فصل 27

Chapter 27

ILL ANGELS ONLY

“Emma.” Julian rapped on her door with the back of his knuckles. At least he was fairly sure it was Emma’s door. He’d never been inside her room at the London Institute. “Emma, are you awake? I know it’s late.” He heard her call for him to come in, her voice muffled through the thick wooden door. Inside, the room was much like his own, small with heavy blocks of Victorian-looking furniture. The bed was a solid four-poster with silk hangings.

Emma was lying on the covers, wearing an overwashed T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She rolled onto her side and grinned at him.

An overwhelming feeling of love hit him like a punch to the chest. Her hair was tied messily back and she was lying on a rumpled blanket with a plate of pastries next to her, and he had to stop in the middle of the room for a moment and catch his breath.

She waved a tart at him cheerily. “Banoffee,” she said. “Want some?”

He could have crossed the room in a few steps. Could have picked her up and swung her into his arms and held her. Could have told her how much he loved her. If they were any other couple, it would be that easy.

But nothing for them would ever be easy.

She was looking at him in puzzlement. “Is everything all right?”

He nodded, a little surprised at his own feelings. Usually he kept better control over himself. Maybe it was the conversation he’d had with Magnus. Maybe it had given him hope.

If there was one thing Julian’s life had taught him, it was that nothing was more dangerous than hope.

“Julian,” she said, setting the tart down and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “Would you please say something?” He cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

She groaned and flopped back against her pillows. “Okay, not that.”

Julian sat down at the foot of her bed as she cleared off her covers, setting aside the food and a few things she’d been looking at—he saw an old photograph of a girl carrying a blade that looked like Cortana, and another one of four boys in Edwardian clothes by the side of a river.

When she was done, she brushed off her hands again and turned a set face to his.

“How soon do we have to separate?” she said. Her voice was shaking a little. “As soon as the meeting is over in Alicante? What will we tell the kids?” “I talked to Magnus,” Julian said. “He said we should go to the Inquisitor.”

Emma made an incredulous noise. “The Inquisitor? As in, the Council leader who enforces Laws?” “Pretty sure Magnus knows who the Inquisitor is,” said Julian. “He’s Alec’s dad.”

“Did he mean it as a sort of threat? Like, either we turn ourselves in to Robert Lightwood or he does it for us? But Magnus wouldn’t—I can’t see him doing that. He’s much too loyal.” “That’s not it,” Julian said. “Magnus wants to help us. He remembers other parabatai like us and he—he pointed out that no parabatai have ever gone to the Clave for help.” “Because it’s the Clave’s Law—!”

“But that’s not the problem,” said Julian. “We could handle the Law. It’s the curse, which is the reason the Law exists—even if the Clave doesn’t know it. But we know it.” Emma only looked at him.

“Every other parabatai have feared the Law more than the curse,” Julian said. “They’ve always either separated, left the Clave, or hidden what was happening to them until they were caught or the curse killed them. Magnus said we’d be the first, and that would count for something with Robert. And he pointed out something else, too. Robert was exiled, because he was in the Circle years ago. The exile temporarily suspended his bond with his parabatai. Magnus said Alec told him about it—that it cut their bond enough that Robert didn’t even realize his parabatai was dead.” “Exile?” Emma’s voice shook. “Exile means the Clave sends you away—you have no choice about it—” “But the Inquisitor is the one who chooses terms of exile,” said Julian. “Robert is the one who decided Aline could stay with Helen when she was exiled; the Clave was against it.” “If one of us has to be exiled, it’ll be me,” said Emma. “I’ll go be with Cristina in Mexico. You’re indispensable to the children. I’m not.” Her voice was firm, but her eyes were glimmering with tears. Julian sensed the same wave of desperate love he’d felt before threatening to overwhelm him and forced it back.

