Ty was white with distress. His hands trembled against his sides. Kit thought of Ty in the desert, stroking the small lizards, putting mice in his pockets, capturing weasels for company. Ty, whose heart went out to small and helpless living things. "We can't leave them like that."
"They're probably selling them for blood and bones," said Livvy, her voice shaking. "We have to do something."
"You have no authority here, Shadowhunter." A cool, clipped voice spun them around. A woman stood before them. Her skin was dark as mahogany, her hair like bronze and dressed high on her head. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars. She was dressed in a glacier-white pantsuit with high, sparkling heels. She could have been any age from eighteen to thirty.
She smiled when they looked at her. "Yes, I can recognize a Shadowhunter, even those clumsily hiding their Marks," she said. "I suggest you leave the Market before someone less friendly than I am notices you."
Both the twins had made subtle gestures toward their weapons belts, their hands hovering near the hilts of their seraph blades. Kit knew this was his moment: his moment to show how well he could handle a Market and its denizens.
Not to mention preventing a bloodbath.
"I am an emissary of Barnabas Hale," he said. "Of the Los Angeles Market. These Shadowhunters are under my protection. Who are you?"
"Hypatia Vex," she said. "I co-run this Market." She narrowed her starry eyes at Kit. "A representative of Barnabas, you say? Why should I believe you?"
"The only people who know about Barnabas Hale," said Kit, "are people he wants to know."
She nodded slightly. "And the Shadowhunters? Barnabas sent them, too?"
"He needs me to consult a warlock regarding a peculiar magical object," said Kit. He was flying high now, high on the lies and the trickery and the con. "They have it in their possession."
"Very well, then. If Barnabas sent you to consult a warlock, which warlock was it?"
"It was me." A deep voice spoke from the shadows.
Kit turned to see a figure standing in front of a large dark green tent. It had been a male voice, but otherwise the figure was too covered--massive robe, cloak, hood, and gloves--to discern gender. "I'll take this, Hypatia."
Hypatia blinked slowly. It was like the stars vanishing and then reappearing from behind a cloud. "If you insist."
She made as if to turn and stalk away, then paused, looking back over her shoulder at Livvy and Ty. "If you pity those creatures, those faeries, dying inside their cages," she said, "think of this: If it were not for the Cold Peace your people insisted on, they would not be here. Look to the blood on your own hands, Shadowhunters."
She disappeared between two tents. Ty's expression was full of distress. "But my hands--"
"It's an expression." Livvy put her arm around her twin, hugging him tightly to her side. "It's not your fault, Ty, she's just being cruel."
"We should go," Kit said to the robed and hooded warlock, who nodded.
"Come with me," he said, and slipped into his tent. The rest of them followed.
*
The inside of the tent was remarkably clean and plain, with a wooden floor, a simple cot bed, and several shelves filled with books, maps, bottles of powder, candles in different colors, and jars of alarming-colored liquids. Ty exhaled, leaning back against one of the tent poles. Relief was printed clearly on his face as he basked in the relative calm and quiet. Kit wanted to go over to Ty and ask him if he was all right after the cacophony of the Market, but Livvy was already there, brushing the sweat-damp hair off her brother's forehead. Ty nodded, said something to her Kit couldn't hear.
"Come," said the warlock. "Sit down with me."
He gestured. In the center of the room was a small table surrounded by chairs. The Shadowhunters sat down, and the hooded warlock settled opposite them. In the flickering light inside the tent, Kit could glimpse the edge of a mask beneath the hood, obscuring the warlock's face.
"You may call me Shade," he said. "It's not my last name, but it will do."
"Why did you lie for us?" Livvy said. "Out there. You don't have any agreement with Barnabas Hale."
"Oh, I have a few," said Shade. "Not regarding you, to be fair, but I do know the man. And I'm curious that you do. Not many Shadowhunters are even aware of his name."
"I'm not a Shadowhunter," said Kit.
"Oh, you are," said Shade. "You're that new Herondale, to be exact."
Livvy's voice was sharp. "How do you know that? Tell us now."
