فصل 19

Chapter 19

THE GRAY WOODS

“I told you to stay away from the Shadow Market, Rook,” said Barnabas. “Is there a reason you didn’t listen? Lack of respect for me, or just a lack of respect for Downworlders overall?” A crowd had begun to gather, a curious mixture of sneering vampires, grinning werewolves, and wary-looking warlocks.

“You told me to stay out of the Los Angeles Market,” said Kit, “not every Shadow Market in the world. You don’t have that power and reach, Hale, and it’s up to the owner of this Market to decide if I stay or if I go.” “That would be me.” It was Hypatia, her smooth face expressionless.

“I thought you were the co-runner?” said Kit.

“Good enough, and watch your impertinence. I don’t appreciate being lied to, child. Nor do I appreciate you bringing two Nephilim in here with you.” The crowd gasped. Kit winced internally. This was not going their way.

“They don’t support the Cold Peace,” he said.

“Did they vote against it?” asked a warlock with a ring of spikes growing from around her throat.

“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.

Sometimes, Malcolm had written, someone you have known all your life becomes no longer familiar to you, but strange in a marvelous way, as if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty. Annabel, you have taken my life, my life as dull as the edge of an unused blade, you have taken it apart and put it back together in a shape so strange and marvelous I can only wonder . . .

There was a loud thud, a sound as if a bird had flown into the glass of one of the windows. Julian sat up straight, reaching for the dagger he’d placed on the low table next to the sofa.

The thud came again, louder.

Julian rose to his feet. Something moved outside the window—the flash of something white. It was gone, and then there was another thud. Something thrown against the glass, like a child throwing pebbles at a friend’s window to get their attention.

Julian glanced at Emma. She had rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed.

He went to the door and turned the knob slowly, trying to prevent it from squeaking. It opened, and he stepped out into the night.

It was cool and dark, the moon dangling over the water like a pearl on the end of a chain. Around the house was uneven ground that fell away almost sheerly on one side to the ocean. The surface of the water was darkly transparent, the shape of rocks visible through it as if Julian was looking through black glass.

“Julian,” said a voice. “Julian Blackthorn.”

He turned. The house was behind him. Ahead of him was Peak Rock, the tip of the cliff, and dark grass growing out of gaps between the gray stones.

He raised his hand, the witchlight rune-stone in it. Light rayed out, illuminating the girl standing in front of him.

It was as if she’d stepped out of his own drawing. Dark hair, straight as a pin, an oval face like a sad Madonna, framed by the hood of an enormous cloak. Beneath the cloak he could see thin, pale ankles and cracked shoes.

“Annabel?” he said.

The knife flew from Kit’s hand. It shot across the distance between him and the approaching mob and drove straight into Barnabas Hale’s shoulder. The snake-scaled warlock staggered backward and fell, yelling in pain.

“Kit!” Livvy said, in amazement; he could tell she wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, but he’d never forgotten an Emerson quote that was a favorite of his father’s: When you strike at a king, you must kill him.

One warlock was more powerful than a pack of werewolves, and Barnabas was their leader. Two reasons to take him out of the fight. But there was no more time to think about that, because the Downworlders were on them.

“Umbriel!” shouted Livvy. A blazing blade shot from her hand. She was a whirl of motion, her saber training making her fast and graceful. She spun in a deadly circle, her hair whipping around her. She was a gorgeous blur of light and dark, and arcs of blood followed her blade.

Ty, wielding a shortsword, had backed up against the pillar of a stall, which was clever because the stall owner was shouting at the Downworlders to get back even as they advanced.

“Oi! Get away!” yelled the stall owner, and her wares began to fly through the air, bottles of tinctures splattering against the surprised faces of werewolves and vampires. Some of the substances seemed corrosive—at least one werewolf fell back with a yell, clutching a sizzling face.

Ty smiled, and despite everything that was happening, it made Kit want to smile, too. He filed it away as a memory to revisit later, considering that right now a massive werewolf with shoulders like flying buttresses was careening toward him. He reached out and yanked a pole free of Shade’s tent, causing the whole structure to tilt.

Kit swung out with the pole. It wasn’t the hardest metal, but it was flexible, like a massive whip. He heard the crunch of bone against skin as it slammed the leaping werewolf directly in the sternum. With a grunt of agony, the lycanthrope went sailing past Kit’s head.

Kit’s body thrummed with excitement. Maybe they could do it. Maybe the three of them could fight their way out of this. Maybe that was what it meant to have Heaven in your blood.

Livvy screamed.

Kit knocked a vampire out of his way with a vicious whack of the pole, and spun to see what had happened. One of the bottles flying through the air had smashed against her side. It was clearly an acidic substance—it was burning through the material of her clothes, and though her hand was clamped against the wound, Kit could see blood between her fingers.

She was still slashing out with her other hand, but the Downworlders, like sharks smelling blood, had turned away from Ty and Kit and were moving toward her. She hit out, spearing two, but without being able to properly shield her body, her circle of protection was shrinking. A vampire stepped nearer, licking his lips.

Kit began to run toward her. Ty was ahead of him, using his shortsword to hack his way through the crowd. Blood was pattering down on the ground at Livvy’s feet. Kit’s heart tensed with panic. She slumped just as Ty reached her and the two of them went down on the ground, Livvy in her brother’s arms. Umbriel clattered from her hand.

