The Inquisitor strode toward him. He was a little older than the Robert Lightwood Julian remembered, his hair more liberally streaked with gray. But the look in his dark blue eyes was the same: hard and cold.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “There was a flare of necromantic magic traced to this Institute several hours ago and your uncle claims to know nothing about it. More troubling, he refused to tell us where
you
disappeared to.” He spun around, his eyes raking their group—and landing on Mark. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“I already said that,” said Clary. Julian had the feeling she wasn’t overly fond of her prospective father-in-law—if he was that. He realized he didn’t know if Jace and Clary had plans to get married.

“Yes,” Mark said. He was standing upright as if facing a firing squad. He met Robert Lightwood’s eyes, and Julian saw the Inquisitor flinch at the sight of Wild Hunt eyes in a Shadowhunter’s face.

They were an accusation against the Clave, those eyes. They said,
You abandoned me. You did not protect me. I was alone.

“I have come back,” Mark said.

“The Wild Hunt would never have released you,” said the Inquisitor. “You were far too valuable to them. And faeries don’t give back what they take.”

“Robert—” Magnus began.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Robert Lightwood said. “Magnus? Anyone?”

Magnus was silent, his unhappiness evident. Jace’s gold eyes were unreadable.

Dru made a frightened, stifled sound. Clary whirled on Robert.

“It’s not fair to interrogate them,” she said. “They’re just kids.”

“Don’t you think I remember the trouble you and Jace got into when you were ‘just kids’?”

“He has a point.” Jace smiled at Julian and Emma, and the smile was like gold melted over steel. You could see how the softness was a disguise, and how what lay under it had won Jace the title of best Shadowhunter of his generation.

“We didn’t use any necromancy,” said Julian. “We didn’t need to. The thing about faeries—they’re always willing to make a deal.”

Two figures appeared in the doorway of the Sanctuary. Anselm Nightshade, his sharp, bony face wary. And beside him, Arthur, looking tired and carrying a glass of wine. Julian had left the full bottle in the Sanctuary earlier that night. It was a good vintage.

The protected space of the Sanctuary extended slightly past the doors. Anselm edged a toe over the line, winced, and quickly pulled it back.

“Arthur. You claimed you were discussing Sophocles with Anselm Nightshade all evening?” Robert Lightwood said.

“‘If you try to cure evil with evil you will add more pain to your fate,’” said Arthur.

Robert raised an eyebrow.

“He’s quoting
Antigone
,” said Julian wearily. “He means yes.”

“Come into the room, Arthur,” said Robert. “Please do not give me the impression you’re hiding in the Sanctuary.”

“When you use that voice,
I
want to hide in the Sanctuary,” said Magnus. He had begun wandering around the room, picking up objects and setting them down. His actions appeared idle, but Julian knew better. Magnus did little without premeditation.

Neither did Jace. Jace was sitting on the lowest step of the stairs, his sharp gaze unwavering. Julian felt the weight of it, like pressure against his chest. He cleared his throat.

“My younger brothers and sisters have nothing to do with this,” he said. “And Tavvy is exhausted. He was almost killed tonight.”

“What?” Clary said, alarm darkening her green eyes. “How did that happen?”

“I’ll explain,” Julian said. “Just let them go.”

Robert hesitated for a moment before nodding curtly. “They can leave.”

Relief washed through Julian as Ty, Livvy, and Dru headed up the steps, Livvy still carrying Octavian against her shoulder. At the top, Ty paused for a moment and looked down. He was looking at Mark, and the expression on his face was fearful.

“It is the disease of tyranny to trust no friends, Inquisitor,” said Anselm Nightshade. “Aeschylus.”

“I did not come here, from my daughter’s engagement party, for a classics lesson,” said Robert. “Nor is this Downworlder business. Please wait for us in the Sanctuary, Anselm.”

Arthur passed his glass to Anselm, who raised it ironically but went, seeming relieved to get away from the demarcation line where hallowed ground began.

The moment he was gone, Robert rounded on Arthur. “What do you know about all this, Blackthorn?”

“A convoy came to us from Faerie,” said Arthur. “They offered to return Mark to his family, and in exchange, we would help them discover who was killing faeries in Los Angeles.”