“I hate the idea of being separated too,” Julian said, running his hand over the blanket, the rough texture comforting against his fingers. “The way I love you is fundamental to me, Emma. It’s who I am. No matter how far we are from each other.” The glimmer in her eyes had become liquid. A tear spilled down her cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it away. “Then—?” “Exile will deaden the bond,” he said. He tried to keep his voice steady. There was still a part of him that hated the idea of not being Emma’s parabatai, despite everything, and hated the thought of exile, too. “Magnus is sure of it. Exile will do something separation can’t, Emma, because exile is deep Shadowhunter enchantment. The ceremony of exile lessens some of your Nephilim abilities, your magic, and having a parabatai is part of that magic. It means the curse will be postponed. It means we can have time—and I can stay with the kids. I’d have to leave them otherwise. The curse doesn’t just hurt us, Emma, it hurts the people around us. I can’t stay near the kids thinking I might be some kind of threat to them.” She nodded slowly. “So if it gives us time, then what?”

“Magnus has promised to bring everything he has to bear on figuring out how to break the bond or end the curse. One or the other.” Emma raised her hand to rub at her wet cheek, and he saw the long scar on her forearm that had been there since he’d handed her Cortana in a room in Alicante, five years ago. How we have left our marks on each other, he thought.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate the idea of being away from you and the kids.” He wanted to take her hand, but held himself back. If he let himself touch her, he might crumble and fall apart and he had to stay strong and reasonable and hopeful. He was the one who’d listened to Magnus, who’d agreed to this. It was on him.

“I hate it, too,” he said. “If there was any way it could be me going into exile, I would do it, Emma. Look, we’ll only agree to it if the terms are what we want—if the exile period is short, if you can live with Cristina, if the Inquisitor promises no dishonor will accrue to your family name.” “Magnus really thinks Robert Lightwood is going to be that willing to help us? To basically let us dictate the terms of our exile?” “He really does,” said Julian. “He didn’t say why exactly—maybe because Robert was exiled himself once, or because his parabatai died.” “But Robert doesn’t know about the curse.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” said Julian. “Just being in love breaks the Law long before the curse is triggered. And the Law says we’ll have to be separated or have our Marks stripped anyway. That’s not good for the Clave. They’re hurting for Shadowhunters, certainly ones as good as you. He’ll want a solution that keeps you Nephilim pretty badly. And besides—we have leverage.” “What leverage?”

Julian drew in a long breath. “We know how to cut the bond. We’ve been acting like we don’t, but we do.” Emma went rigid all over. “Because we can’t even consider the idea,” she said. “It’s not something we could ever do.” “It still exists,” Julian said. “We still know about it.”

Her hand shot out and grabbed the front of his shirt. Her grip was incredibly strong. “Julian,” she said. “It would be an unforgivable sin to use whatever magic it is the Seelie Queen was talking about. We wouldn’t just be hurting Jace and Alec, Clary and Simon. All the people we don’t know that we’d be harming—destroying this thing that’s as fundamental to them as how you love me and I love you—” “They are not us,” Julian said. “This isn’t just about you and me, this is about the children. About my family. Our family.” “Jules.” The dismay in her eyes was stark. “I’ve always known you’d do anything for the kids. We’ve always said we both would. But when we talk about anything, we still mean there are things we wouldn’t do. Don’t you know that?” Julian

You scared me

“Yes, I know that,” he said, and she relaxed slightly. Her eyes were wide. He wanted to kiss her even more than he had before, partly because she was Emma and that meant she was good and honest and thoughtful.

Ironic, really.

“It’s just a threat,” he added. “Leverage. We wouldn’t do it, but Robert doesn’t need to know that.” Emma let go of his shirt. “It’s too much of a threat,” she said. “Destroying parabatai as a thing that exists could rip the whole fabric of Nephilim apart.” “We’re not going to destroy anything.” He took her face in his hands. Her skin was soft against his palms. “We’re going to fix it all. We’re going to be together. Exile will give us the time we need to find out how to break the bond. If it can be done the Seelie Queen’s way, it can be done some other way. The curse was like a monster at our heels. This gives us breathing room.” She kissed his palm. “You sound so sure.”

“I am sure,” he said. “Emma, I am totally sure.”

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He pulled her into his lap. She let her weight fall against his body, her face pressed to the crook of his neck. Her hand traced the collar of his T-shirt, just where his skin touched the cotton.