Kit staggered toward the two of them. He threw his pole aside, hitting several werewolves, and snatched up Livvy’s seraph blade.

Ty had put down the shortsword. He was holding his sister, who was unconscious, her hair spilling across his shoulders and chest. He had his stele out and was tracing a healing rune on her skin, though his hand was shaking and the rune was uneven.

Kit held up the blazing sword. The light of it made the Downworlders cringe back slightly, but he knew it wasn’t enough: They would press on, and tear him apart, and then they would tear apart Livvy and Ty. He saw Barnabas, his suit soaked in blood, leaning on the arm of a bodyguard. His eyes, fixed on Kit, were filled with hate.

There would be no mercy here.

A wolf leaped toward Kit. He raised Umbriel, swung it—and connected with nothing. The wolf had tumbled to the ground, as if shoved by an unseen hand.

There was a blast of wind. Kit’s gold hair blew across his face; he pushed it back with a hand stained red. The tents were rattling; more jars and bottles smashed. Blue lightning crackled, and a fork of it stabbed into the ground just in front of Barnabas.

“I see,” said a silky voice, “that I seem to have arrived here just in time.”

Walking toward them was a tall man with short, black, spiked hair. He was clearly a warlock: His eyes were cat’s eyes, with slit pupils, green and gold. He wore a charcoal trench coat dramatically lined with red that swept out behind him when he walked.

“Magnus Bane,” said Barnabas, with clear loathing. “The Ultimate Traitor.”

“Not my favorite nickname,” Magnus said, gently wiggling his fingers in Barnabas’s direction. “I prefer ‘Our Lord and Master’ or maybe ‘Unambiguously the Hottest.’ ” Barnabas shrank back. “These three Nephilim broke into the Market under false pretenses—” “Did they break the Accords?”

Barnabas snarled. “One of them stabbed me.”

“Which one?” Magnus asked.

Barnabas pointed at Kit.

“Dreadful business,” Magnus said. His left hand was down by his side. Surreptitiously, he gave Kit a thumbs-up. “Was that before or after you attacked them?” “After,” Kit said. One of Barnabas’s bodyguards started toward him; he jabbed out with his blade. This time the lightning that forked from Magnus’s hand snapped like a downed electrical wire between their feet.

“Stop,” he said.

“You have no authority here, Bane,” said Barnabas.

“Actually, I do,” said Magnus. “As the warlock representative to the Council of Shadowhunters, I have a great deal of authority. I imagine you know that.” “Oh, we know entirely how in thrall to the Shadowhunters you are.” Barnabas was so furious, saliva flew when he spoke. “Especially the Lightwoods.” Magnus raised a lazy eyebrow. “Is this about my boyfriend? Jealous, Barnabas?” Kit cleared his throat. “Mr. Bane,” he said. He’d heard of Magnus Bane, everyone had. He was probably the most famous warlock in the world. His boyfriend, Alec, helped head up the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance, along with Maia Roberts and Lily Chen. “Livvy lost a lot of blood. Ty used a healing rune, but—” Magnus’s face darkened with real anger. “She’s fifteen years old; she’s a child,” he snarled. “How dare you all.” “Going to report us to the Council, Magnus?” said Hypatia, speaking for the first time. She hadn’t joined in the melee; she was leaning against the side of a stall, eyeing Magnus up and down. Shade seemed to have vanished; Kit had no idea where he’d gone.

“It seems to me we have two choices,” said Magnus. “You fight me, and you will not win, believe me, because I am very angry and I am older than any of you. And then I tell the Council. Or you let me walk away with these Nephilim children, we don’t fight, and I don’t report you to the Council. Thoughts?” “I pick number two,” said the woman who’d thrown her bottles at the werewolves.

“She’s right, Barnabas,” said Hypatia. “Step back.”

Barnabas’s face was working. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, followed by his bodyguards. The other Downworlders began to shuffle away, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders hunched.

Kit dropped down on his knees next to Ty, who had barely moved. His eyes were darting back and forth, his lips almost white; he looked as if he was in shock.

“Ty,” Kit said hesitantly, and put a hand on the other boy’s arm. “Ty—”

Ty shook him off almost without seeming to register who he was. His arms were around Livvy, his fingers pressed to her wrist; Kit realized he was taking her pulse. It was clear she was alive. Kit could see the rise and fall of her chest. But Ty kept his fingers on her wrist regardless, as if the pulse of her heartbeat steadied him.

“Tiberius.” It was Magnus, kneeling down, heedless of the blood and mud spattering his expensive-looking coat. He didn’t reach out or try to touch Ty, just spoke in a low voice. “Tiberius. I know you can hear me. You have to help me get Livvy to the Institute. I can take care of her there.” Ty looked up. He wasn’t crying, but the gray in his eyes had darkened to a searing charcoal. He looked stunned. “She’ll be all right?” he said.

“She’ll be fine.” Magnus’s voice was firm. Kit reached out to help Tiberius lift Livvy, and this time Ty let him do it. As they stood up, Magnus was already creating a Portal, a whirl of blue and green and rose colors, rising up against the shadows of the tents and stalls of the Market.