"Because of your face," he said, to Kit. "Your pretty, pretty face. You're not the first Herondale I've met, not even the first with those eyes, like distilled twilight. I don't know why you only have one Mark, but I can certainly make a guess." He templed his hands under his chin. Kit thought he saw a gleam of green skin at his wrist, just below the edge of his glove. "I have to say I never thought I'd have the pleasure of entertaining the Lost Herondale."
"I'm not all that entertained, actually," said Kit. "We could put on a movie."
Livvy leaned forward. "Sorry," she said. "He gets like this when he's uncomfortable. Sarcastic."
"Who knew that was an inherited trait?" Shade held out a gloved hand. "Now, show me what you've brought. I assume that wasn't a lie?"
Ty reached into his jacket and brought out the aletheia crystal. In the candlelight, it glittered more than ever.
Shade chuckled. "A memory-holder," he said. "It looks like you might get your movie, after all." He reached out, and after a moment's hesitation, Ty allowed him to take it.
Shade set the crystal delicately in the center of the table. He passed a hand over it, then frowned and removed his glove. As Kit had thought, the skin of the hand he revealed was deep green. He wondered why Shade would bother covering something like that up, here in the Shadow Market, where warlocks were commonplace.
Shade passed his bare hand over the crystal and murmured. The candles in the room began to gutter. His murmuring increased--Kit recognized the words as Latin, which he'd taken three months of in school before he decided there was no point in knowing a language you couldn't converse in with anyone but the Pope, who he was unlikely to meet.
He had to admit now that it had a weight to it, though, a sense that each word was freighted with a deeper meaning. The candles went out entirely, but the room wasn't dark: The crystal was glowing, brighter and brighter under Shade's touch.
At last a focused beam of light seemed to explode from it, and Kit realized what Shade had meant when he'd joked about a movie. The light worked like the beam of a projector, casting moving images against the dark wall of the tent.
A girl sat bound to a chair inside a circular room filled with benches, a sort of auditorium. Through the windows of the room Kit could see mountains covered in snow. Though it was likely winter, the girl was wearing only a white shift dress; her feet were bare, and her long dark hair hung in tangles.
Her face was remarkably like Livvy's, so much so that to see it twisted in agony and terror made Kit tense.
"Annabel Blackthorn." A slight man with bent shoulders entered the scene. He was dressed in black; he wore a pin not unlike Diego's clasped at his shoulder. His hood was drawn up: Because of that and the angle of the crystal's viewpoint, it was hard to see his face or body in much detail.
"The Inquisitor," muttered Shade. "He was a Centurion, back then."
"You have come before us," the man went on, "accused of consorting with Downworlders. Your family took in the warlock Malcolm Fade and raised him as a brother to you. He repaid their kindness with abject treachery. He stole the Black Volume of the Dead from the Cornwall Institute, and you helped him."
"Where is Malcolm?" Annabel's voice was shaking, but also clear and firm. "Why isn't he here? I refuse to be questioned without him."
"How attached you are to your warlock despoiler," sneered the Inquisitor. Livvy gasped. Annabel looked furious. She had Livvy's stubborn set to her jaw, Kit thought, but there was a little of Ty and the res
t in her too. Julian's haughtiness, Dru's look of easy hurt, the thoughtful cast of Ty's mouth and eyes. "So will it disappoint you, then, to hear that he is gone?"
"Gone?" Annabel repeated blankly.
"Disappeared from his cell in the Silent City overnight. Abandoned you to our tender mercies."
Annabel clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "That can't be true," she said. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"
"We have done nothing with him. I would be happy to testify to such under the grip of the Mortal Sword," said the Inquisitor. "In fact, what we want from you now--and we will release you afterward--is Fade's location. Now, why would we want to know that unless he truly had escaped?"
Annabel was shaking her head wildly, her dark hair whipping across her face. "He wouldn't leave me," she whispered. "He wouldn't."
"The truth is better faced, Annabel," said the Inquisitor. "He used you to gain access to the Cornwall Institute, to thieve from it. Once he had what he wanted, he vanished with it, leaving you alone to take the brunt of our wrath."
