There was a searing, crackling noise as the seraph blade met flesh and the Follower began to burn. He staggered away, clawing at his burning flesh, before tumbling to the ground.
"Seraph blades!" Emma called. "Everyone! Use your seraph blades!"
Lights blazed up through the cavern and Emma heard the murmur of voices calling the names of angels. Jophiel, Remiel, Duma. Through the haze of light she saw Malcolm with the bent copper knife. He ran a hand along the blade and it sprang back under his fingers, as sharp as it had been originally. He placed the tip of it against Tavvy's throat and sliced downward, slitting open the little boy's Batman T-shirt. The worn cotton curled open, revealing his thin, vulnerable chest.
Emma's world seemed to drop away. In the chaos of the room, she was still fighting, her seraph blade flaming as she plunged it into one Follower, then two, then three. Their bodies crumpled all around her.
She tried to push through them, toward Tavvy, just as she heard Julian's voice. She whirled around but couldn't see him--and yet his voice had been clear in her ears, saying, Emma, Emma, move aside, away from the tunnel.
She jumped aside, skirting the body of a fallen Follower, just as she heard a new noise: the thunder of hooves. A sound pierced the room, something between a howl and the crash of an enormous bell. It bounced off the walls, a brutal echo, and even Malcolm looked up.
Windspear exploded from the mouth of the tunnel. Julian sat astride him, his hands buried in the horse's mane. Mark was behind him, gripping his brother's belt. They seemed to blur almost into one person as Windspear leaped.
Malcolm gaped as the horse hurtled through the air, smashing through the protective barrier. As Windspear sailed over the table, Julian flung himself from the horse's back, falling heavily onto the flat stone surface beside Tavvy. Emma felt the bone-jarring shock of his pain go through her own body.
Mark kept his seat as Windspear swept over the table and landed on the other side of the circle. The circle itself, now pierced, began to writhe like an illuminated serpent, the runes flaring up one by one and then going out.
Julian was pulling himself up onto his knees. Malcolm snarled and reached for Tavvy--just as a figure dropped from the ceiling and knocked him to the ground.
It was Kieran. His hair shimmered blue-green and he raised a blade that was the same sea color. It plunged down toward Malcolm's chest, but Malcolm threw his hands up. Dark purple light exploded from his palms, hurling Kieran back. Malcolm rose to his feet, his face twisted in a snarl of hate. He flung out a hand to crush Kieran into dust.
Windspear gave a scream. The horse whirled around, hooves raised, and punched them into Malcolm's back; somehow Mark kept his seat. The warlock went flying. The horse, red eyes wide, reared and snorted. Mark, grabbing a fistful of Windspear's mane, leaned down, his other hand outstretched toward Kieran.
"Take it," Emma heard him say. "Kieran, take my hand."
Kieran reached up, and Mark pulled him upright, hauling him onto Windspear's back. They swung around and charged at a knot of Followers, the horse scattering them, Mark and Kieran reaching down to finish off the living dead with strokes of their swords.
Malcolm was dragging himself to his feet. His once-white jacket was liberally stained now with dirt and blood. He began to move toward the table, where Julian was kneeling over Tavvy, tugging at the chains that bound him. The protection circle surrounding them was still sputtering. Emma took a deep breath and raced for the table, leaping into the air.
She felt a wavering snap of electricity as she passed through the broken circle, crouched, and flung herself upward. She landed on the table in a kneeling position, beside Julian.
"Move away!" was all she had time to gasp. "Julian, move!"
He rolled away from his brother, though she knew that letting go of Tavvy was the last thing he wanted to do. He slid to the edge of the table and rose to his knees, leaning back. Trusting Emma. Giving her space.
A blade made by Wayland the Smith can cut anything.
She swung down with Cortana, a few inches from Tavvy's wrist. The edge of the blade sliced through the chain and it fell away, rattling. She heard Malcolm scream, and a flash of violet fire split the room.
Emma slashed down again with Cortana, severing the other chains holding Tavvy to the table. "Go!" she shouted at Julian. "Get him out of here!"
Julian caught up his little brother in his arms. Octavian hung limp, his eyes rolled back. Julian leaped down from the table.