Ty turned suddenly to Kit. “Can you take her?” he said. “Carry Livvy?”

Kit nodded in astonishment. For Ty to let him carry his twin was a sign of trust that shocked him. He lifted Livvy in his arms, the scent of blood and magic in his nose.

“Come on!” Magnus called. The Portal was wide open now: Kit could see the shape of the London Institute through it.

Ty didn’t turn. He had slammed his headphones down over his ears and was running through the empty lane of the Market. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were warding off blows that came from all sides, but his hands were steady when he reached the stall at the end, the one with the caged faeries. He began seizing the cages, yanking them open one by one. The pixies and nixies and hobgoblins inside poured out, yelping with joy at their freedom.

“You! You, stop that!” shouted the stall owner, running back to prevent further destruction, but it was already too late. Ty flung the last cage toward him and it burst open, releasing a furious, clawing hobgoblin, who fastened his teeth into his former captor’s shoulder.

“Ty!” Kit called, and Ty ran back toward the open Portal. Knowing Ty was behind him, Kit stepped into it, holding Livvy tight, and let the whirlwind take him.

Annabel came toward him silently, her cracked shoes making no sounds on the rock. Julian couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot with disbelief.

He knew she was alive. He’d watched her kill Malcolm. But somehow he’d never imagined her as so tangible and distinct. So human. She seemed like someone he might meet anywhere: in a movie theater, at the Institute, at the beach.

He wondered where she’d gotten the clothing from. The cloak didn’t seem like something you’d find hanging on a washing line, and he doubted she had any money.

The high rocks threw their shadows down as she came closer to him, pushing her hood back. “How did you find this place?” she demanded. “This house?” He held up his hands and she stopped, only a few feet from him. The night wind picked up strands of her hair and they seemed to dance.

“The piskies told me where you were,” she said. “Once they were Malcolm’s friends, and still they hold affection for me.” Was she serious? Julian couldn’t tell.

“You should not be here,” she said. “You should not be looking for me.”

“I have no desire to hurt or harm you,” Julian said. He wondered; if he moved closer to her, would he be able to grab her? Though the idea of using physical force to try to get the Black Volume sickened him. He realized he hadn’t imagined how he was going to get it away from her. Finding her had been too much of a priority. “But I saw you kill Malcolm.” “I remember this place two hundred years past,” she said as if he hadn’t spoken. Her accent was British, but there was an oddness to it, a sound Julian had never heard before. “It looked much the same, though there were fewer houses, and more ships in the harbor.” She turned to look back at the cottage. “Malcolm built that house himself. With his own magic.” “Why didn’t you come inside?” Julian said. “Why did you wait for me out here?” “I am barred,” she said. “Malcolm’s blood is on my hands. I cannot enter his home.” She turned to face Julian. “How could you have seen me kill him?” The moon had come out from behind a cloud. It lit the night up brilliantly, framing the ragged edges of the clouds with light.

“I watched Malcolm raise you,” Julian said. “In a scrying glass of the Seelie Queen. She wanted me to see it.” “But why would the Queen want such a thing?” Her lips parted in realization. “Ah. To make you want to follow me. To make you want the Black Volume of the Dead and all its power.” She reached into her cloak and drew out the book. It was black, a dense sort of black that seemed to gather shadows into itself. It was tied closed with a leather strap. The words stamped onto its cover had long faded away.

“I remember nothing of my death,” Annabel said softly, as Julian stared at the book in her hands. “Not how it was done, nor the time after it when I lay beneath the earth, nor when Malcolm learned of my death and disturbed my bones. I only discovered later that Malcolm had spent many years trying to raise me from the dead, but during that time none of the spells he cast worked. My body rotted and I did not wake.” She turned the book over in her hands. “It was the Unseelie King who told him that the Black Volume was the key. The Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme and the spell. And it was the King who told Malcolm when Sebastian Morgenstern’s attack on the Institute would come—when it would be empty. All the King asked in return was that Malcolm worked for him on spells that would weaken the Nephilim.” Julian’s mind raced. Malcolm hadn’t mentioned the Unseelie King’s part in all this when he’d told his version of the story to the Blackthorns. But that was hardly surprising. The King was far more powerful than Malcolm, and the warlock would have been reluctant to invoke his name. “In the Unseelie Lands, our powers are useless,” said Julian. “Seraph blades don’t work there, or witchlight or runes.” “Malcolm’s doing,” she said. “As it is in his own Lands, so the King wishes it to be all over the world, and in Idris. Shadowhunters made powerless. He would take Alicante and rule from it. Shadowhunters would become the hunted.” “I need the Black Volume, Annabel,” Julian said. “To stop the King. To stop all this.” She only stared at him. “Five years ago,” she said, “Malcolm spilled Shadowhunter blood trying to raise me.” Emma’s parents, Julian thought.

“It woke my mind but not my body,” Annabel said. “The spell had half-worked. I was in agony, you understand, half-alive and trapped beneath the earth. I screamed my pain in silence. Malcolm could not hear me. I could not move. He thought me insensible, unhearing, yet he spoke to me nonetheless.” Five years, Julian thought. For five years she had been trapped in the convergence tomb, conscious but unable to be heard, unable to speak or scream or move.