"He wanted it for our protection." Her voice trembled. "It was so we could begin a new life together where we would be safe--safe from the Law, safe from you."
"The Black Volume does not contain spells of safety or protection," said the Inquisitor. "The only way it could be of help to you would be if you traded it to someone powerful. Who was Fade's powerful ally, Annabel?"
She shook her head, her chin set stubbornly. Behind her someone else was coming into the room: a stern-faced woman carrying what looked like a bundle of black cloth. She sent a shiver up Kit's spine. "I will tell you nothing. Not even if you use the Sword."
"Indeed, we cannot believe what you say under the Sword," said the Inquisitor. "Malcolm has so tainted you--"
"Tainted?" Annabel echoed in horror. "As if--as if I am filth now?"
"You were filth from the time you first touched him. And now we do not know how he has changed you; you may well have some protection from our instruments of justice. Some charm we know not of. So we must do this as mundanes do it."
The woman with the stern face had arrived at the Inquisitor's side. She passed him the black bundle. He unrolled it, revealing a variety of sharp instruments--knives and razors and awls. Some of them had blades already stained with rusty red.
"Tell us who has that book now and the pain stops," said the Inquisitor, lifting up a razor.
Annabel began to scream.
Mercifully, the image went dark. Livvy was pale. Ty was leaning forward, his arms clasping his body tightly. Kit wanted to reach out, wanted to put his hands on Ty, wanted to tell him it would be all right, communicate it in a way that startled him.
"There is more," said Shade. "A different scene. Look."
The image on the wall shifted. They were still inside the same auditorium, but it was night, and the windows were dark. The place was lit with torches that burned white-gold. They could see the Inquisitor's face now, where before they had only been able to see the edges of his dark clothes and his hands. He wasn't nearly as old as Kit had thought: a youngish man, with dark hair.
The room was empty except for him and a group of other men of varying ages. There were no women. The other men weren't wearing robes, but Regency-era clothes: buckskin trousers and short, buttoned jackets. Several had sideburns as well, and a few had neat, trimmed beards. They all looked agitated.
"Felix Blackthorn," said the Inquisitor, drawling a bit. "Your daughter, Annabel, was chosen to become an Iron Sister. She was sent to you for a final farewell, but I hear now from the ladies of the Adamant Citadel that she never arrived. Have you any idea of her whereabouts?"
A man with brown hair streaked with gray frowned. Kit stared at him in some fascination: Here was a living ancestor of Ty and Livvy, Julian and Mark. His face was broad and bore the marks of a bad temper.
"If you suggest I am hiding my daughter, I am not," he said. "She fouled herself with the touch of a warlock, and she is no longer a part of our family."
"My uncle speaks the truth," said another of the men, this one younger. "Annabel is dead to us all."
"What a vivid image," said the Inquisitor. "Don't mind me if I find it more than an image."
The younger man flinched. Felix Blackthorn didn't change expression.
"You would not mind a trial by Mortal Sword, would you, Felix?" said the Inquisitor. "Just to ensure that you truly do not know where your daughter is."
"You sent her back to us tortured and half-mad," snapped the younger Blackthorn. "Do not tell us now you care about her fate!"
"She was no more hurt than many Shadowhunters might be in a battle," said the Inquisitor, "but death is another thing entirely. And the Iron Sisters are asking."
"Might I speak?" said another of the men; he had dark hair and an aristocratic look.
The Inquisitor nodded.
"Since Annabel Blackthorn went to join the Iron Sisters," he said, "Malcolm Fade has become a true ally to Nephilim. One of those rare warlocks we can count on our side, and who is indispensable in a battle."
"Your point, Herondale?"
"If he does not think his lady love left him, shall we say, voluntarily, or if he learns of any harm that came to her, I think it unlikely that he will continue to be such a valuable asset to us."
"The ladies of the Adamant Citadel do not leave their island to truck in gossip," said another man, narrow-faced as a ferret. "If the discussion of the fate of unfortunate Annabel ends here, then it ends. After all, perhaps she ran away on the road, or perhaps she fell victim to a demon or a highwayman on the way to the Citadel. We may never know."
