فصل 10

10

MANY A MARVELLOUS SHRINE

The sight of the Shadow Market sent a punch of familiarity through Kit’s chest. It was a typical Los Angeles night—the temperature had dropped as soon as the sun set, and a cool wind blew through the empty lot where the Market was, making the dozens of faerie bells that hung from the corners of white-canopied booths chime.

Ty had been full of suppressed excitement all the way there in the back of the Uber car, which he’d dealt with by pushing up the sleeve of Kit’s shirt and giving him several runes. Kit had three of them: Night Vision, Agility, and one called Talent, which Ty told him would make him more persuasive. Now they were standing at the circumference of the Market, having been dropped off in Kendall Alley. They were both dressed as mundanely as possible, in jeans, zip-front jackets, and Frye boots.

But Ty was still visibly a Shadowhunter. He held himself like one, and he walked like one and looked like one, and there were even runes visible on the delicate skin of his neck and wrists. And bruises, too—all over the sides of his hands, the kind no mundane boy would have any business getting unless he was in an illegal fight club.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he could have covered them up, though. Shadowhunters seemed to bleed their angel heritage through their pores. Kit wondered if he himself did yet.

“I don’t see any gates,” Ty said, craning his head.

“The gates are—metaphysical. Not exactly real,” Kit explained. They were walking toward the section of the Market where potions and charms were sold. A booth covered in tumbling roses in shades of red and pink and white sold love charms. One with a green-and-white awning sold luck and good fortune, and a pearly gray stand hung with curtains of lace, providing privacy, sold more dangerous items. Necromancy and death magic were both forbidden at the Market, but the rules had never been strictly enforced.

A phouka was leaning against the post of a nearby streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. Behind him, the lanes of the Market looked like small, glowing streets, enticing Kit with calls of “Come buy!” Voices clamored, jewelry clinked and rattled, spice and incense perfumed the air. Kit felt a longing mixed with anxiety—he cut a quick sideways glance toward Ty. They hadn’t entered the Market yet; was Ty thinking about how much he’d hated the London Market, how it had made him sweat and panic with too much noise, too much light, too much pressure, too much everything?

He wanted to ask Ty if he was all right, but he knew the other boy wouldn’t want it. Ty was staring at the Market, tense with curiosity. Kit turned to the phouka.

“Gatekeeper,” he said. “We request entrance to the Shadow Market.”

Ty’s gaze snapped to attention. The phouka was tall, dark, and thin, with bronze and gold strands threaded through his long hair. He wore purple trousers and no shoes. The lamppost he leaned against was between two stalls, neatly blocking the way into the Market.

“Kit Rook,” said the phouka. “What a compliment it is, to still be recognized by one who has left us to dwell among the angels.” “He knows you,” muttered Ty.

“Everyone in the Shadow Market knows me,” said Kit, hoping Ty would be impressed.

The phouka stubbed out his cigarette. It released a sickly sweet smell of charred herbs. “Password,” he said.

“I’m not saying that,” said Kit. “You think it’s funny to try to make people say that.”

“Say what? What’s the password?” Ty demanded.

The phouka grinned. “Wait here, Kit Rook,” he said, and melted back into the shadows of the Market.

“He’s going to get Hale,” said Kit, trying to hide the signs of his nerves.

“Can they see us?” Ty said. He was looking into the Shadow Market, where clusters of Downworlders, witches and other assorted members of the magical underworld, moved among the clamor. “Out here?” It was like standing outside a lighted room in the dark, Kit thought. And though Ty might not express it that way, Kit suspected he felt the same.

“If they can, they’d never show it,” he said.

Ty turned toward him suddenly. His gaze slipped over Kit’s ear, his cheekbone, not quite meeting his eyes. “Watson—” “Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn,” snapped a voice out of the shadows. It was Barnabas Hale, head of the Market. “Actually, I’m assuming you’re not actually Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn, because they’d never be stupid enough to show up here.” “That seemed like a compliment,” said Ty, who looked honestly surprised.

“Sure, maybe it’s not us,” said Kit. “Maybe someone just got the specifications for the candygram you ordered wildly off.” Hale frowned in annoyance. He looked as he always had: short and scaly-skinned, with a snake’s slit-pupiled eyes. He wore a pin-striped suit that Kit assumed must have been heavily altered to fit. Most humans weren’t three feet tall and three feet wide.

The phouka had returned with Hale. Silently, he leaned against the lamppost again, his dark eyes glittering.

“Prove you’re Kit Rook,” said Hale. “What’s the password?”

“I’m still not saying it. I’m never going to say it,” said Kit.

“What is it?” Ty demanded.

