"But how-"
"I don't know," Julian said. "It's impossible."
Emma dropped to her knees, sliding Cortana back into its scabbard. In the moonlight she and her father were shadows as she bent over him.
The King began to laugh, his eerie face split by a wide grin, and the Court laughed with him, howls of mirth exploding around them.
No one was paying attention to the three Shadowhunters in the center of the clearing.
Julian wanted to go to Emma. He wanted it desperately. But he was someone who was used to not doing, or getting, what he wanted. He spun toward Mark and Cristina. "Go to her," he said to Cristina. Her dark eyes widened. "Go to him," he said to Mark, and Mark nodded and slipped into the crowd, a shadow into shadows.
Cristina disappeared after him, plunging the opposite way into the crowd. The courtiers were still laughing, the sound of their ridicule rising up, painting the night. Human emotions are so foolish to them, and human minds and hearts so fragile.
Julian slid a dagger from his belt. Not a seraph blade, or even a runed one, but it was cold iron, and fit comfortably into his palm. The princes among the knights were looking toward the pavilion, laughing. It took Julian only a few steps to reach them, to throw his arms around Prince Erec from the back and press the edge of his dagger to his throat.
* * *
Kit's first, distracted thought was, So that's why they haven't been able to find Malcolm's body.
His second was a memory. The High Warlock had been a fixture of the Shadow Market, and friendly with Kit's father-though he had only learned later that they had been more than acquaintances, but partners in crime. Still, the lively, purple-eyed warlock had been popular at the Market, and had sometimes produced interesting candy for Kit that he claimed came from faraway places he had traveled to.
It had been strange for Kit to realize that the friendly warlock he knew was a murderer. It was even stranger now to see what Malcolm had become. The warlock moved forward, stripped of all his previous grace, lurching over the grass. The Shadowhunters snapped into formation, like a Roman legion: They faced Malcolm in a line, shoulder to shoulder, their weapons out. Only Arthur stood alone. He stared at Malcolm, his mouth working.
The grass in front of them all was seared black and gray by demon blood.
Malcolm smirked, as well as he could with his ruined face. "Arthur," he said, gazing at the shrinking man in his bloodstained bathrobe. "You must miss me. You don't look as if you're doing well without your medication. Not at all."
Arthur flattened himself against the Institute wall. There was a murmur among the Centurions, cut off when Diana spoke. "Malcolm," she said. She sounded remarkably calm, considering. "What do you want?"
He came to a stop, close to the Centurions, though not close enough for them to strike. "Have you been enjoying looking for my body, Centurions? It's been a real treat to watch you. Splashing around in your invisible boat, no idea what you're looking for or how to find it. But then you never have been much use without warlocks, have you?"
"Silence, filth," said Zara, vibrating like an electrical wire. "You-"
Divya elbowed her. "Don't," she whispered. "Let Diana talk."
"Malcolm," said Diana, in the same cold tone. "Things aren't like they were before. We have the might of the Clave on our side. We know who you are, and we will find out where you are. You are a fool to have come here and shown your hand."
"My hand," he mused. "Where is my hand again? Oh, right. It's inside this bag . . . ." He plunged his hand into the sack he'd been carrying. When he drew it out, he was carrying a severed human head.
There was a horrified silence.
"Jon!" Diego said hoarsely.
Gen Aldertree seemed about to collapse. "Oh God, poor Marisol. Oh-"
Zara was staring with openmouthed horror, though she made no move to go forward. Diego took a step, but Rayan caught his arm as Diana snapped, "Centurions! Remain in formation!"
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?"