“Do you know why I’m sure?” he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek where it tasted like salt. “Because when this universe was born, when it blasted into existence in fire and glory, everything that would ever exist was created. Our souls are made of that fire and glory, of the atoms of it, the fragments of stars. Everyone’s are, but I believe ours, yours and mine, are made from the dust of the same star. That’s why we’ve always been drawn to each other like magnets, all our lives. All the pieces of us belong together.” He held her tighter. “Your name, Emma, means universe, you know,” he said. “Doesn’t that prove I’m right?” She gave a sobbing half-laugh, lifted her face, and kissed him hard. His body jumped as if he’d touched an electrified wire. His mind went blank, just the sound of their breathing in his ears and the feel of her hands on his shoulders and the taste of her mouth.

He couldn’t stand it; holding her, he rolled sideways, taking her with him so they lay crossways on the coverlet. His hands moved under her oversize shirt, cupped her waist, thumbs tracing the angles of her hips. They were still kissing. He felt raw, cut open, every nerve a bleeding edge of desire. He licked sugar off her lips and she moaned.

Everything about the fact that this was forbidden was wrong, he thought. Nobody belonged together more than he and Emma did. He almost felt as if their connection scorched its way through their parabatai Marks, winding them closer, amplifying every sensation. Just his hand tangling in the soft strands of her hair was enough to make his bones feel as if they were turning to liquid, to fire. When she arched up against him he thought he might actually die.

And then she drew away, taking a long and shuddering breath. She was shaking. “Julian—we can’t.” He rolled away from her. It felt like ripping off a limb. His hands dug into the blanket, gripping hard enough to hurt.

“Emma,” he said. It was all he could say.

“I want to,” she said, raising herself up on an elbow. Her hair was a mess of golden tangles, her expression earnest. “You have to know I want to. But while we’re still parabatai, we can’t.” “It won’t make me love you any more or differently,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I love you either way. I love you if we never touch.” “I know. But it seems like tempting fate.” She reached to stroke his face, his chest. “Your heart’s beating so fast.” “It always does,” he said, “when it’s you.” He kissed her, a kiss that accepted that tonight, there would be no more than kisses. “Only you. No one but you.” It was true. He had never desired anyone before Emma, and never anyone since. There had been times when he was younger that it had puzzled him—he was a teenager, he was supposed to be full of inchoate longings and wantings and yearnings, wasn’t he? But he never wanted anyone, never fantasized or dreamed or longed at all.

And then there had been one day on the beach, when Emma had been laughing next to him and she had reached up to undo her barrette, and her hair had spilled down over her fingers and against her back like liquid sunlight.

His whole body had reacted. He remembered it even now, the driving pain as if something deadly had struck him. It had made him understand why the Greeks had believed love was an arrow that tore through your body and left a blazing trail of longing behind.

In French, falling suddenly in love was the coup de foudre. The bolt of lightning. The fire in your veins, the destructive power of a thousand million volts. Julian hadn’t fallen suddenly in love: He always had been in love. He had only just that moment realized it.

And after that, he longed. Oh, how he longed. And wished for the time he’d thought he was missing something by not longing, because the longing was like a thousand cruel voices that whispered to him that he was a fool. It was only six months after their parabatai ceremony, and it had been the biggest mistake he’d ever made, and totally irrevocable. And every time he saw Emma after that it was like a knife in his chest, but a knife whose pain he welcomed. A blade whose hilt he held in his own hand, pressed against his own heart, and nothing and no one could have taken it away from him.

“Sleep,” he said. He gathered her in his arms and she curled up against him, closing her eyes. His Emma, his universe, his blade.

“You see,” Diana said. “It’s exactly what we thought it was.”

The silver-black moon shone down on Brocelind Forest as Jia Penhallow stepped out of the blighted circle of ashy trees and burned grass. As she did, the seraph blade in her hand blazed with light, as if a switch had been flipped.

She stepped back into the circle. The seraph blade went dark.

“I sent photos to Kieran,” said Diana, looking at the Consul’s grim face. “They—Kieran said these were the same kind of circles of blight he has seen in the Unseelie Lands.” Most of what Kieran had recently seen in the Unseelie Lands had been the inside of a cage.

Jia shuddered. “It is awful to stand inside this circle,” she said. “It feels as if the ground is made of ice and despair is in the very air.” “These circles,” Diana said. “They are in the places that Helen and Aline said were dark on their map, aren’t they?” Jia didn’t have to look. She nodded. “I had not wanted to bring my daughter into this.” “If she and Helen can be present during the Council meeting, they can speak up as candidates for the Institute.” Jia said nothing.

