More Shadowhunters had entered the Council Hall. They were a mix of ages, from old to young. Some wore Centurion uniforms. Most wore gear or ordinary clothes. What was unusual about them was that they were carrying placards and signs. REGISTER ALL WARLOCKS. DOWNWORLDERS MUST BE CONTROLLED. INTERNMENT CAMPS FOR WEREWOLVES. CREATE THE REGISTRY. PRAISE THE COLD PEACE.
Among them was a stolid brown-haired man with a bland sort of face, the kind of face where you could never really remember the features later. He winked at Zara.
“My father,” she said proudly. “Registering all Downworlders was his idea.”
“What interesting signs,” said Mark.
“How wonderful to see people expressing their political views,” said Zara. “Of course the Cold Peace has truly created a generation of revolutionaries.”
“It is unusual,” said Cristina, “for a revolution to call for fewer rights for its people, not more.”
For a moment Zara’s mask slipped, and Cristina saw through the artifice of politeness, the breathy little-girl voice and demeanor. There was something cold behind it all, something without warmth or empathy or affection. “People,” she said. “What people?”
Diego took hold of her arm. “Zara,” he said. “Let’s go sit down.”