“Just let us in,” said Kit. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Hale barked a laugh. “You don’t want trouble? You two? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know what kind of mayhem you caused in London? You wrecked property, attacked vendors, and you”—he pointed at Ty—“destroyed a great deal of fey stock. I hate you both. Go away.” “Hear me out,” Kit said. “Remember when that faerie burned half the Market down and was welcomed back the next year because she had a bumper crop of hen’s teeth? Remember the werewolf and the llama and how that turned out? And he wasn’t banned, because he had a line on a supply of yin fen.” “What’s your point?” said Hale. He sighed. “God, I wish I had a cigar. Had to quit.”

“The spirit of the Market is simple,” said Kit. “Everything’s okay as long as you make a profit. Right?” “Sure,” said Hale. “And that’s why we tolerated Johnny Rook. We tolerated you because the Shadowhunters hadn’t found you yet. But now they have and it’s a hop, skip, and a jump until you find out who you really are—” “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ty. The wind had picked up and was blowing his dark hair like streamers.

“Nothing for free,” Hale said, with the annoyance of a man who’d said too much, and who also wanted a cigar and couldn’t have one. “Besides, your money is no good here, Rook.” He waved a hand in Ty’s direction. “I might be able to get something in exchange for your skinny friend in the right circles, but not enough.” “Theoretically, how much?” asked Ty with interest.

Hale looked grim. “Not as good a price as I could get for Emma Carstairs—even more for just her head.” Ty blanched. Kit felt it, Ty’s recollection that the Market was, in fact, truly dangerous. That it was all truly dangerous.

Kit felt the situation was getting away from him. “No heads. Look, my father didn’t trust anyone, Mr. Hale. You know that. He hid his most precious items all over Los Angeles, buried in places he thought no one would ever find them.” “I’m listening,” said Hale.

Kit knew this was the risky part. “One is right here in the Shadow Market. A ruby-encrusted copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic.” The phouka whistled, long and low.

“Not only will I give it to you, I’ll give it to you for free,” said Kit. “All you have to do is let us back into the Shadow Market. Free trade.” Hale shook his head in regret. “Now I really wish I had a cigar, so I could celebrate,” he said. “I already found that, you stupid brat. We dug up your dad’s stall after the Mantids killed him.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The moonlight seemed to bounce off his white, scaled skin. “You’re out of your depth, kids. Get out of Downworld before someone kills you. That person could even be me.” A forked tongue shot from between his teeth and licked his lips. Kit started back, revolted, as Hale melted into the Market and was swallowed up by the crowds.

Kit couldn’t look at Ty. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, shock and shame warring for an equal chance to turn his stomach. “I . . . ,” he began.

“You should have just given the password,” said the phouka.

Out of patience, Kit slowly raised his middle finger. “Here’s the password.”

Ty muffled a laugh and grabbed Kit’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” * * *

“I am proud to announce,” said Horace Dearborn, “that the proposed Downworld Registry is ready to become a reality.” The sound that went through the rows of Nephilim seated in the Council Hall was hard to decipher. To Diana it sounded like the roar of an animal driving another hungry beast away from its prey.

Horace stood with his hands folded behind his back, a toneless smirk on his face. At his left stood Zara, in full Centurion regalia, her hair braided in a crown around her head. At his right was Manuel, his expression carefully blank, his eyes dancing with malice. They looked like a horrible mockery of a family portrait.

“All Institutes will have a short amount of time to register their local Downworlders,” said Horace. “The heads of Institutes must meet a quota of registrations, based on our knowledge of local Downworld populations, in the first weeks this Law takes effect.” Diana sat, letting the words wash over her in waves of horror. She couldn’t help but look at Jia, who occupied a tall wooden seat at the edge of the dais. Her face was a strained mask. Diana couldn’t help but wonder if this was more extreme even than what Jia had feared Horace might propose.

“And if Downworlders refuse?” called someone from the audience.

“Then they will have their protections under the Accords stripped from them,” Zara said, and Diana went cold all over. No Accords protection meant a Shadowhunter could kill a Downworlder in the street for no reason, and there would be no consequences. “We understand this will be a great burden of work on Institutes, but it is important that everyone cooperate, for the good of all Shadowhunters.” “Each Downworlder registered will be given a number,” said Horace. “If a Downworlder is stopped by a Shadowhunter for any reason, anywhere, they can be asked for this number.” The noise in the room was decidedly more worried now.

“Think of it as a sort of identification card,” said Manuel. “Safety and accountability are two of our chief concerns.” “I want to hear from the Consul!” shouted Carmen Delgado Mendoza, head of the Mexico City Institute, from the audience. She was Cristina’s mother, and looked more than a little bit like her daughter.

Horace looked annoyed; technically, as the one proposing a new Law, he had the floor and could speak for a certain number of minutes uninterrupted. Diana felt that he had already been speaking for several years.

He gestured ungraciously toward Jia, who gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “It is my opinion that this Law is not a good idea,” she said. “Downworlders will resist what they will see to be a major overreach on the part of the Nephilim. It establishes an atmosphere of mistrust.” “That’s because we don’t trust them,” said Manuel. There was a gale of laughter from the back of the room.