“It is what Helen desperately wants,” said Diana. “What they both want. The best place to be is not always the safest. No one is content in a prison.” Jia cleared her throat. “The time it would take to have the Council clear the request—Portals to Wrangel Island are tightly regulated—the meeting would be over—” “You leave that to me,” Diana said. “In fact, the less you know, the better.”

Diana couldn’t believe she had just said the less you know, the better to the Consul. Deciding she was unlikely to come up with a better exit line, she turned and strode from the clearing.

Dru dreamed of underground tunnels split by roots like the bulging knuckles of a giant. She dreamed of a room of glittering weapons and a boy with green eyes.

She woke to find the dim light of dawn illuminating her mantel, where a gold hunting dagger inscribed with roses pinned a note to the wood.

For Drusilla: Thank you for all your help. Jaime.

Sometime in the night Kit woke, the iratze softly burning on his arm. The infirmary was lit with warm yellow light, and outside the window he could see the rooftops of London, sturdy and Victorian under a waning moon.

And he could hear music. Rolling onto his side, he saw that Ty was asleep on the bed next to Kit’s, his headphones on, the faint sound of a symphony coming from them.

A memory teased the edge of Kit’s consciousness. Being very young, sick with the flu, feverish in the night, and someone sleeping by the side of his bed. His father? It must have been. Who else could it have been but his father, but certainty eluded him.

No. He wouldn’t think about it. It had been a part of his earlier life; he was someone now who had friends who would sleep by his bed if he was sick. For however long that lasted, he would appreciate it.

The high doors of the Sanctuary were made of iron and carved with a symbol Cristina had known since birth, the four interconnected Cs of Clave, Council, Covenant, and Consul.

The doors opened noiselessly at a push onto a large room. Her spine tightened as she stepped inside, remembering the Sanctuary in the Mexico City Institute. She had played there sometimes as a child, enjoying the vastness of the space, the silence, the smooth cold tiles. Every Institute had a Sanctuary.

“Kieran?” she whispered, stepping inside. “Kieran, are you here?”

The London Sanctuary dwarfed the Mexico City and Los Angeles ones in size and impressiveness. Like a vast treasure box of marble and stone, every surface seemed to gleam. There were no windows, for the protection of vampire guests: Light came from a number of witchlight torches. In the center of the room rose a fountain; in it stood a stone angel. Its eyes were open holes from which rivers of water poured like tears and spilled into the basin below. Words were inscribed around the base: A fonte puro pura defluit aqua.

A pure fountain gives pure water.

Silvery tapestries hung from the walls, though their designs had faded with age. Between two large pillars a circle of tall, straight-backed chairs were tumbled on their sides, as if someone had knocked them down in a rage. Cushions were strewn across the floor.

Kieran stepped noiselessly out from behind the fountain. His chin was raised defiantly, his hair the darkest black Cristina had ever seen it. Even the glare of the witchlight torches seemed to sink into it and vanish without reflecting off the strands.

“How did you get the doors open?” Cristina asked, glancing over her shoulder at the massive iron wedges. When she turned back, Kieran had raised his hands, open-palmed: They were scored all over with dark red marks, as if he had picked up red-hot pokers and held them tightly.

Iron burns.

“Does it please you?” Kieran said. He was breathing hard. “Here I am, in your Nephilim iron prison.” “Of course it doesn’t please me.” She frowned at him. She couldn’t help the small voice inside that asked her why she’d come. She hadn’t been able to stop herself—she’d kept thinking of Kieran alone, betrayed and lost. Perhaps it was the bond between them, the one he’d spoken of in her room. But she’d felt his presence and his unhappiness like a whisper at the back of her mind until she’d gone to look for him.

“What are you to Mark?” he demanded.

“Kieran,” she said. “Sit down. Let’s sit down and talk.”

He only stared at her, watchful and tense. Like an animal in the woods, ready to break away if she moved.

Cristina sat down slowly on the scattered cushions. She smoothed her skirt down, tucking her legs under her.

