Jia sighed. "You mean the Dearborns. And the Cohort."
"I spent quite a bit of time with Zara Dearborn and her Centurion friends at the Institute," said Diana. "Her views are not pleasant."
Jia stood up, turning toward the window. "She and her father seek to return the Clave to a lost golden age. A time that never was, when Downworlders knew their place and Nephilim ruled in harmony. In truth, that past was a violent time, when Downworlders suffered and those Nephilim who possessed compassion and empathy were tormented and punished along with them."
"How many of them are there?" Diana asked. "The Cohort?"
"Zara's father, Horace Dearborn, is the unofficial leader," said Jia. "His wife is dead and he has raised his daughter to follow in his footsteps. If he succeeds in placing himself at the head of the Los Angeles Institute, she will rule from beside him. Then there are other families-the Larkspears, the Bridgestocks, the Crosskills-they're scattered around the world."
"And their goal is to continue restricting Downworlder rights. Registering them all, giving them numbers-"
"Forbidding their marriages to Shadowhunters?"
Diana shrugged. "It's all part of a piece, isn't it? First you number people, then you restrict their rights and break up their marriages. Then-"
"No." Jia's voice was gritty. "We can't let this happen. But you don't understand-Zara's being put forth as the great new Shadowhunter of her generation. The new Jace Herondale. Since she killed Malcolm-"
Diana bolted out of her chair. "That-that lying girl did not kill Malcolm."
"We know Emma didn't," said Jia. "He returned."
"I am aware of exactly how he died," said Diana. "He raised Annabel Blackthorn from the dead. She killed him."
"What?" Jia sounded shocked.
"It's the truth, Consul."
"Diana. You would need proof that what you're saying is true. A trial by Mortal Sword-"
Diana's greatest fear. "No," she said. It wouldn't be just my secrets I'd be revealing. It would be Julian's. Emma's. They'd all be ruined.
"You must see how this looks," Jia said. "As if you're seeking a way to keep the Los Angeles Institute under your control by discrediting the Dearborns."
"They discredit themselves." Diana looked hard at Jia. "You know Zara," she said. "Do you really think she killed Malcolm?"
"No," Jia said, after a pause. "I don't." She went to an ornate carved cabinet against one wall of her office. She slid open a drawer. "I need time to think about this, Diana. In the meantime-" She drew out a thick, cream-colored folder full of papers. "This is Zara Dearborn's report on the death of Malcolm Fade and the attacks on the L.A. Institute. Perhaps you can find some discrepancies that might discredit her story."
"Thank you." Diana took the folder. "And the Council meeting? A chance for Kieran to give testimony?"
"I'll discuss it with the Inquisitor." Jia suddenly looked even older than she had before. "Go home, Diana. I'll summon you tomorrow."
* * *
"We should have brought Dru," Livvy said, standing inside the gates of Blackthorn Hall. "This is every horror-movie fantasy she's ever had come true."
Blackthorn Hall turned out to be in a suburb of London not far from the Thames River. The area around it was ordinary: redbrick houses, bus stops plastered with movie posters, kids riding by on bicycles. After days trapped in the Institute, even the foreignness of London felt to Kit like waking up to reality after a dream.
Blackthorn Hall was glamoured, which meant that mundanes couldn't see it. Kit had a sort of double vision when he glanced at it for the first time: He could see a pleasant but dull-looking private park, superimposed over a massive house with towering walls and gates, its stones blackened by years of rain and neglect.
He squinted hard. The park vanished, and only the house remained. It loomed overhead. It looked to Kit a little like a Greek temple, with columns holding up an arched portico in front of a set of double doors, massive and made of the same metal as the fence that ran all the way around the property. It was high, tipped with sharp points; the only entrance was a gate, which Ty had made short work of with one of his runes.
"What's that one mean?" Kit had asked, pointing, as the gate creaked open with a puff of rust.
Ty looked at him. "Open."
"I was going to guess that," Kit muttered as they headed inside. Now within the property, he gazed around in wonder. The gardens might have fallen into disrepair now, but you could see where there had been rose arbors, and marble balustrades holding up massive stone jugs spilling flowers and weeds. There were wildflowers everywhere-it was beautiful in its own odd, ruined way.