Diana could stand it no longer. She rose to her feet. “I have a question for the Inquisitor!” Horace looked at her with hooded eyes. “We will take questions and comments later, Diana.” Diana didn’t like the emphasis he put on her name. As if he found it distasteful. Probably Zara had told her father a pack of lies about Diana; Diana had once humiliated Zara in front of her fellow Centurions. Narcissists like Zara didn’t forget insults.

“Let her speak,” said Jia. “Everyone on the Council has a voice.”

Intensely aware of the eyes on her, Diana said, “This may seem like a small action, but it’s not going to seem small to Downworlders. It will have repercussions. Even if the Registry is temporary, there will always be reasons to continue it. It is far harder to dismantle this sort of structure than it is to build it. We could face a situation where Downworlders insist that Shadowhunters also be registered, for parity. Are you prepared to have Nephilim carry their papers everywhere with them?” This had the desired effect. The Council burst into angry buzzing. “No! Never!” Dearborn snapped.

“Then this effectively creates an underclass of Downworlders,” said Diana. “We will have rights that they don’t. Think about that.” “And why are you so bothered by that idea, Diana Wrayburn?” said Manuel in his soft, charming voice. His eyes glittered like marbles. “Is there a Downworlder, perhaps dear to you, that you worry will be affected?” “Many Shadowhunters have Downworlders that are dear to them,” said Diana evenly. “You cannot cleanly sever us from a group of human beings who have more in common with us than mundanes do.” Diana knew the answer to that: We’re not afraid of mundanes. It’s Downworlders we fear, and we seek to control what we fear. But it was unlikely Horace had that kind of self-awareness. He glared at her with open loathing as she took her seat.

“This is clearly a complex issue,” said Jia, rising to her feet. “I suggest we stay this vote for a week until the Council has had time to come to terms with all its ramifications.” Horace transferred his glare to her, but said nothing. The Council was now a hum of relief, and even Horace Dearborn knew better than to fly directly in the face of popular opinion during a vote. He stayed on the dais as the meeting was dismissed, his supporters flocking around him in a thick crowd.

Feeling inexpressibly weary, Diana made for one of the exits. She felt as if she had been called to witness a bloody execution only to see the victim spared for a week. Relief mixed with fear of what the future would bring.

“Diana!” said a light, accented voice behind her. Diana turned to see one of the women from the Barcelona Institute—Trini Castel—approach her. She put a birdlike hand on Diana’s arm.

“I was inspired by what you said, Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “You are correct that rights—anyone’s rights—are not to be discarded lightly.” “Thank you,” said Diana, more than a little surprised. Trini Castel gave her a quick smile and scurried away, leaving Diana with a clear view of the dais.

Zara stood at its edge, her gaze fixed on Diana. In the pale light filtering through the window, the naked hatred on her face—far more than anyone might feel over a past insult—was clear as day. Shuddering, Diana turned and hurried from the Hall.

Catarina’s suspicious confluence of ley lines turned out to be in a small desert park near the Antelope Valley Freeway, famous for its massive sandstone formations. Both Helen and Aline seemed faintly surprised that Mark and Cristina were planning to go out on patrol, but they hadn’t done anything to stop them, as if they reluctantly acknowledged that patrolling was a normal part of Shadowhunter life, and the sooner everyone got back to normal life, the better.

The drive from Malibu—they’d taken Diana’s truck, which had been left in the parking lot of the Institute—reminded Cristina of long ambling road trips she’d taken with Emma. Windows down in the truck, music playing low on the speakers, beach turning to highway turning to desert as the sun went down in a haze of fire. Mark had his long legs up on the dashboard and would sometimes turn his head to look at her as they rolled along in silence; the weight of his gaze felt like skin against her skin. Like a touch.

The Vasquez Rocks park closed at sunset, and the dirt parking lot was empty when Cristina cruised the truck into it and turned off the engine. They collected their weapons from the bed of the truck, snapping on wrist protectors and buckling weapons belts. Cristina strapped a longsword and her trusted balisong to her belt, while Mark found a runed black whip and cracked it a few times. He wore a look of pleasure on his face as it snaked across the darkening sky.

They had runed themselves before they left. Cristina could see Mark’s Night Vision rune gleaming black against his throat as they passed under the lights of the ranger station and crossed onto a dirt path that wound through scrub among rocks that twisted and folded like envelopes.

Cristina breathed deeply. Of all the things she loved about California, she loved the scent of the desert the most: clear air mixed with juniper, manzanita, and sage. The sky opened above them like a secret told, scattered with a million stars.

They passed a wooden sign for a trail just as a massive rock formation rose ahead of them, nearly blocking out the moon. “The ley line confluence,” Mark said, pointing.