Julian shuddered.

“His voice filtered down into my tomb. He read me that poem, over and over. ‘It was many and many a year ago.’ ” Her gaze was bleak. “He betrayed me while I lived, and again when I was dead. Death is a gift, you understand. The passing beyond pain and sorrow. He denied me that.” “I’m sorry,” Julian said. The moon had started to sink in the sky. He wondered how late it was.

“Sorry,” she echoed dismissively, as if the word had no meaning for her. “There will be a war,” she said, “between Faerie and Shadowhunters. But that is not my concern. My concern is that you promise to no longer try to obtain the Black Volume. Let it alone, Julian Blackthorn.” He exhaled. He would have lied in a moment and promised, but he suspected a promise to someone like Annabel would hold a terrifying weight. “I can’t,” he said. “We need the Black Volume. I cannot tell you why, but I swear it will be kept safe and out of the hands of the King.” “I have told you what the book did to me,” she said, and for the first time, she seemed animated, her cheeks flushed. “It has no use but evil use. You should not want it.” “I won’t use it for evil,” Julian said. That much was true, he thought.

“It cannot be used for anything else,” she said. “It destroys families, people—” “My family will be destroyed if I don’t have the book.”

Annabel paused. “Oh,” she said. And then, more gently, “But think of what will be destroyed with this book out there, in the world. So much more. There are higher causes.” “Not to me,” said Julian. The world can burn if my family lives, he thought, and was about to say it when the cottage door flew open.

Emma stood in the doorway. She was shoving her feet into unlaced boots, Cortana in her hand. Her hair was rumpled over her shoulders, but her grip on the sword was unwavering.

Her gaze sought out Julian, then found Annabel; she started, stared incredulously. He saw her mouth shape Annabel’s name, as Annabel threw her hood up over her head and bolted.

Julian started after her, Emma only a second behind him. But Annabel was shockingly fast. She flew across the grass and heather-strewn slope to the edge of the cliff; with a last glance back, she flung herself into the air.

“Annabel!” Julian raced to the cliff edge, Emma at his side. He stared down into the water, hundreds of feet below, untroubled by even a ripple. Annabel had vanished.

They exploded back into the Institute, appearing in the library. It was like being dropped from a great height, and Kit staggered and fell back against the table, clawing at Livvy so he wouldn’t drop her.

Ty had fallen to his knees and was righting himself. Kit glanced at Livvy’s face—it was gray, with an eerie yellowish tinge.

“Magnus—” he gasped.

The warlock, who had landed with the ease of long practice, spun around, instantly assessing the situation. “Calm down,” he said, “everything’s fine,” and he started to take Livvy from Kit’s grasp. Kit let her go with relief—someone was going to take care of this. Magnus Bane was going to take care of this. He wouldn’t let Livvy die.

It took Kit a moment to notice that there was already someone standing in the library. Someone he didn’t know, who moved toward Magnus just as the warlock eased Livvy down onto the long table. It was a young man about Jace’s age, with straight dark hair that looked as if he had slept on it and not bothered to brush it. He wore a washed-out sweater and jeans. He glared at Magnus. “You woke up the kids,” he said.

“Alec, we have kind of an emergency here,” said Magnus.

So this was Alec Lightwood. Somehow Kit had expected him to look older.

“Small children who are awake are also an emergency,” said Alec. “I’m just saying.” “All right, move the furniture back,” Magnus said to Ty and Kit. “I need some working space.” He glanced sideways at Alec as the two younger boys moved chairs and small bookcases out of the way. “So where are the kids?” Magnus was stripping off his coat. Alec held out his hand and caught the coat as Magnus tossed it to him, a practiced move that suggested he was used to the gesture. “I left them with a nice girl named Cristina. She said she likes children.” “You just left our children with strangers?”

“Everyone else is asleep,” said Alec. “Besides, she knows lullabies. In Spanish. Rafe is in love.” He glanced over at Kit again. “By the Angel, it’s uncanny,” he said in a sudden burst, as if he couldn’t help it.

Kit felt unnerved. “What’s uncanny?”

“He means you look like Jace,” said Magnus. “Jace Herondale.”

“My parabatai,” said Alec, with love and pride.

“I know Jace,” said Kit. He was looking at Ty, who was struggling to move a chair. It wasn’t that it was too heavy for him, but that his hands were opening and closing at his sides, making his gestures unusually clumsy and uncoordinated. “He came out to the L.A. Institute after my—after they found out who I was.” “The legendary Lost Herondale,” said Magnus. “You know, I was starting to think that was a rumor Catarina made up, like the Loch Ness Monster or the Bermuda Triangle.” “Catarina made up the Bermuda Triangle?” said Alec.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alexander. That was Ragnor.” Magnus touched Livvy’s arm lightly. She cried out. Ty dropped the chair he’d been struggling with and took a ragged breath.

“You’re hurting her,” he said. “Don’t.”

His voice was quiet, but in it Kit could hear steel in it, and see the boy who’d held him at knifepoint in his father’s house.

