"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.
"I don't know," said Kit, between his teeth. To his surprise, Hypatia raised her eyebrows, as if she knew something he didn't. "And it doesn't matter-we didn't come here to harm you or spy on you. We needed a warlock's help."
"But Nephilim have their own pet warlocks," said Barnabas, "those willing to betray Downworld as they grub for money in the pockets of the Clave. Though after what all of you did to Malcolm . . ."
"Malcolm?" Hypatia stood up straight. "These are Blackthorns? The ones responsible for his death?"
"He only died halfway," Ty said. "He came back as a sort of sea demon, for a while. He's dead now, obviously," he added, as if realizing that he had somehow put his foot in it.
"This is why Sherlock Holmes lets Watson do the talking," Kit said to him in a hissing whisper.
"Holmes never lets Watson do the talking," Ty snapped. "Watson is backup."
"I'm not backup," said Kit, and drew a knife from his pocket. He heard the werewolves laugh, mocking the dagger's puny dimensions, but it didn't bother him. "Like I said," he told them. "We came here to peacefully speak to a warlock and leave. I've grown up in Shadow Markets. I bear them no ill will, and neither do my companions. But if you attack us, we will fight back. And then there will be others, other Nephilim, who will come to avenge us. And for what? What good will it do?"
"The boy is right," said Shade. "War like this benefits no one."
Barnabas waved him away. His eyes had a fanatical gleam to them. "But setting an example does," he said. "Let the Nephilim know what it is like to find the crumpled bodies of your children dead on your doorstep and for there to be no restitution and no justice."
"Don't do this-" Livvy began.
"Finish them," said Barnabas, and his pack of werewolves, as well as a few of the onlookers, sprang toward them.
* * *
Outside the cottage, the lights of Polperro gleamed like stars against the dark hillsides. The sweep of the sea was audible, the soft sound of ocean rising and falling, the lullaby of the world.
It had certainly worked on Emma. Despite Julian's best efforts with the tea, she had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, Malcolm's diary open beside her, her body curled like a cat's.
She had been reading out loud to him from the diary before she'd fallen asleep. From the very beginning, when Malcolm had been found alone, a confused child who couldn't remember his parents and had no idea what a warlock was. The Blackthorns had taken him in, as far as Julian could tell, because they thought a warlock might be useful to them, a warlock they could control and compel. They had explained to him his true nature, and none too gently at that.
Of all the family, only Annabel had shown kindness to Malcolm. They had explored the cliffs and caves of Cornwall together as children, and she had shown him how they could exchange messages secretly using a raven as a carrier. Malcolm wrote lyrically of the seaside, its changes and tempests, and lyrically of Annabel, even when he did not know his own feelings. He loved her quick wit and her strong nature. He loved her protectiveness-he wrote of how she had defended him angrily to her cousins-and over time he began to marvel at not just the beauty of her heart. His pen skipped and stuttered as he wrote of her soft skin, the shape of her hands and mouth, the times when her hair came out of its plaits and floated around her like a cloud of shadow.
Julian had almost been glad when Emma's voice had trailed off, and she'd lain down-just to rest her eyes, she said-and fallen almost instantly asleep. He had never thought he would sympathize with Malcolm or think of the two of them as alike, but Malcolm's words could have been the story of the ruination of his own heart.