Cristina didn’t ask him how he knew; faeries had a sense for such things. They moved closer to the rocks, which rose above them in tilted slabs, like the remains of a spaceship that had crashed into the sand. Cristina’s boots crunched on the sand, the sound loud in her ears thanks to her Audio rune.

A sharp, insect-like sound buzzed behind her. She turned. Mark was frowning at the Sensor in his hand. “It’s making a buzzing noise, but not one I’ve heard before,” he said.

Cristina turned around slowly. The desert stretched around her, a carpet of black and brown and dim gold. The sky was dark velvet. “I don’t see anything.” “We should wait here,” said Mark. “See if it happens again.”

Cristina was in no mood to hang around under the romantic moon with Mark. “I think we should keep moving.” “Cristina,” Mark said. “You seem wroth with me.”

Cristina rolled her eyes. “Nothing gets by you, Mark Blackthorn.”

Mark lowered the Sensor. “Last night—It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I did want to—”

Cristina blushed furiously. “It’s not that, Mark,” she said. “You can want to or not want to. It’s your business. It was that you lied.” “Humans lie,” he said, his bicolored eyes suddenly blazing. “Mortals lie to each other every day, especially in matters of love. Is it that my lie wasn’t good enough? Should I be more practiced?” “No!” She whirled on him. “I like that you don’t lie, Mark. It is why I was so—Mark, can’t you understand? I didn’t expect you to lie to me.” “You saw me lie to Kieran,” he said.

“Yes, but that was to save lives,” she said. “Unless you’re telling me that you not wanting to have sex with me has something to do with saving lives, which I find hard to believe—” “I did want to!” Mark exploded. “One thing you must understand—I did want to be with you in that way, and all ways, and that is not a lie.” Cristina sank down on a low rock. Her heart was pounding. And she’d just said the word “sex,” which horribly embarrassed her. “Then I don’t understand why you did it,” she said in a small voice. “Were you trying to spare someone? Kieran?” “I was trying to spare you,” he said, his voice dark and hard, like late-winter ice.

“Spare me what?”

“You know who you are!” he cried, startling her. She looked up at him, not understanding—it was not as if she were a stranger, to him or to anyone. What did he mean? “Kieran called you a princess of the Nephilim, and rightly,” he said. The moon was out fully, and the silver-white light illuminated his hair like a halo. It illuminated his eyes, too—wide and gold and blue and full of pain. “You are one of the best examples of our people I have ever known—shining, righteous, virtuous. You are all the good things I can think of, and all the things I would like to be and know I never can. I do not want you to do anything that later you would regret. I do not want you to later realize how far down from your standards you reached, when you reached for me.” “Mark!” She bolted up from the rock and went over to him. She heard a thump as something hit the ground, and threw her arms around Mark, hugging him tightly.

For a moment he held himself stiff and frozen. Then he softened against her, his arms encircling her body, his lips brushing her cheek, the soft curls of her hair that had escaped from her braid.

“Cristina,” he whispered.

She drew back enough to touch his face, her fingers tracing the lines of his cheekbones. His skin had that impossible faerie smoothness that came from never having needed the touch of a razor. “Mark Blackthorn,” she said, and shivered deep in her bones at the look in his eyes. “I wish you could see yourself as I see you. You are so many things I never thought to want, but I do want them. I want all things with you.” His arms tightened around her; he gathered her to him as if he were gathering an armful of flowers. His lips skated along her cheek, her jawline; at last their mouths met, burning hot in the cold air, and Cristina gave a little gasp at the desire that shot through her, sharp as an arrowhead.

He tasted like honey and faerie wine. They staggered backward, fetching up against a rock pile. Mark’s hands were on her gear jacket; he was undoing it, sliding his hands inside, under her shirt, as if desperate for the touch of her skin. He murmured words like “beautiful” and “perfect” and she smiled and swiped her tongue slowly across his bottom lip, making him gasp as if she had stabbed him. He groaned helplessly and pulled her tighter.

The Sensor buzzed, loud and long.

They sprang apart, gasping. Cristina zipped her jacket with shaking hands as Mark bent awkwardly to seize the Sensor. It buzzed again and they both whirled, staring.

“No mames,” she whispered. The buzzer made another, insistent noise, and something hit her hard from the side.

It was Mark. He’d knocked her to the ground; they both rolled sideways over the bumpy, pitted earth as something massive and shadowy rose above them. Black wings spread like ragged shadows. Cristina shoved herself up on her elbow, yanked a runed dagger from her belt, and flung it.

There was a cawing scream. Witchlight lit the sky; Mark was on his knees, a rune-stone in his hand. Above them a massive white-faced demon trailing feathers like a shadowy cloak of rags flapped its wings; the hilt of Cristina’s dagger protruded from its chest. Its outline was already beginning to blur as it screeched again, clawing at the hilt with a taloned claw, before folding up like paper and vanishing.