Emma didn't see him vanish into the tunnel; she had already whirled back around. Mark and Kieran were trapped at one end of the room by a group of Followers, Diego and Cristina at another. Malcolm was advancing on Ty and Livvy. He raised his hand again--and a small figure flew toward him, holding up a blazing seraph blade.
It was Dru.
"Stay away from them!" she shrieked, her blade shining between them. "Stay away from my brother and sister!"
Malcolm snarled, curling his finger toward her. A rope of purple light coiled around Dru's legs, jerking her off her feet. The seraph blade rolled away, sputtering against the stone. "I still need Blackthorn blood," Malcolm said, reaching down for her. "And yours will do as well as your little brother's would have. In fact, you look like you'd have a lot more of it--"
"Stop!" Emma shouted.
Malcolm looked up at her--and froze. Emma was standing upright on the stone table. One hand clutched Cortana. The other held the candelabra of Hands of Glory.
"It took you a long time to collect these, didn't it?" she said in a cold voice. "The hands of thirteen murderers. Not so easy."
Malcolm released Dru and she scuttled away toward the far side of the room, scrabbling at her belt for another weapon. Malcolm's face contorted. "Give it back."
"Call them off," Emma said. "Call off your Followers, and I'll give you back your Hands of Glory."
"Deprive me of my chance to regain Annabel, and you will pay with agony," he snarled.
"Can't be worse than the agony of hearing you talk," Emma said. "Call them off or I'll cut these disgusting things into tiny pieces." She tightened her grip on Cortana. "Let's see if you can do a magic spell with those."
Malcolm's gaze swept the room. The bodies of Followers littered the cavern, but some of them were still on their feet, pinning Diego and Cristina in the corner of the room. Mark and Kieran were astride Windspear, both laying about themselves with blades. The horse's hooves were stained red-brown with blood.
The warlock's hands clenched at his sides. He turned and spat a few words in Greek, and the remaining Followers began to fall, crumpling to the ground. Diego and Cristina dashed over to Dru; Kieran brought Windspear to a halt and the faerie steed stood still as the dead fell dead once again.
Malcolm charged toward the table. Emma ran the length of it, sprang off the end, and landed lightly on the floor. Then she kept running.
She ran toward the rows of chairs that had been set up for the Followers, down the aisle between them, and into the shadows. The faint glow of Cortana gave enough light that she could see a dark corridor between rocks, snaking away into the hill.
She plunged into it. Only the glowing moss on the walls gave any illumination. She thought she could see a glimmer in the distance and pressed on, though running with the heavy candelabra was making her arm ache.
The corridor forked. Hearing footsteps behind her, Emma plunged to the left. She had only been running for a few yards when a glass wall loomed up in front of her.
The porthole. It had grown larger, filling nearly a whole wall. The massive lever Emma remembered protruded from the stone beside it. The porthole glowed from within, like an enormous aquarium.
Behind the glass she could see the ocean--it was radiant, a deep blue-green. She could see fish and drifting seaweed and strange lights and colors beyond the glass.
"Oh, Emma, Emma," said Malcolm's voice behind her. "You took the wrong path, didn't you? But one could say that about so much of your life."
Emma s
pun and jabbed the candelabra toward Malcolm. "Get away from me."
"Do you have any idea how precious those hands are?" he demanded. "For the fullest potency, they had to be severed just after the murder was performed. Setting up the killings was a feat of skill and daring and timing. You can't believe how annoyed I was when you took Sterling from me before I could collect his hand. Belinda had to bring me both of them so I could discern which was the murdering instrument. And then Julian calling me for help--a stroke of luck, I have to say."
"It wasn't luck. We trusted you."
"And I trusted Shadowhunters once," said Malcolm. "We all make mistakes." Keep him talking, she thought. The others will follow me.
"Johnny Rook said you told him to tell me about the body dump at the Sepulchre," she said. "Why? Why set me on your trail?"
He moved a step forward. She jabbed the candelabra toward him. He held his hands up as if to placate her. "I needed you distracted. I needed you focused on the victims, not the murderers. Besides, you had to learn about the situation before the faerie convoy arrived on your doorstep."
"And asked us to investigate the murders you were committing? What did you get out of that?"