“And you said nothing of this to the Clave?” said Robert. “Despite knowing you were breaking the Law, the Cold Peace—”

“I wanted my nephew back,” said Arthur. “Wouldn’t you have done the same, for your family?”

“You’re a Shadowhunter,” said Robert. “If you must choose between your family and the Law, you choose the Law!”

“Lex malla, lex nulla,”
said Arthur. “You know our family motto.”

“He did the right thing.” For once there was no humor in Jace’s voice. “I would have done the same. Any of us would.”

Robert looked exasperated. “And did you discover it? Who was killing faeries?”

“We discovered it tonight,” said Julian. “It was Malcolm Fade.”

Magnus stiffened, his cat eyes flashing.
“Malcolm?”
He executed a quick about-face and marched toward Julian. “And why do you think it was a warlock? Because we know magic? Is all dark magic to be blamed on us, then?”

“Because he said he did it,” said Julian.

Clary’s mouth fell open. Jace remained seated, face unreadable as a cat’s.

Robert’s expression darkened. “Arthur. You’re the head of the Institute. Talk. Or are you going to leave that to your nephew?”

“There are things,” Julian said, “things we didn’t tell Arthur. Things he doesn’t know.”

Arthur put his hand to his head, as if it pained him. “If I’ve been deceived,” he said, “then let Julian explain it.”

Robert’s hard gaze swept over their group and fastened on Diego. “Centurion,” he said. “Step forward.”

Julian tensed. Diego. He hadn’t factored him in, but Diego was a Centurion, and as such, sworn to tell the truth to the Clave. Of course Robert would want to talk to Diego instead of him.

He knew there was no real reason for Robert to want to talk to him at all. He didn’t run the Institute. Arthur did. Never mind that he’d been answering Robert’s letters for years and recognized Robert’s way of doing things better than anyone else here; never mind that in official correspondence, at least, they knew each other well. He was just a teenage boy.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” Diego said.

“Speak to us of Malcolm Fade.”

“Malcolm isn’t who you think,” Diego said. “He has been
responsible for countless deaths. He was responsible for the deaths of Emma’s parents.”

Robert shook his dark head. “How is that possible? The Carstairs were murdered by Sebastian Morgenstern.”

At the sound of Sebastian’s name, Clary went pale. She looked immediately over at Jace, who matched her glance—a look woven through with years of shared history. “No,” Clary said. “They weren’t. Sebastian was a murderer, but Emma has never believed that he was responsible for her parents’ deaths, and neither have Jace or I.” She turned to look at Emma. “You were right,” she said. “I always thought you would be proved right someday. But I’m sorry it was Malcolm. He was your friend.”

“And mine,” said Magnus, his voice strained. Clary moved toward him, placing her hand on his arm.

“He was also the High Warlock,” said Robert. “How did this happen? What do you mean he’d been murdering people?”

“A series of killings in Los Angeles,” said Diego. “He was convincing mundanes to commit murder and then harvesting their bodies for parts he could use in necromancy.”

“The Clave should have been called in.” Robert sounded furious. “The Clave should have been called in the moment a faerie convoy approached you—”

“Inquisitor,” said Diego. He sounded tired. The whole right shoulder of his gear was dark red with blood. “I am a Centurion. I answer directly to the Council. I didn’t report what was happening either, because once things were in motion, reporting would have meant slowing things down.” He didn’t look at Cristina. “The Clave would have begun the investigation over again. There was no time, and the life of a child hung in the balance.” He put his hand to his chest. “If you wish to strip me of my medallion, I would understand. But I will maintain to the end that the Blackthorns did what was right.”

“I am not going to strip you of your medallion, Diego Rocio Rosales,” said Robert. “We have few Centurions, and you are one of the best.” He looked at Diego critically, at his bloody arm and exhausted face. “The Council will expect a report from you tomorrow, but for now, see to your wounds.”

“I’ll go with him,” Cristina said.

She helped Diego up the stairs, him leaning on her slender frame. Mark looked up at them and then away as they disappeared past the witchlight, into the shadows.

“Robert,” said Jace when they were gone. “When Julian was twelve he testified in front of the Council. It’s been five years. Let him talk now.”