“Harpyia demon,” said Mark, leaping to his feet. He reached down to help Cristina up after him. “Probably hiding in the rocks. That’s why the Sensor didn’t pick it up well.” “We should go.” Cristina glanced around. “Judging by the Sensor, there are more.”

They began to jog toward the dirt trail, Cristina glancing back over her shoulder to see if anything was following them.

“I just want to make it clear that I did not engineer the interruption of the Harpyia demon,” Mark said, “and was indeed eager to continue with our sexual congress.” Cristina sighed. “Good to know.” She cut sideways through some low sagebrush. In the far distance, she could see the metal gleam of the parked truck.

Mark’s footsteps slowed. “Cristina. Look.”

She glanced around. “I don’t see—”

“Look down,” he said, and she did.

She remembered thinking that her boots had crunched oddly on the sand. Now she realized that it was because it wasn’t sand. A bleak moonscape stretched around them in a twenty-foot radius. The succulent plants and sagebrush were withered, gray-white as old bones. The sand looked as if it had been blasted with wildfire, and the skeletons of jackrabbits and snakes were scattered among the rocks.

“It is the blight,” said Mark. “The same blight we saw in Faerie.”

“But why would it be here?” Cristina demanded, bewildered. “What do ley lines have to do with the blight? Isn’t that faerie magic?” Mark shook his head. “I don’t—”

A chorus of shrieking howls ripped through the air. Cristina spun, kicking up a cloud of dust, and saw shadows rising out of the desert all around them. Now Cristina could see them more closely: They resembled birds only in that they were winged. What looked like feathers were actually trailing black rags that swathed their gaunt white bodies. Their mouths were so stuffed with crooked, jagged teeth that it looked as if they were grotesquely smiling. Their eyes were popping yellow bulbs with black dot pupils.

“But the Sensor,” she whispered. “It didn’t go off. It didn’t—”

“Run,” Mark said, and they ran, as the Harpyia demons soared screeching and laughing into the sky. A rock thumped to the ground near Cristina, and another barely missed Mark’s head.

Cristina longed to turn and plunge her balisong into the nearest demon, but it was too hard to aim while they were both running. She could hear Mark cursing as he dodged rocks the size of baseballs. One slammed painfully into Cristina’s hand as they reached the truck and she jerked the door open; Mark climbed in the other side, and for a moment they sat gasping as rocks pounded down onto the truck’s cab like hailstones.

“Diana is not going to be happy about her car,” said Mark.

“We have bigger problems.” Cristina jammed the keys into the ignition; the truck started with a jerk, rolled backward—and stopped. The sound of the rocks pounding the metal roof had ceased as well, and the silence seemed suddenly eerie. “What’s going on?” she demanded, stomping down on the gas.

“Get out!” Mark shouted. “We have to get out!”

He grabbed hold of Cristina’s arm, hauling her over the center console. They both tumbled out of the passenger-side door as the truck lifted into the air, Cristina landing awkwardly half on top of Mark.

She twisted around to see that Harpyia demons had seized the truck, their claws puncturing the metal sides of the bed and digging into the window frames. The vehicle sailed into the air, the Harpyia demons shrieking and giggling as they hauled it up into the sky—and dropped it.

It spun end over end and hit the ground with a massive crash of metal and glass, rolling sideways to lie upended on the sand. One of the Harpyia had ridden it down as if it were a surfboard and still crouched, snarking and cackling, on the frame of the upside-down truck.

Cristina leaped to her feet and stalked toward the truck. As she got closer, she could smell the stink of spilling gasoline. The Harpyia, too stupid to realize the danger, turned its dead-white, grinning face toward her. “The rocks are our place,” it hissed at her. “Poisoned. The best place.” “Cállate!” she snapped, unsheathed her longsword, and sliced off its head.

Ichor exploded upward in a spray even as the Harpyia’s body folded up and winked out of existence. The other demons howled and dived; Cristina saw one of them dive-bombing Mark and screamed his name; he leaped onto a rock and slashed out with his whip. Ichor opened a glowing seam across the Harpyia’s chest and it thumped to the sand, chittering, but another Harpyia was already streaking across the sky. Mark’s whip curled around its throat and he jerked hard, sending its head bumping like a tumbleweed among the rocks.

Something struck Cristina’s back; she screamed as her feet left the ground. A Harpyia had sunk its claws into the back of her gear jacket and was lifting her into the air. She thought of stories about how eagles flew high into the sky with their prey and then released them, letting their bodies smash open on the earth below. The ground was already receding below her with terrifying speed.

With a scream of fear and anger, she slashed up and backward with her sword, slicing the Harpyia’s claws off at the joint. The demon shrieked and Cristina tumbled through the air, her sword falling out of her hand, reaching out as if she could catch onto something to slow her fall— Something seized her out of the sky.