“Please,” she said, holding out her hand to indicate the cushion across from hers, as if she were inviting him to tea. He lowered himself onto it like a cat settling, fur ruffled with tension. “The answer is,” she said, “that I don’t know. I don’t know what I am to Mark, or he to me.” “How can that be?” Kieran said. “We feel what we feel.” He gazed down at his hands. They were faerie hands, long-jointed, scarred with many small nicks. “In the Hunt,” he said, “it was real. We loved each other. We slept by each other’s sides, and we breathed each other’s breath and we were never apart. It was always real. It was never false.” He looked at Cristina challengingly.

“I never thought that. I always knew it was real,” she said. “I saw the way Mark looked at you.” She looped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “You know Diego?” “The very handsome stupid one,” Kieran said.

“He’s not stupid. Not that it matters,” Cristina added hastily. “I loved him when I was younger, and he loved me. There was a time when we were always together, like you and Mark. Later he betrayed me.” “Mark spoke of it. In Faerie he would have been killed for such disrespect of a lady of your rank.” Cristina wasn’t entirely sure what Kieran thought her rank was. “Well, the result was that I thought that what we’d had was never real. It hurt more to think that than it did to think that he’d simply stopped loving me—for I had stopped loving him that way too. We had grown out of what we had. But that is a natural thing and happens often. It is much more painful to believe that your love was always a lie.” “What else am I meant to believe?” Kieran demanded. “When Mark is willing to lie to me for the Clave he despises—” “He didn’t do it for the Clave,” said Cristina. “Have you been listening to anything the Blackthorns have been saying? This is for his family. His sister is in exile because she is part faerie—this is to bring her back.” Kieran’s expression was opaque. She knew family meant little to him in the abstract; it was hard to blame him for that. But the Blackthorns, in all their concrete realness, their messy and honest and total love for each other . . . did he see it?

“So do you no longer believe your love with the Rosales boy was a lie?” he said.

“It was not a lie,” she said. “Diego has his reasons for what he’s doing now. And when I look back, it is with pleasure at the happiness we had. The bad things can’t matter more than the good things, Kieran.” “Mark told me,” he said, “that when you went into Faerie, you were each made a promise by the phouka who guards the gate that you would find something you wanted there. What was it you wanted?” “The phouka told me I would be given a chance to bring the Cold Peace to an end,” said Cristina. “It is why I agreed when it was decided to cooperate with the Queen.” Kieran looked at her, shaking his head. For a moment she thought he considered her foolish, and her heart sank. He reached to touch her face. The glide of his fingers was featherlight, as if she had been brushed by the calyx of a flower. “When I swore fealty to you in the Court of the Queen,” he said, “it was to annoy and anger Mark. But now I think I made a wiser decision than I could have imagined.” “You know I’ll never hold you to that oath, Kieran.”

“Yes. And that is why I say you are nothing like I thought you’d be,” he said. “I have lived in this small world of the Wild Hunt and Faerie Courts, yet you make me feel the world is bigger and full of possibility.” He dropped his hand. “I have never known someone so generous in their heart.” Cristina felt as if her face were on fire. “Mark is also all those things,” she said. “When Gwyn came to tell us you were in danger in Faerie, Mark went to get you immediately regardless of the cost.” “That was a kind thing to tell me,” he said. “You have always been kind.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you could always have taken Mark from me, but you didn’t.”

“No,” Cristina said. “It is as you told Adaon—you would not want Mark’s love if it did not come freely. Neither would I. I would not pressure or influence him. If you think I would, and that it would work if I did—then you don’t know me at all. Nor Mark. Not as he really is.” Kieran’s lips parted. He didn’t speak, though, because the Sanctuary doors had opened, and Mark had come in.

He was all in black and looked exhausted. The red ring around his wrist drew Cristina’s eye; involuntarily, she touched her own wrist, the healing skin of the binding wound.

“I followed you here,” he said to Cristina. “There’s still enough of the binding spell left to allow me to do that. I thought you’d be with Kieran.” Kieran said nothing. He looked like a faerie prince in a painting: remote, unassailable, distant.

“My lord Kieran,” Mark said formally. “Can we talk?”

They looked like a painting, both of them kneeling, Cristina’s dark hair falling to hide her face. Kieran, opposite her, was a study in contrasts of black and white. Mark stood in the doorway of the Sanctuary for a moment, just watching them, his heart feeling as if it were being compressed inside his chest.

He really did have a thing for dark hair, he thought.