The Inquisitor tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. He was looking at Felix Blackthorn, his eyes hooded; it was impossible for Kit to tell what he might be thinking. Finally he said, "You're damnably clever, Felix, bringing your friends into this. You know I can't punish you all without chaos. And you're right about Fade. There's been a demon uprising near the Scholomance, and we need him." He flung his hands up. "Very well. We'll never discuss this again."
A look of relief passed over Felix Blackthorn's face, mixed with an odd bitterness. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Inquisitor Dearborn."
The vision narrowed to a pinpoint of black and vanished.
For a moment Kit sat still. He heard Livvy and Ty speaking in rapid voices, and Shade answering: Yes, the vision was a real memory; no, there was no way of identifying whose it might be. It was probably two hundred years old. They were clearly excited about the mention of an Inquisitor Dearborn. But Kit's brain had snagged on one word like a piece of cloth on a hook:
Herondale.
One of those horrible men had been his ancestor. Herondales and Dearborns and Blackthorns together had been complicit in covering up the torture and murder of a young woman whose only crime had been to love a warlock. It had been one thing to think he was related to Jace, who seemed to be universally adored and good at everything. Everyone had spoken of Herondales to him as though they were royalty, world-saving royalty.
He remembered Arthur's words. What kind of Herondale will you be? William or Tobias? Stephen or Jace? Beautiful, bitter, or both?
"Rook!" The front of the tent shook. "Kit Rook, come out of there right now!"
The chatter inside the tent stopped. Kit blinked; he wasn't Kit Rook, he was Christopher Herondale, he was--
He staggered to his feet. Livvy and Ty leaped up after him, Ty pausing only to pocket the aletheia crystal. "Kit, don't--" Livvy started, reaching for him, but Kit had already shoved his way out of the tent.
Someone was calling his real name--or maybe it wasn't his real name--but it was a part of him that he couldn't deny. He stumbled into the lane outside.
Barnabas Hale stood in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest, his scaled white skin gleaming sickly in the torchlight. Behind him loomed a group of werewolves: big, muscular men and women in black leather and spiked bracelets. More than one sported a pair of brass knuckles.
"So, little Rook," Barnabas said, his snake's tongue flickering as he grinned. "What's this I hear about you pretending to be here on business for me?"
19
THE GRAY WOODS
"I told you to stay away from the Shadow Market, Rook," said Barnabas. "Is there a reason you didn't listen? Lack of respect for me, or just a lack of respect for Downworlders overall?"
A crowd had begun to gather, a curious mixture of sneering vampires, grinning werewolves, and wary-looking warlocks.
"You told me to stay out of the Los Angeles Market," said Kit, "not every Shadow Market in the world. You don't have that power and reach, Hale, and it's up to the owner of this Market to decide if I stay or if I go."
"That would be me." It was Hypatia, her smooth face expressionless.
"I thought you were the co-runner?" said Kit.
"Good enough, and watch your impertinence. I don't appreciate being lied to, child. Nor do I appreciate you bringing two Nephilim in here with you."
The crowd gasped. Kit winced internally. This was not going their way.
"They don't support the Cold Peace," he said.
"Did they vote against it?" asked a warlock with a ring of spikes growing from around her throat.
"We were ten years old," said Livvy. "We were too young."
"Children," hissed the man standing behind the counter of caged faeries. It was hard to tell if he said the word with surprise, contempt, or hunger.
"Oh, he didn't just bring Nephilim with him," said Barnabas, with his snakelike grin. "He is one. A Shadowhunter spy."
"What do we do?" Ty whispered. They were now pressed so tightly together that Kit couldn't move his arms, pinned between Ty and Livvy.
"Get your weapons," said Kit. "And get ready to figure out how to run."
To the twins' credit, neither gave so much as an intake of breath. Their hands moved quickly at the periphery of Kit's vision.
"That's a lie," he said. "My father is Johnny Rook."
"And your mother?" said the deep voice of Shade, behind them. A crowd had gathered behind him, too; they couldn't run that way.
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