She gasped as a hand caught her elbow, and she was yanked sideways to land awkwardly atop something warm and alive. A flying horse. She gasped and scrabbled for purchase, digging into the creature’s mane as it dipped and dived.

“Cristina! Stay still!”

It was Kieran shouting. Kieran was behind her, one arm lashing around her waist to pull her against him. What felt like an electric charge shot through her. Kieran was wild-eyed, his hair deep blue-black, and she realized suddenly that the horse was Windspear, even as the stallion shot downward through the crowd of Harpyia toward Mark.

“Kieran—look out—” she cried, as the Harpyia demons turned their attention to Windspear, their popping yellow eyes swiveling like flashlights.

Kieran flung his arm out, and Cristina felt the sharp electric charge go through her again. White fire flashed and the Harpyia demons recoiled as Windspear landed lightly in front of Mark.

“Mark! To me!” Kieran shouted. Mark looked over at him and grinned—a Hunter’s grin, a battle grin, all teeth—before decapitating a last Harpyia with a jerk of his whip. Splattered with blood and ichor, Mark leaped onto the horse behind Kieran, latching his arms around Kieran’s waist. Windspear sprang into the air and the Harpyia followed, their grinning mouths open to show rows of sharklike teeth.

Kieran shouted something in a Faerie language Cristina didn’t know, and Windspear tilted up at an impossible angle. The horse shot upward like an arrow, just as the truck below them finally exploded, swallowing the Harpyia demons in a massive corona of flames.

Diana’s going to be really angry about her truck, Cristina thought, and slumped down against Windspear’s mane as the faerie horse circled below the clouds, turned, and flew toward the ocean.

Kit had never been up on the roof of the Los Angeles Institute before. He had to admit it had a better view than the London Institute, unless you were a sucker for skyscrapers. Here you could see the desert stretching out behind the house, all the way to the mountains. Their tops were touched by light reflected from the city on the other side of the range, their valleys in deep shadow. The sky was brilliant with stars.

In front of the house was the ocean, its immensity terrifying and glorious. Tonight the wind was like light fingers stroking its surface, leaving trails of silver ripples behind.

“You seem sad,” said Ty. “Are you?”

They were sitting on the edge of the roof, their legs dangling into empty space. This was probably the way he was supposed to live his high school years, Kit thought, climbing up onto high places, doing dumb and dangerous things that would worry his parents. Only he had no parents to worry, and the dangerous things he was doing were truly dangerous.

He wasn’t worried for himself, but he was worried for Ty. Ty, who was looking at him with concern, his gray gaze skating over Kit’s face as if it were a book he was having trouble reading.

Yes, I’m sad, Kit thought. I’m stuck and frustrated. I wanted to impress you at the Shadow Market and I got so caught up in that I forgot about everything else. About how we really shouldn’t be doing this. About how I can’t tell you we shouldn’t be doing this.

Ty reached out and brushed Kit’s hair away from his face, an absent sort of gesture that sent a shot of something through Kit, a feeling like he’d touched a live electrical fence. He stared, and Ty said, “You ought to get your hair cut. Julian cuts Tavvy’s hair.” “Julian’s not here,” said Kit. “And I don’t know if I want him cutting my hair.”

“He’s not bad at it.” Ty dropped his hand. “You said your dad had stuff hidden all over Los Angeles. Is there anything that could help us?” Your dad. As if Julian was Ty’s father. Then again, he was in a way. “Nothing necromantic,” said Kit.

Ty looked disappointed. Still dizzy from the electric-fence shock, Kit couldn’t stand it. He had to fix it, that look on Ty’s face. “Look—we tried the straightforward approach. Now we have to try the con.” “I don’t really get cons,” said Ty. “I read a book about them, but I don’t understand how people let themselves get tricked like that.” Kit’s eyes dropped to the gold locket around Ty’s neck. There was still blood on it. It looked like patches of rust. “It’s not about making people believe what you want them to believe. It’s about letting them believe what they want to believe. About giving them what they think they need.” Ty raised his eyes; though they didn’t meet Kit’s, Kit could read the expression in them, the dawning awareness. Does he realize? Kit thought, in mingled relief and apprehension.

Ty sprang to his feet. “I have to send a fire-message to Hypatia Vex,” he said.

This was not at all what Kit had expected him to say. “Why? She already said no to helping us.” “She did. But Shade says she’s always wanted to run the Shadow Market herself.” Ty smiled sideways, and in that moment, despite their difference in coloring, he looked like Julian. “It’s what she thinks she needs.” * * *

The sky was a road and the stars made pathways; the moon was a watchtower, a lighthouse that led you home.

Being on Windspear’s back was both utterly strange and utterly familiar to Mark. So was having his arms around Kieran. He had flown through so many skies holding Kieran, and the feeling of Kieran’s body against his, the whipcord strength of him, the faint ocean-salt scent of his skin and hair, was mapped into Mark’s blood.