At that moment he heard Cristina say his name and realized he was eavesdropping. Coming into the Sanctuary felt like entering a cold, harsh place: It was bound all around with iron. Kieran must have felt it too, though the look on his face gave no sign. It gave no sign he felt anything at all.

“My lord Kieran,” Mark said. “Can we talk?”

Cristina rose to her feet. “I should go.”

“You need not.” Kieran had leaned back to lounge among the spilled cushions. Faeries did not lie with their words, but they lied with their faces and voices, the gestures of their hands. Right now anyone looking at Kieran would think he felt nothing but boredom and dislike.

But he hadn’t left. He was still in the Institute. Mark clung to that.

“I must,” Cristina said. “Mark and I are not meant to be near each other as the binding spell wears off.” Mark moved closer to her, though, as she went to the door. Their hands brushed. Had he thought she was beautiful the moment he met her? He remembered coming awake to the sound of her voice, seeing her sitting on the floor of his room with her knife open. How grateful he had been that she was someone he had never known before the Hunt, someone who would have no expectations of him.

She looked at him once and was gone. He was alone with Kieran.

“Why are you here?” Kieran demanded. “Why lower yourself to come before someone you hate?” “I don’t hate you. None of this was because I hated you or wanted to hurt you. I was angry with you—of course I was. Can’t you understand why?” Kieran didn’t meet Mark’s eyes. “This is why Emma dislikes me,” he said. “And Julian.” “Iarlath whipped them both. The whipping he gave Emma would have killed a mundane human.” “I remember,” said Kieran miserably, “and yet it seems distant.” He swallowed. “I knew I was losing you. I was afraid. There was more to it, as well. Iarlath had hinted you would not be safe in the Shadowhunters’ world. That they were planning to lure you back, only to execute you on some trumped-up charge. I was a fool to believe him. I know it now.” “Oh,” said Mark. The knowledge unfolded in him, realization edged with relief. “You thought you were saving my life.” Kieran nodded. “It makes no difference, though. What I did was wrong.”

“You will have to make your own apology to Emma and Julian,” said Mark. “But for my sake, Kieran, I have forgiven you. You returned when you did not have to—you helped us save Tavvy—” “When I sought refuge here, I was blinded by rage,” Kieran said. “All I could think was that you had lied to me. I thought you had come to the Court to save me because you—” His voice cracked. “Because you loved me. I cannot bear to think on my own stupidity.” “I do love you,” Mark said. “But it is not an easy or restful sort of love, Kier.” “Not like what you feel for Cristina.”

“No,” said Mark. “Not like what I feel for Cristina.”

Kieran’s shoulders sagged slightly. “I am glad you admit it,” he said. “I could not tolerate a lie now, I think. When first I loved you, I knew I was loving something that could lie. I told myself it would not matter. But it matters more than I ever thought.” Mark closed the distance between them. He was half-certain that Kieran would back away from him, but the other boy didn’t move. Mark approached until there were only inches of space between them, until Kieran’s eyes had widened, and then Mark knelt, cold marble against his knees.

It was a gesture he had seen before, in the Hunt and at revels. One faerie kneeling to another. Not submission, but an apology. Forgive me. Kieran’s eyes were like saucers.

“It does matter,” Mark said. “I wish that I could not lie, so that you would believe me: All these days, I have not held back from affection with you because I was angry at you, or sickened. I wanted you just as I did in the Hunt. But I could not be with you, touch you, with all of it shadowed by lies. It would not have felt true or honest. It would not have felt as if you were choosing me, because to make a true choice, we must have true knowledge.” “Mark,” Kieran whispered.

“I do not love you as I love Cristina. I love you as I love you,” said Mark. He bent his head. “I wish that you could see my heart. Then you would understand.” There was a rustling sound. Kieran had sunk to his own knees, level with Mark. “Would you have told me?” he said. “After the testimony?” “Yes. I couldn’t have stood it otherwise.”

Kieran half-closed his eyes. Mark could see crescents of black and silver beneath his lids, fringed by his dark lashes. His hair had paled to almost a pewter color. “I believe you.” He opened his eyes, looked directly into Mark’s. “Do you know why I trust you?” Mark shook his head. He could hear the water rushing in the fountain behind them, reminding him of a thousand rivers they had ridden over together, a thousand streams they had slept beside.