"I got the absolute promise that the Clave would stay out of it," said Malcolm. "Individual Shadowhunters don't frighten me, Emma. But the whole mess of them could be a mess indeed. I've known Iarlath a long time. I knew he had connections to the Wild Hunt and I knew the Wild Hunt had something that would make you move Heaven and earth to keep information from the Clave and the Silent Brothers. Nothing against the boy personally; at least his Blackthorn stock is diluted by some good, healthy Downworlder blood. But I know Julian. I knew what he'd prioritize, and it wasn't the Law or the Clave."
"You underestimated us," Emma said. "We figured it out. We realized it was you."
"I thought they might send a Centurion, but I never guessed he'd be someone you knew. Trusted enough to take into your confidence despite Mark. When I saw the Rosales boy, I realized I didn't have much time. I knew I'd have to take Tavvy right away. Thankfully, I had Iarlath's help, which has been invaluable. Oh," he added. "I heard about the whipping. I'm very sorry about that. Iarlath has his own ways of having fun, and they aren't mine."
"You're sorry?" Emma stared in disbelief. "You killed my parents, and you're apologizing? I'd rather be whipped a thousand times and have my parents back."
"I know what you're thinkin g. You Shadowhunters all think alike. But I need you to understand--" Malcolm broke off, his face working. "If you understood," he said, "you wouldn't blame me."
"Then tell me what happened," Emma said. She could see the corridor behind him, over his shoulder, thought she could see shapes, shadows in the distance. If she could keep him distracted and the others could attack from behind . . . "You went to Faerie," she said. "When you found out that Annabel wasn't an Iron Sister. That she'd been murdered. Is that how you know Iarlath?"
"Despite not being born gentry, he was the right hand of the Unseelie King back then," said Malcolm. "When I went, I knew the King might have me murdered. They don't much like warlocks. But I didn't care. And when the King asked me a favor, I did it. In return, he gave me the rhyme. A spell custom made to raise my Annabel. Blackthorn blood. Blood for blood, that's what the King said."
"So why didn't you just raise her right then? Why wait?"
"Faerie magic and warlock magic are very different," said Malcolm. "It was like translating something from another language. It took me years to decipher the poem. Then I realized it was telling me to find a book. I almost went out of my mind. Years of translation and all I got was a riddle about a book--" His eyes bored into hers, as if he were willing her to understand. "It was just chance that it was your parents," he said. "They returned to the Institute while I was there. But it didn't work. I did everything the spell book said, and Annabel didn't stir."
"My parents--"
"Your love for them wasn't greater than my love for Annabel," Malcolm said. "I was trying to make things fair. It was never about hurting you. I don't hate the Carstairs. Your parents were sacrifices."
"Malcolm--"
"They would have sacrificed themselves, wouldn't they?" he asked reasonably. "For the Clave? For you?"
A rage so great it was numbing washed through Emma. It was all she could do to stay still. "So you waited five years?" She choked out the question. "Why five years?"
"I waited until I thought I'd gotten the spell right," said Malcolm. "I used the time to learn. To build. I took Annabel's body from her tomb and moved it to the convergence. I created the Followers of the Guardian. Belinda was the first murderer. I followed the ritual--burned and soaked the body, carved the markings onto it--and I felt Annabel move." His eyes shone, an unholy blue-violet. "I knew I was bringing her back. After that nothing could have stopped me."
"But why those markings?" Emma pressed herself back against the wall. The candelabra was heavy; her arm was throbbing. "Why the Unseelie King's poem?"
"Because it was a message!" Malcolm cried. "Emma, for someone who's talked so much about revenge, who's lived it and breathed it, you don't seem to understand much about it. I needed the Shadowhunters to know. I needed the Blackthorns to know, when the youngest of them lay dead, whose hand had dealt them that blow. When someone has wronged you, it isn't enough that they suffer. They need to look at your face and know why they suffer. I needed the Clave to decipher that poem and learn exactly who would be their destruction."
"Destruction?" Emma couldn't help her incredulous echo. "You're insane. Killing Tavvy wouldn't destroy the Nephilim--and none of them who are alive even know about Annabel--"
"And how do you think that feels?" he shouted. "Her name forgotten? Her fate buried? The Shadowhunters turned her into a story. I think several of her kinsmen went mad--they couldn't bear what they'd done, couldn't bear the weight of the secret."