At the same time he could hear Cristina, hear her laughing, see her as she bent to point out landmarks flashing by beneath them. She had asked Kieran if they could fly over the Hollywood sign and he had obliged; Kieran, who made a point of being disobliging.

And Mark’s heart stirred at her laugh; it stirred as he touched Kieran; he was between them again, as he had been in London, and though agitation prickled his nerves at the thought, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad to have Kieran back again.

Kieran brought Windspear down in the lot behind the Institute. Everything was still, broken only by the sound of chirping cicadas. It was hard to believe that ten minutes previously they had been in a fight to the death with Harpyia demons.

“Are you all right?” Cristina said with a frown, as she slid from the horse’s back. “You don’t look well.” With a start, Mark realized she was talking to Kieran. And that she was right. Kieran had arrived at the Vasquez Rocks almost crackling with energy. It was a kind of wild, numinous magic Mark associated with the royal family but had never seen Kieran employ before.

But the energy seemed to have left him; he leaned a hand against Windspear’s side, breathing hard. There was blood on his hands, his collar and skin; his face was drained of color.

Mark stepped forward, hesitated. He remembered Kieran telling him that they were done. “I didn’t know you were hurt at the rocks, Kier,” he said.

“No. This happened at the Scholomance.”

“Why did you leave?” Cristina asked.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Kieran winced, and slapped Windspear on the flank. The horse whickered and trotted into the shadows, melting into the darkness.

“First we must get you upstairs.” Cristina glanced at Mark as if she expected him to step forward to help Kieran. When he didn’t, she moved to Kieran’s side, curving his arm around her shoulder. “We must see how badly you are wounded.” “It is important—” Kieran began.

“So is this.” Cristina moved forward with Kieran leaning on her. Mark could no longer stand it; he swung around to Kieran’s other side, and together they went into the house, Kieran limping between them.

“Thank you, Mark,” Kieran said in a low voice. When Mark chanced a glance sideways, he saw no anger in Kieran’s eyes, but hadn’t Kieran been angry the last time they had been together? Had Kieran forgotten Mark had wronged him? It was not in the nature of princes to forget wrongs or forgive them.

Cristina was saying something about water and food; Mark’s mind was in a whirl, and for a moment, when they stepped into the kitchen, he blinked around in confusion. He’d thought they were going to one of their rooms. Cristina helped Mark get Kieran settled into a chair before going to the sink to get damp towels and soap.

“I must speak to you of what I have learned,” Kieran was saying; he was perched on the chair, all long limbs and dark, odd clothes and burning eyes. His hair shimmered deep blue. He looked like a faerie out of place in the human world, and it stabbed Mark through with a painful sympathy mixed with a fear that he might look like that himself.

“Let me see your face.” Cristina brushed Kieran with gentle fingers; he leaned into her touch, and Mark could not blame him.

“What’s going on?” Light blazed up in the kitchen; it was Helen, carrying a rune-stone in one hand. “Is someone hurt?” Mark and Cristina exchanged startled looks; Kieran looked between Mark and Helen, his lips parting in realization.

“Were you waiting up for us?” Mark demanded. “It’s past midnight.”

“I was . . . not.” Helen looked down at her sweatpants guiltily. “I wanted a sandwich.” She squinted at Kieran. “Did you trade in Diana’s truck for a faerie prince?” Kieran was still looking at her with that same realization and Mark knew what he must be seeing: someone who was so clearly Mark’s sister, so clearly the Helen that Mark had spoken about with such pain for so many years in the Hunt.

He rose to his feet and crossed the room to Helen. He lifted her free hand and kissed the back of it.

“The beloved sister of my beloved Mark. It is a joy to behold you well and reunited with your family.” “I like him,” Helen said to Mark.

Kieran lowered her hand. “May I share my sorrow at the passing of your sister Livia,” he said. “It is a shame to see such a bright and beautiful star untimely extinguished.” “Yes.” Helen’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”

I don’t understand. Mark felt as if he were in a dream. He had imagined Kieran meeting his family, but it had not been like this, and Kieran had never been so gracious, even in Mark’s imagination.

“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Helen said. “I think I’d better hear about what happened tonight on your ‘normal patrol.’ ” She raised an eyebrow at Mark.

“I must first tell you of what befell at the Scholomance,” said Kieran firmly. “It is imperative.” “What happened?” Cristina said. “I thought it would be safe for you there—”

“It was, for a short time,” said Kieran. “Then the Cohort returned from Idris and discovered me. But that story must wait. I came to bring you news.” He glanced around at their expectant faces. “The Inquisitor of the Clave has sent Emma and Julian on a secret mission to Faerie. They are not expected either to return or to survive.” Mark felt numb all over. “What do you mean?”

“It is a dangerous mission—and someone has been sent after them to make sure they don’t complete it—” Gasping, Kieran slumped back in his chair, looking terribly pale.

