"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."