Magnus leaned his hands on the table. “I’ll try not to, Tiberius,” he said. “But I may have to cause her pain to heal her.” Ty seemed about to answer, just as the door flew open and Mark burst in. He caught sight of Livvy, and blanched. “Livvy. Livia!” He tried to start forward, but Alec caught at his arm. For all Alec’s slenderness, he was deceptively strong. He held Mark back while blue fire sparked from Magnus’s hand and he passed it down Livvy’s side. The sleeve of her jacket and shirt seemed to melt away, revealing a long, ugly cut seeping yellow fluid.

Mark sucked in a breath. “What’s going on?”

“Fight at the Shadow Market,” Magnus said briefly. “Livia was cut with a piece of glass with orias root on it. Very poisonous, but curable.” He moved his fingers over Livvy’s arm; as he did, a bluish light seemed to glow under her skin, as if it were pulsing from the inside out.

“The Shadow Market?” Mark demanded. “What the hell was Livvy doing at the Shadow Market?” Nobody answered. Kit felt as if he was shrinking inward.

“What’s going on?” Ty demanded. His hands were still opening at his sides, as if he were trying to shake something off his skin. His shoulders rolled back. It was as if his worry and agitation were expressing themselves through a silent music that made his nerves and muscles dance. “Is that blue light normal?” Mark said something to Alec, and Alec nodded. He released the other boy’s arm, and Mark came around the table to put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. Ty leaned into him, though he didn’t stop moving.

“Magnus is the best there is,” Alec said. “Healing magic is his specialty.” Alec’s voice was gentle. The voice of someone who wasn’t quieting his tone to keep someone calm, but who actually empathized. “Magnus cured me, once,” he added. “It was demon poison; I shouldn’t have lived, but I did. You can trust him.” Livvy gave a sudden gasp and her back jerked; Ty put his hand to his own arm, his fingers clenching. Then her body relaxed. Color began to come back to her face, her cheeks turning from yellowish-gray to pink. Ty, too, relaxed visibly.

“That’s the poison gone,” said Magnus matter-of-factly. “Now we have to work on the blood loss and the cut.” “There are runes for both those things,” said Ty. “I can put them on her.”

But Magnus was shaking his head. “Better not to use them—runes draw some of their strength from the bearer,” he said. “If she had a parabatai, we could try pulling strength from them, but she doesn’t, does she?” Ty didn’t say anything. His face had gone still and completely white.

“She doesn’t,” Kit said, realizing Ty wasn’t going to say anything.

“That’s all right. She’ll be fine,” Magnus reassured them. “Might as well move her to her bedroom, though. No reason for her to sleep on a table.” “I’ll help you take her,” Mark said. “Ty, why don’t you come with us.”

“Alec, can you go to the infirmary?” Magnus said, as Mark went to lift his sister into his arms. Poor Livvy, Kit thought; she would hate to be dragged around like a sack of potatoes. “You’ll know what I need.” Alec nodded.

“Take Kit with you,” said Magnus. “You’ll want help carrying everything.”

Kit found himself not minding the idea of making conversation with Alec. Alec had a comforting sort of presence—quiet, and contained. As he and Alec headed out of the room, Kit glanced back once at Ty. Kit had never had siblings, never had a mother, had only had Johnny. His father. His father who had died, and he didn’t think he’d ever looked the way Ty looked now, as if the possibility of something happening to Livvy was enough to break him inside.

Maybe there was something wrong with him, Kit thought as he followed Alec into the hallway. Maybe he didn’t have the right kind of feelings. He’d never wondered that much about his mother, who she was: Wouldn’t someone who knew how to feel properly wonder that?

“So you met Jace,” said Alec, scuffing his shoes along the carpet as they went. “What did you think?” “Of Jace?” Kit was puzzled. He didn’t know why anyone would solicit his opinion on the head of the New York Institute.

“Just making small talk.” Alec had an odd half smile, as if he were keeping a number of thoughts to himself. They passed through a door marked INFIRMARY into a large room, filled with old-fashioned single metal beds. Alec went behind a counter and started rummaging.

“Jace isn’t much like you,” said Kit. There was a weird dark patch of wall across from him, as if paint had smeared up and across it in almost the shape of a tree.

“That’s an understatement.” Alec piled bandages on the countertop. “But it doesn’t matter. Parabatai don’t need to be like each other. They just need to complement each other. To work well together.” Kit thought of Jace, all shining gold and confidence, and Alec, all steady, quiet ease. “And you and Jace complement each other?” “I remember when I met him,” Alec said. He’d found two boxes and was dumping bandages into one, jars of powder into another. “He walked out of a Portal from Idris. He was skinny and he had bruises and he had these big eyes. He was arrogant, too. He and Isabelle used to fight . . . .” He smiled at the memory. “But to me everything about him said, ‘Love me, because nobody ever has.’ It was all over him, like fingerprints.