Mark and Cristina both reached to steady him at the same time. They looked at each other in some surprise over Kieran’s bowed head.

“Kieran, you’re bleeding!” Cristina exclaimed, taking her hand away from his shoulder. It was stained red.

“It is nothing,” Kieran said roughly. Not a lie, precisely—Mark was sure he believed it, but his ashen face and feverish eyes told another story.

“Kier, you’re unwell,” said Mark. “You must rest. You cannot do anyone any good in this condition.” “Agreed.” Cristina stood up, her hand still red with Kieran’s blood. “We must see to your wounds at once.” * * *

“You have changed, son of thorns,” said the Queen.

She had been silent for some minutes while the room emptied of guards and observers. Even then, Julian did not entirely believe that they were alone. Who knew what sprites or cluricauns might hide among the shadows?

Julian had been pacing, impelled by a restlessness he couldn’t explain. Then again, he could explain little of what he felt these days. There were impulses he followed, others he avoided, angers and dislikes and even hopes, but he could not have explained the emotion that led him to kill Dane, or what he felt afterward. It was as if the words he needed to describe what he had felt had disappeared from his mental vocabulary.

He remembered someone had once told him that the last words of Sebastian Morgenstern had been I’ve never felt so light. He felt light himself, having put down a weight of constant fear and longing he had grown so used to carrying he no longer noticed it. But still, deep down, the thought of Sebastian chilled him. Was it wrong to feel lightness?

He was conscious now of impatience, and a knowledge, though it was distant, that he was playing with fire. But the knowledge did not come accompanied either by fear or by excitement. It was distant. Clinical.

“We are alone,” said the Queen. “We could amuse ourselves.”

Now he did look at her. Her throne had changed, and so had she. She seemed to be draped along the cushions of a red chaise, her coppery hair tumbling around her. She was radiantly beautiful, the gaunt outlines of her face filled in with youth and health, her brown eyes glowing.

The Queen’s eyes are blue. Emma’s are brown.

But it didn’t change what he was seeing; the Queen’s eyes were the color of tiger’s-eye stones and shimmered as she gazed at him. Her dress was white satin, and as she slowly drew up one leg, sliding her toe along her opposite calf, it fell open at the slit, revealing her legs up to her hips.

“That’s a glamour,” Julian said. “I know what’s underneath.”

She rested her chin on her hand. “Most people would not dare to speak that way to the Seelie Queen.” “Most people don’t have something the Seelie Queen wants,” said Julian. He felt nothing, looking at her: She was beautiful, but he could not have desired her less if she’d been a beautiful rock or a beautiful sunset.

She narrowed her eyes and they flickered back to blue. “You are indeed different,” she said, “more like a faerie.” “I’m better,” he said.

“Really?” The Queen sat up slowly, her silken dress resettling around her. “There is a saying among my people, about the mortals we bring here: In the Land of Faerie, as mortals feel no sorrow, neither can they feel joy.” “And why is that?” asked Julian.

She laughed. “Have you ever wondered how we lure mortals to live amongst faeries and serve us, son of thorns? We choose those who have lost something and promise them that which humans desire most of all, a cessation to their grief and suffering. Little do they know that once they enter our Lands, they are in the cage and will never again feel happiness.” She leaned forward. “You are in that cage, boy.” A shiver went up Julian’s spine. It was atavistic, primal, like the impulse that had driven him to climb Livvy’s pyre. “You’re trying to distract me, my lady. How about giving me what you promised?” “What do you mind about the parabatai bond now? It seems you no longer care for Emma. I saw it in the way she looked at you. As if she missed you though you were standing beside her.” “The bonds,” Julian said through his teeth. “How can they be broken?” His head throbbed. Maybe he was dehydrated.

“Very well.” The Queen leaned back, letting her long hair spill over the side of the chaise and down to the ground. “Though it may not please you.” “Tell me.”

“The parabatai rune has a weakness that no other rune has, because it was created by Jonathan Shadowhunter, rather than the Angel Raziel,” said the Queen. As she spoke she drew on the air with her fingertip, in lazy spirals. “Kept in the Silent City is the original parabatai rune inscribed by Jonathan Shadowhunter and David the Silent. If it is destroyed, all the parabatai runes in the world will be broken.” Julian could hardly breathe. His heart was hammering against his chest. All the bonds in the world. Broken. He still couldn’t explain what he was feeling, but the intensity of it made him feel as if he were bursting out of his own skin. “Why would I not be pleased to hear that?” he asked. “Because it would be difficult?” “Not difficult. Impossible. Oh, it wasn’t always impossible,” said the Queen, sitting up and smirking at him. “When I spoke to you about it first, it was in good faith. But things have changed.” “What do you mean?” Julian demanded. “How have things changed?”

“I mean there is only one way to destroy the rune,” the Queen said. “It must be cut through and through by the Mortal Sword.”