Keep him talking, Emma thought. "If it was such a secret, how did Poe know? The poem, 'Annabel Lee'--"
Something flashed across the backs of Malcolm's eyes, something secretive and dark. "When I heard it, I thought it was a sickening coincidence," he said. "But it obsessed me. I went to talk to the poet, but he had died. 'Annabel' was his last work." His voice was bleak with memory. "Years went by, and I believed her to be in the Adamant Citadel. It was all that comforted me. That she was alive somewhere. When I found out, I wanted to deny it, but it was the poem that proved the facts of it--Poe had learned the truth from Downworlders, learned it before I did--how Annabel and I had loved as children, how she would have left the Nephilim for me, but her family heard of it and decided death was preferable to life with a warlock. They'd walled her up in a tomb by the Cornwall sea, walled her up alive. Later, when I moved her body, I kept it near the ocean. She always loved the water."
His breath was coming in sobs now. Emma, unable to move, stared. His grief was as raw and real as if what he were talking about had happened yesterday.
"They told me she'd become an Iron Sister. All of them lied to me--Magnus, Catarina, Ragnor, Tessa--corrupted by Shadowhunters, drawn in by their lies! And I, oblivious, grieving for her, until finally I found out the truth--"
Sudden voices echoed in the hall; Emma heard the sound of running feet. Malcolm snapped his fingers. Violet light shimmered in the tunnel behind them, its iridescence fading as it grew dimmer and more opaque, solidifying into a wall.
The sound of voices and footsteps vanished. Emma stood inside a sealed cave with Malcolm.
She backed up, clutching the candelabra. "I'll destroy the hands," she warned, her heart pounding. "I'll do it."
Dark fire sparked at his fingertips. "I could let you go," he said. "Let you live. Swim away through the ocean like you did before. You could carry my message back for me. My message to the Clave."
"I don't need you to let me go." She was breathing hard. "I'd rather fight."
His smile was twisted, almost sorrowful. "You and your sword, no matter its history, are no match
for a warlock, Emma."
"What do you want from me?" she demanded, her voice rising, echoing off the walls of the cave. "What do you want, Malcolm?"
"I want you to understand," he said through gritted teeth. "I want someone to tell the Clave what they're responsible for, I want them to know the blood on their hands, I want them to know why."
Emma stared at Malcolm, a thin, stretched figure in a stained white jacket, sparks dancing along the edges of his fingertips. He frightened her and made her sad, all at the same time.
"Your why doesn't matter," she said finally. "Maybe you did what you did in the name of love. But if you think that makes any difference, you're no better than the Clave."
He moved toward her--and Emma flung the candelabra at him. He ducked away and it missed, hitting the rock floor with a clang. The fingers of the severed hands seemed to curl in as if to protect themselves. Emma planted her feet apart, remembering Jace Herondale, years ago in Idris, showing her how to stand so you'd never be knocked down.
She gripped the hilt of Cortana in a two-fisted grip, and this time she remembered Clary Fairchild, and the words she'd said to Emma in Idris, when Emma had been twelve years old. Heroes aren't always the ones who win. They're the ones who lose, sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don't give up. That's what makes them heroes.
Emma sprang toward Malcolm, Cortana upraised. He reacted with a second's delay--flinging his hand toward her, light bursting from his fingers. It sizzled toward her, a streak of gold-and-violet light.
The delay gave her time to duck. She spun and raised Cortana over her head. Magic slid off the blade. She threw herself at Malcolm again and he ducked away, though not before she had slashed open his sleeve, just above the elbow. He barely seemed to notice.
"The death of your parents was necessary," he said. "I had to see if the book worked."
"No, you didn't," Emma snarled, brandishing Cortana. "You should know better than to try to raise the dead."
"Because if Julian died, you wouldn't try to bring him back?" said Malcolm with a delicate rise of his eyebrows, and Emma recoiled as if he'd slapped her. "You wouldn't bring your mother and father back? Oh, it's so easy for you, as it is for all Shadowhunters, standing there, making your moral pronouncements, as if you're better than the rest of us--"