“He was worried about meeting you,” Alec added. “He’s not used to having living blood relatives. He cared what you thought. He wanted you to like him.” He glanced over at Kit. “Here, take a box.” Kit’s head was swimming. He thought of Jace, swaggering and amused and proud. But Alec spoke of Jace as if he saw him as a vulnerable child, someone who needed love because he’d never gotten it. “I’m no one, though,” he said, taking the box full of bandages. “Why would he care what I think? I don’t matter. I’m nothing.” “You matter to Shadowhunters,” said Alec. “You’re a Herondale. That’ll never be nothing.” * * *

Holding Rafe in her arms, Cristina sang softly. He was small for five years old, and his rest was fitful. He squirmed and sighed in his sleep, his small brown fingers twisted into a lock of his dark hair. He reminded her a little of her own small cousins, always wanting another hug, another sweet, another song before sleep.

Max, on the other hand, slept like a rock—a dark blue rock, with adorable big navy eyes and a gap-toothed grin. When Cristina, Mark, and Kieran had run down to find Alec, Magnus, and their two children in the Institute parlor, Evelyn had been there, fussing about warlocks in her house and the undesirability of being blue. Cristina hoped most adult Shadowhunters didn’t react to Max like that—it would be awfully traumatic for the poor little mite.

It seemed that Alec and Magnus had returned from a trip to find Diana’s messages asking them for help. They had Portaled to the London Institute immediately. On hearing about the binding spell from Mark and Cristina, Magnus had headed for the local Shadow Market to scout out a spell book he hoped might break the enchantment.

Rafe and Max, upon being left in a strange house with only one parent, had wailed. “Sleep,” Alec had said glumly to Rafe, carrying him into a spare room. “Adorno.” Cristina giggled. “That means ‘ornament,’ ” she said. “Not ‘sleep.’ ”

Alec sighed. “I’m still learning Spanish. Magnus is the one who speaks it.”

Cristina smiled at Rafael, who was sniffling. She’d always sung her little cousins to sleep, just as her mother had with her; maybe Rafe would like that. “Oh, Rafaelito,” she said to him, oh, little Rafael baby. “Ya es hora de ir a dormir. ¿Te gustaría que te cante una canción?” He nodded vigorously. “¡Sí!”

Cristina spent some time teaching Alec all the lullabies she knew while he held Max and she sat with Rafe. Not long after that, Magnus had Portaled back, and there had been a great deal of thumping and bumping from the library, and Alec had raced off, but Cristina had decided to stay where she was unless called on, because the ways of warlocks were mysterious and their charming boyfriends, too.

Besides, it was good to have something as harmless as a child to distract her from her anxiety. She was sure—relatively sure—that the binding spell could be undone. But it bothered her just the same: What if it couldn’t? She and Mark would be miserable forever, tied by a bond they didn’t want. And where would they go? What if he wanted to return to Faerie? She couldn’t possibly go with him.

Thoughts of Diego nagged at her too: she’d thought she would come back from Faerie to a message from him, but there had been nothing. Could someone disappear out of your life like that twice?

She sighed and leaned down to stroke Rafe’s hair, singing softly.

“Arrorró mi niño,

arrorró mi sol,

arrorró pedazo

de mi corazón.

Hush-a-bye my baby

Hush-a-bye my sun

Hush-a-bye, oh piece

of my heart.”

Alec had come in while she was singing, and was sitting on the bed beside Max, leaning against the wall.

“I’ve heard that song before.” It was Magnus, standing in the doorway. He looked tired, his cat’s eyes heavily lidded. “I can’t remember who was singing it.” He came over and bent down to take Rafe from her. He lifted the boy in his arms, and for a moment Rafe’s head lolled against his neck. Cristina wondered if this had ever happened before: a Shadowhunter with a warlock for a parent.

“Sol solecito, caliéntame un poquito,

Por hoy, por mañana, por toda la semana,”

Magnus sang. Cristina looked at him in surprise. He had a nice singing voice, though she didn’t know the melody. Sun, little sun, warm me a little, for the noon, for the dawning, for all the week long.

“Are you all right, Magnus?” Alec asked.

“Fine, and Livvy’s fine. Healing. Should be back to normal tomorrow.” Magnus rolled his shoulders back, stretching his muscles.

“Livvy?” Cristina sat up in alarm. “What happened to Livvy?”

Alec and Magnus exchanged a look. “You didn’t tell her?” Magnus said in a low voice.

“I didn’t want to upset the kids,” said Alec, “and I thought you could reassure her better—” Cristina scrambled to her feet. “Is Livvy hurt? Does Mark know?”

She was reassured by both Magnus and Alec that Livvy was fine and that yes, Mark did know, but she was already halfway out the door.

She bolted down the hallway toward Mark’s room. Her wrist was throbbing and aching—she’d been ignoring it, but it flared up now as she worried. Was it pain Mark was feeling, transmitted through the connection between them, the way parabatai sometimes felt each other’s agony? Or was the binding spell getting worse, more intense?

His door was half-open, light spilling out from beneath it. She found him awake inside, lying on his bed. She could see the deep indentation of the binding rune like a bracelet around his left wrist.

“Cristina?” He sat up. “Are you all right?”

“I am not the one who was hurt,” she said. “Alec and Magnus told me about Livvy.” He drew his legs up, making room for her to sit on the blanket beside him. The sudden reduction of pain in her wrist made her feel a little dizzy.