“Because of Cristina,” said Kieran. “She would not have agreed to a dishonorable plan. I understand you were trying to help your family, your sister. I understand why you were desperate. And I believe you would not have deceived me longer than you needed.” Something behind his eyes suddenly seemed very old. “I will testify,” he said.

Mark started up. “Kieran, you don’t—”

Kieran’s hands came up to cup Mark’s face. His touch was gentle. “I am not doing it for you,” he said. “This will be what I do for Emma and the others. Then that debt will be paid. You and I, our debts are paid already.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Mark’s. Mark wanted to chase the kiss, the warmth of it, the familiarity. He felt Kieran’s hand come down to splay itself over his chest—over the elf-bolt that hung there, below his collarbone. “We will be done with each other.” “No,” Mark whispered.

But Kieran was on his feet, the warmth of his hands gone from Mark’s skin. His eyes were dark, his whole body tense. Mark shot to his feet after, meaning to demand that Kieran explain what he had meant by done—just as a terrible noise split the air.

It was a noise that came from outside the Institute, though not very far at all. Not nearly far enough. A memory flashed through Mark’s mind, of watching from horseback as a forest of trees was destroyed by lightning. Fire had flashed beneath him, the wrenching crash of branches and trunks like shrieks in his head.

Kieran sucked in a breath. His eyes had gone distant, unfocused. “They have come,” he said. “They are near.” * * *

A crash ripped Emma out of sleep and out of Julian’s arms. A crash that wasn’t quite a crash; she thought at first that it sounded like two cars slamming into each other on the highway, the screech of brakes and the explosion of glass. It seemed to be coming from right outside; she bolted up and hurtled across the room to the window.

There were five of them in the courtyard. They gleamed bronze in the morning light, both horses and riders. The steeds seemed metallic, their eyes bound with bronze silk, their hooves gleaming with a high polish. The faeries who sat astride them were just as shimmering and beautiful, their armor without visible jointure so that it looked like liquid bronze. Their faces were masked, their hair long and metallic. Somehow, here in the heart of London, they looked far more terrifying than they had the first time Emma had seen them.

Julian was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for the weapons belt that hung on the wall over the nightstand.

“They came,” she said. “It’s the Riders.”

They raced to the library, all of them but Kit and Bridget, as Magnus had instructed. Magnus, Cristina, Ty, and Livvy were already there when Emma came bursting in with Cortana in her hand.

Julian was a few paces behind her. They’d agreed it was better not to seem as if they’d been together.

Everyone was standing at the windows, from which the curtains had been thrown back to provide an uninterrupted view of the courtyard and the front of the Institute. Magnus was leaning against the glass, arm extended, hand flat against the pane, his expression grim. There were black hollows under his eyes and he looked worryingly gaunt and exhausted.

Mark and Kieran came in as Emma hooked her sword over her back and hurried to the windows. Julian slid in beside her and stared through the glass.

The five Riders hadn’t moved from the courtyard. They remained where they were, like statues. Their horses had no reins or bridles, nothing for them to hold. They sat with their swords unsheathed, held out ahead of them like a row of gleaming teeth.

Kieran came forward before Mark, crossing the room to the window, and after a moment Mark followed. They stood in a line: the Shadowhunters, the warlock, and the faerie prince, staring grimly down at the courtyard. Kieran was silent and sick-looking, his hair a pale white, the color of bones.

“They can’t get inside the Institute,” said Ty.

“No,” Magnus said. “The wards keep them out.”

“Nonetheless, we should get away as soon as we can,” said Kieran. “I do not trust the Riders. They will think of some way in.” “We need to contact Alicante,” said Livvy. “Get them to open their side of a Portal so we can get out of here.” “We can’t do that without revealing that the Riders are here, and why,” said Julian. “But—we could still Portal away from here, even if we didn’t go straight to Idris.” He glanced sideways at Magnus.

“The thing is, I can’t make my side of a Portal right now,” said Magnus. He spoke with some effort. “We need to hold out a few hours. I’ve exhausted my energy—I wasn’t expecting to need to heal Kit, or to need to send Alec and the children away.” There was an awful silence. It had never occurred to any of them that there were things Magnus couldn’t do. That he had weaknesses, like anyone else.

