There was a gagging sound as Malcolm threw Jon Cartwright’s severed head onto the bare grass. Kit realized he’d made the noise himself. He was staring at Jon’s exposed spinal column. It was very white against the dark ground.

“I suppose you’re right,” Malcolm said to Diana. “It’s rather time to give up our pretenses, isn’t it? You know my weaknesses—and I know yours. Killing this one”—he gestured at Jon’s remains—“took seconds, and taking down your wards took less. Do you think it will take much longer for me to get something I actually want?”

“And what is that?” said Diana. “What is it you want, Malcolm?”

“I want what I’ve always wanted. I want Annabel and what it will take to get her back.” Malcolm laughed. It was a gurgling sort of sound. “I want my Blackthorn blood.”

* * *

Emma couldn’t remember dropping to her knees, but she was kneeling.

Churned ground and dead leaves were all around her. The faerie knight—her father—was on his back in a pool of spreading blood. It soaked into the already dark earth and turned it nearly black.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “Daddy, please look at me.”

She hadn’t said the word “daddy” in years. Probably since she was seven years old.

Blue eyes opened in his scarred face. He looked just as Emma remembered him—blond whiskers where he’d forgotten to shave, lines of kindness around his eyes. Dried blood spattered his cheek. He stared at her, wide-eyed.

The King laughed. “Cut his throat,” he said. “Or can’t you kill your own father, girl?”

John Carstairs’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

You will see again the face of someone you loved, who is dead, the phouka had said. But Emma had never dreamed this, not this.

She caught hold of her father’s arm, covered in leathery faerie armor. “I concede,” she said raggedly, “I concede, I concede, just help him—”

“She has conceded,” said the King.

The Court began to laugh. Laughter rose up around Emma, though she barely heard it. A voice in the back of her head was telling her that this wasn’t right, there was a fundamental wrongness here, but the sight of her father was roaring in her head like the sound of a crashing wave. She reached for a stele—he was still a Shadowhunter after all—but dropped her hand; no iratze would work here.

“I won’t leave you,” she said. Her head was buzzing. “I won’t leave you here.” She gripped his arm tighter, crouching at the foot of the pavilion, aware of the King’s gaze on her, the laughter all around. “I’ll stay.”

* * *

It was Arthur who moved. He burst away from the wall, careening toward Livvy and Ty. He seized each of them by an arm and propelled them toward the Institute door.

They both struggled, but Arthur seemed shockingly strong. Livvy half-turned, calling Kit’s name. Arthur kicked the front door open and shoved his niece and nephew through. Kit could hear Livvy shouting, and the door slammed behind them.

Diana arched an eyebrow at Malcolm. “Blackthorn blood, you said?”

Malcolm sighed. “Mad dogs and Englishmen,” he said. “And sometimes you encounter someone who’s both. He can’t think that would work.”

“Are you saying you can get into the Institute?” Diego demanded.

“I’m saying it doesn’t matter,” said Malcolm. “I set this all up before Emma killed me. My death—and I am dead, though not for long, isn’t the Black Volume wonderful?—released the sea demons along this coast. What you see with me tonight is a tiny fraction of the numbers I control. Either you bring me a Blackthorn, or I send them up on land to murder and destroy mundanes.”

“We will stop you,” Diana said. “The Clave will stop you. They will send Shadowhunters—”

“There aren’t enough of you,” said Malcolm, with glee. He had begun to pace up and down in front of the wall of sea demons that slavered behind him. “That’s the beauty of the Dark War. You simply can’t hold off every demon in the Pacific, not with your current numbers. Oh, I’m not saying you might not win eventually. You would. But think of the death toll in the meantime. Is one measly Blackthorn really worth it?”

“We’re not going to give you one of our own to murder, Fade,” said Diana. “You know better than that.”

“You don’t speak for the Clave, Diana,” said Malcolm. “And they are not above sacrifices.” He tried to grin. One rotted lip split, and black fluid spilled down his chin. “One for many.”

Diana was breathing hard, her shoulders rising and falling angrily. “And then what? All that death and destruction and what will you gain?”

“You will have also suffered,” said Malcolm. “And that is enough for me, for now. That the Blackthorns suffer.” His eyes raked the group in front of him. “Where are my Julian and Emma? And Mark? Too cowardly to face me?” He chuckled. “Too bad. I would have liked to see Emma’s face when she laid eyes on me. You may tell her I said I hope the curse consumes them both.”

Consumes who? Kit thought, but Malcolm’s gaze had dipped to focus on him, and he saw the warlock’s milky eyes glitter. “Sorry about your father, Herondale,” said Malcolm. “It couldn’t be helped.”

Kit raised Adriel over his head. The seraph blade was hot under his grip, starting to flicker, but it cast a glow all around him, one he hoped illuminated him enough that the warlock could see it when he spat in his direction.

Malcolm’s gaze flattened. He turned back to Diana. “I will give you until tomorrow night to decide. Then I will return. If you do not provide a Blackthorn to me, the coast will be ravaged. In the meantime—” He snapped his fingers, and a dim purple fire flickered in the air. “Enjoy amusing yourselves with my friends here.”

He vanished as the sea demons surged forward toward the Centurions.

12

BY THE MOUNTAINS

Mark shoved his way through the Unseelie Court. He had been among these people before only for revels: the Court was not always in the same place, but moved around the Unseelie Lands. Mark could smell blood on the night air now as he darted among the close-packed gentry. He could smell panic and fear and hate. Their hate of Shadowhunters. The King was calling to the Court to be quiet, but the crowd was shouting for Emma to spill her father’s blood.

No one was guarding Kieran. He slumped on his knees, the weight of his body pulling against the thorned ropes that held him as if they were barbed wire. Blood oozed sluggishly around the lacerations on his wrists, neck, and ankles.

Mark pushed past the last of the courtiers. This close, he could see that Kieran wore something around his neck on a chain. An elf-bolt. Mark’s elf-bolt. Mark’s stomach tightened.

“Kieran.” He put his hand against the other boy’s cheek.

Kieran’s eyes fluttered open. His face was gray with pain and hopelessness, but his smile was gentle. “So many dreams,” he said. “Is this the end? Have you come to bear me to the Shining Lands? You could not have chosen a better face to wear.”

Mark ran his hands along the ropes of thorns. They were tough. A seraph blade could have cut them, but seraph blades did not work here, leaving him only ordinary daggers. An idea sparked in Mark’s mind, and he reached up to gently unfasten the elf-bolt from Kieran’s throat.