He told her what they had done, Kit, Livvy, and Ty: about the crystal they’d found at Blackthorn Hall, their visit to the Shadow Market and how Livvy had been injured. “I cannot help but think,” he finished, “that if Julian had been here, if he hadn’t left me in charge, none of it would have happened.” “Julian’s the one who said they could go to Blackthorn Hall. And most of us are running missions at fifteen. It’s not your fault they disobeyed.” “I didn’t tell them not to go to the Shadow Market,” he said, shivering a little. He pulled the patchwork blanket up around his shoulders, giving him the look of a sad Harlequin.

“You didn’t tell them not to stab each other with knives, either, because they know that,” she said tartly. “The Market is off-limits. Forbidden. Although—don’t be too hard on Kit. The Shadow Market is the world he knows.” “I don’t know how to take care of them,” he said. “How do I tell them to obey rules when none of us do? We went to Faerie—a much greater breakage of the Law than a visit to the Shadow Market.” “Maybe you should all try taking care of each other,” she said.

He smiled. “You’re awfully wise.”

“Is Kieran all right?” she said.

“Still awake, I think,” he said. “He wanders around the Institute at night. He hasn’t rested well since we came here—too much cold iron, I think. Too much city.” The neck of his T-shirt was frayed and loose. She could see where the scars on his back started, the marks of old injuries, the memory of knives. The patchwork blanket had begun slipping down his shoulder. Almost absently, Cristina reached to pull it up.

Her hand brushed along Mark’s neck, along the bare skin where his throat met the cotton of his shirt. His skin was hot. He leaned in toward her; she could smell the pine of forests.

His face was close enough to hers that she could make out the changing colors in the irises of his eyes. The rise and fall of her own breath seemed to lift her toward him.

“Can you sleep here tonight?” he said hoarsely. “It will hurt less. For both of us.” His inhuman eyes glittered for a moment, and she thought of what Emma had said to her, that when she looked at him sometimes, she saw wildness and freedom and the unending roads of the sky.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“Cristina—” He rose up on his knees. It was too cloudy outside for any moonlight or starlight, but Cristina could still see him, his light hair in tangles, his eyes fixed on her.

He was too close, too tangible. She knew if he touched her, she’d crumble. She wasn’t even sure what that would mean, only that the idea of such total dissolution frightened her—and that she could see Kieran when she looked at Mark, like a shadow always beside him.

She slid off the bed. “I’m sorry, Mark,” she said, and left the room so quickly she was almost running.

“Annabel seems so sad,” Emma said. “So very sad.”

They were lying in the cottage bed, side by side. It was a lot more comfortable than beds in the Institute, which was a little ironic, considering it was Malcolm’s place. Julian guessed even murderers needed regular mattresses and didn’t actually sleep on platforms made of skulls.

“She wanted me to leave the Black Volume alone,” said Julian. He was lying on his back; they both were. Emma was in a pair of cotton pajamas she’d bought from the village shop, and Julian wore sweats and an old T-shirt. Their shoulders touched, and their feet; the bed wasn’t very wide. Not that Julian would have moved away if he could have. “She said it only brings bad things.” “But you don’t think we should do that.”

“I don’t think we have a choice. The book probably really is better off in the Seelie Court than anywhere in our world.” He sighed. “She said she’s been talking to the piskies in the area. We’re going to have to text the others, see if they know any piskie-trapping secrets. Get hold of a piskie and find out what they know.” “Okay.” Emma’s voice was fading, her eyes closing. Julian felt the same exhaustion tugging at him. It had been an incredibly long day. “You can send the message from my phone if you want.” Julian hadn’t been able to plug his phone in due to not having the right adapter. Things Shadowhunters didn’t think about.

“I don’t think we should tell the others Annabel came,” said Julian. “Not yet. They’ll freak out, and I want to see what the piskies say first.” “You have to at least tell them the Unseelie King helped Malcolm get the Black Volume,” Emma said sleepily.

“I’ll tell them he wrote about it in his diaries,” said Julian.

He waited to see if Emma would object to the lie, but she was already asleep. And Julian was nearly there. Emma was here, lying beside him, the way things were supposed to be. He realized how badly he’d slept for the past few weeks without her.

He wasn’t sure if he’d drifted off, or for how long if he had. When his eyes fluttered open, he could see the dark glow of the fire in the hearth, nearly burned down to embers. And he could feel Emma, beside him, her arm thrown across his chest.

He froze. She must have moved in her sleep. She was curled against him. He could feel her eyelashes, her soft breath, against his skin.

She murmured and turned her head against his neck. Before they climbed into bed, he’d been frightened that if he touched her, he’d feel again the same willpower-smashing desire he’d felt in the Seelie Court.

What he felt now was both better and worse. It was an overpowering and terrible tenderness. Though when awake Emma had a presence that made her seem tall and even imposing, she was small curled against him, and delicate enough to make his heart turn over with thoughts of how to keep the world from breaking something so fragile.

He wanted to hold her forever, to protect her and keep her close. He wanted to be able to write as freely about his feelings for her as Malcolm had written about his dawning love for Annabel. You took my life apart and put it back together.

She sighed softly, settling into the mattress. He wanted to trace the outline of her mouth, to draw it—it was always different, its heart shape changing with her expressions, but this expression, between sleeping and waking, half-innocent and half-knowing, caught at his soul in a new way.

Malcolm’s words echoed in his head. As if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty.