“There’s a Portal in the crypt,” said Ty. “But it only goes to the Cornwall Institute.” No one asked him how he knew that. “That Institute is abandoned, though,” said Julian. “The protections are probably stronger here.” “We’d just be trading Institute for Institute,” said Magnus. “We’d still be trapped inside, and with weaker protections. And believe me, they’d be able to follow us. There have never been greater hunters than the Riders of Mannan.” “What about Catarina Loss?” said Livvy. “She got us out of the Los Angeles Institute.” Magnus took a shaky breath. “The same wards keeping the Riders out also prevent anyone from trying to make a Portal from outside.” “What about the Seelie Queen?” Emma said. “Might she be willing to help us fight the Riders?” “The Queen isn’t on our side,” said Julian. “She’s only on her own side.”

There was a long silence. Magnus broke it. “I have to hand it to you,” he said. “I never thought Jace and Clary would be topped by anyone else in terms of insane, self-destructive decisions, but you all are giving them a run for their money.” “I really had nothing to do with this,” Kieran pointed out stiffly.

“I think you will find many poor decisions led you here, my friend,” Magnus said. “All right, there are a few things I can do to try to bring my energy up. You—all of you—wait here. And don’t do anything stupid.” He strode out of the room on long, black-clad legs, swearing under his breath.

“He’s getting more and more like Gandalf,” said Emma, watching him go. “I mean, a hot, younger-looking Gandalf, but I keep expecting him to start stroking his long white beard and muttering darkly.” “At least he’s willing to help us,” said Julian. His gaze sharpened. A Rider was coming through the gates. The sixth rider, this one with a slighter build, a spill of long bronze hair. Ethna, Emma thought. The sister.

Then her thoughts dissolved into a buzz of shock. A small figure was propped on the bronze horse’s back in front of her. A little human girl, with short black hair. She dangled limply in the faerie woman’s one-handed grip, but she was blinking, her face twisted in terror. She couldn’t have been more than four years old—she wore leggings with a cheerful print of bees, and bright pink sneakers.

In her other hand, Ethna held a dagger, the point of it against the back of the girl’s neck.

Julian had gone rigid as marble, his face white. Voices rose around Emma in the room, but they were only noise. She couldn’t distinguish the words. She was staring at the little girl, and in her mind she saw Dru, Tavvy, even Livvy and Ty; they had all been that tiny once, that helpless.

And Ethna was strong. All she had to do was drive that dagger forward, and she’d sever the child’s head from her neck.

“Get back from the window,” said Julian. “Everyone, get back from the window. If they don’t think we’re watching them, they’re less likely to hurt the girl.” His hand was on Emma’s arm. She staggered back with the others. She could hear Mark protesting. They should go down, he was saying. Fight off the Riders.

“We can’t,” said Julian in anguish. “We’ll be slaughtered.”

“I killed one of them before,” said Emma. “I—”

“They were caught off guard, though.” Julian’s voice reached her partially distorted through shock. “They didn’t expect it—didn’t think it was possible—this time they’ll be prepared—” “He is right,” said Kieran. “Sometimes the most ruthless heart speaks the most truth.” “What do you mean?” Mark was flushed, his right hand gripping his wrist; Emma realized, distantly, that the mark of the binding spell was gone from his skin, and from Cristina’s, too.

“The children of Mannan have never been defeated,” Kieran said. “Emma is the first ever to slay one. They have taken the child to lure us out, because they know they will have us in their power when we do.” “They’ll kill her,” Emma said. “She’s a baby.”

“Emma—” Julian reached out for her. She could read his face. Julian would do anything, brave anything, for his family. There was nothing and no one he wouldn’t sacrifice.

That was why this had to be her.

She bolted. She heard Julian shout her name but she was out the library door; she slammed it behind her and took off running down the hall. She was already in gear, already had Cortana; she barreled down the steps, skidded through the entryway, and burst through the front doors of the Institute.

She saw the blur of bronze that was the Riders, before she swung around and shoved the doors closed, whipping her stele from her pocket. She slashed a Locking rune across them just as she heard the dull thumps of bodies striking the other side, voices calling out to her not to be reckless, to open the doors, open them, Emma— She put her stele in her pocket, raised Cortana, and descended the steps.