Diamonds might be blinding in their beauty, but they were also the hardest and sharpest gems in the world. They could cut you or grind you down, smash and slice you apart. Malcolm, deranged with love, had not thought of that. But Julian could think of nothing else.

Kit was awoken by the bang of Livvy’s door. He sat up, aware he was aching all over, as Ty strode out of her bedroom.

“You’re on the floor,” Ty said, looking at him.

Kit couldn’t deny it. He and Alec had come to Livvy’s room once they’d finished in the infirmary. Then Alec had gone off to check on the children, and it had just been Magnus, quietly sitting with Livvy, occasionally examining her to see if she was healing. And Ty, leaning against the wall, staring unblinking at his sister. It had felt like a hospital room to which Kit shouldn’t have access.

So he’d gone outside, remembering how Ty had slept in front of his own door his first days in Los Angeles, and he’d curled up on the worn carpeted floor, not expecting to get much sleep. He didn’t even remember passing out, but he must have.

He struggled up into a sitting position. “Wait—”

But Ty was walking off down the hall, as if he hadn’t heard Kit at all. After a moment, Kit scrambled to his feet and followed him.

He wasn’t entirely sure why. He barely knew Tiberius Blackthorn, he thought, as Ty turned almost blindly and started up a set of stairs. He barely knew his sister, either. And they were Shadowhunters. And Ty wanted to form some kind of detective team with him, which was a ridiculous idea. Definitely one in which he wasn’t interested at all, he told himself, as the staircase ended in a short landing in front of a worn-looking old door.

And it was probably cold outside too, he thought, as Ty pushed the door open and, yes, damp chilly air swirled in. Ty disappeared into the chill and the shadows outside, and Kit followed.

They were back on the roof, though it was no longer night, to Kit’s surprise; it was early morning—gray and heavy, with clouds gathering over the Thames and the dome of St. Paul’s. The noise of the city rose up, the pressure of millions of people going about their daily business, unaware of Shadowhunters, unaware of magic and danger. Unaware of Ty, who had gone to the railing surrounding the central part of the roof and was staring out over the city, his hands gripping the iron fleur-de-lis.

“Ty.” Kit went toward him, and Tiberius turned around, so his back was against the railing. His shoulders were stiff, and Kit stopped, not wanting to invade his personal space. “Are you all right?” Ty shook his head. “Cold,” he said. His teeth were chattering. “I’m cold.”

“Then maybe we should go back downstairs,” said Kit. “Inside it’s warmer.”

“I can’t.” Ty’s voice sounded like it was coming from a long way down deep inside him, an echo half-sunk in water. “Being in that room, I couldn’t—it was—” He shook his head in frustration, as if being unable to find the words was torturing him.

“Livvy’s going to be fine,” said Kit. “She’ll be okay by tomorrow. Magnus said.” “But it’s my fault.” Ty was pressing his back harder against the railing, but it wasn’t holding him up. He slid down it until he was sitting on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was breathing hard and rocking back and forth, his hands up by his face as if to brush away cobwebs or annoying gnats. “If I was her parabatai—I wanted to go to the Scholomance, but that doesn’t matter; Livvy matters—” “It’s not your fault,” Kit said. Ty just shook his head, hard. Kit tried frantically to remember what he’d read online about meltdowns, because he was pretty sure Ty was on his way to having one. He dropped to his knees on the damp roof—was he supposed to touch Ty, or not touch him?

He could only imagine what it was like for Ty all the time: all the world rushing at him at once, blaring sounds and stabbing lights and nobody remembering to modulate their voices. And to have all the ways you usually managed that ripped away by grief or fear, leaving you exposed as a Shadowhunter going into battle without their gear.

He remembered something about darkness, about pressure and weighted blankets and silence. Though he had no idea how he was going to get hold of any of those things up on top of a building.

“Tell me,” Kit said. Tell me what you need.

“Put your arms around me,” said Ty. His hands were pale blurs in the air, as if Kit were looking at a time-lapse photo. “Hold on to me.” He was still rocking. After a moment, Kit put his arms around Ty, not quite knowing what else to do.

It was like holding a loosed arrow: Ty felt hot and sharp in his arms, and he was vibrating with some strange emotion. After what felt like a long time he relaxed slightly. His hands touched Kit, their motion slowing, his fingers winding themselves into Kit’s sweater.

“Tighter,” Ty said. He was hanging on to Kit as if he were a life raft, his forehead digging painfully into Kit’s shoulder. He sounded desperate. “I need to feel it.” Kit had never been a casual hugger, and no one had ever, that he could remember, come to him for comforting. He wasn’t a comforting sort of person. He’d always assumed that. And he barely knew Ty.

But then, Ty didn’t do things for no reason, even if people whose brains were differently wired couldn’t see his reasons immediately. Kit remembered the way Livvy rubbed Ty’s hands tightly when he was stressed and thought: The pressure is a sensation; the sensation must be grounding. Calming. That made sense. So Kit found himself holding Ty harder, until Ty relaxed under the tight grip of his hands; held him more tightly than he’d ever held anyone, held him as if they’d been lost in the sea of the sky, and only holding on to each other could keep them afloat above the wreckage of London.