فصل 26

26

A STIR IN THE AIR

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Emma spun and threw the balanced knives one after the other, fast: overhead, overhead, sideways. They sliced through the air and jammed point-first into the target painted on the wall, their handles trembling with kinetic force.

She bent down and grabbed two more from the pile at her feet. She hadn’t changed into training clothes and she was sweating in her tank top and jeans, her loose hair plastered to the back of her neck.

She didn’t care. It was almost as though she’d returned to the time before she’d realized she was in love with Julian. A time when she’d been full of a rage and despair she’d attributed entirely to her parents’ deaths.

She flung the next two knives, blades sliding through her fingers, their flight smooth and tightly controlled. Thunk. Thunk. She remembered the days when she’d thrown so many bo-shuriken that she’d made her hands split and bleed. How much of that rage had been about her parents—because a lot of it had been, she knew—and how much had been about the fact that she’d kept the doors of her awareness tightly shut, never letting herself know what she wanted, what would make her truly happy?

She picked up two more knives and positioned herself facing away from the target, breathing hard. It was impossible not to think about Julian. Now that the spell was off him, she felt a desperate desire to be with him, mixed with the bitterness of regret—regret for past choices made, regret for wasted years. She and Julian had both been in denial, and look what it had cost them. If either of them had been able to acknowledge why they shouldn’t be parabatai, they wouldn’t be facing separation from each other. Or exile from everything they loved.

Love is powerful, and the more you’re together, and let yourself feel what you do, the stronger it’ll be. You need to not touch each other. Not speak to each other. Try not to even think about each other.

Thunk. A knife sailed over her shoulder. Thunk. Another. She turned to see the handles vibrating where they stuck out from the wall.

“Nice throw.”

Emma spun around. Mark was leaning against the doorway, his body like a long, lean spoke in the shadows. He was wearing his gear and he looked tired. More than tired, he looked weary.

It had been a while since she’d spent time with Mark alone. It was neither of their faults—there had been the separation in Idris, then Faerie and Thule—but there was another piece to it too, perhaps. There was an apprehensive sadness in Mark these days, as if he were constantly waiting to be told he had lost something. It seemed deeper than what he had carried back with him from Faerie.

She picked up another knife. Held it out. “Do you want a turn?”

“Very much so.”

He came and took the knife from her. She stepped back a little while he took aim, sighting down the line of his arm toward the target.

“Do you want to talk about what’s going on with Cristina?” she said hesitantly. “And . . . Kieran?” He let the knife go. It sank into the wall beside one of Emma’s. “No,” he said. “I am trying not to think about it, and I do not think discussing it will accomplish that goal.” “Okay,” Emma said. “Do you want to just throw knives in a silent, angry bro way together?” He cracked a slight smile. “There are other things we could discuss than my love life. Like your love life.” It was Emma’s turn to grab a knife. She threw it hard, viciously, and it hit the wall hard enough to crack the wood. “That sounds like about as much fun as stabbing myself in the head.” “I think mundanes discuss the weather when they have nothing else to talk about,” said Mark. He had gone to lift a bow and quiver down from the wall. The bow was a delicate piece of workmanship, carved with filigreed runes. “We are not mundanes.” “Sometimes I wonder what we are,” Emma said. “Considering I don’t think the current powers that be in Alicante would like us to be Nephilim at all.” Mark drew back the bow and let an arrow fly. It whipped through the air, plunging directly into the center of the target on the wall. Emma felt a twist of grim pride; people often underestimated how good a warrior Mark was.

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Mark said. “Raziel made us Shadowhunters. Not the Clave.” Emma sighed. “What would you do if things were different? If you could do anything, be anything. If this was all over.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You always wanted to be like Jace Herondale,” he said. “The greatest of all fighters. But I would like to be more like Alec Lightwood. I would like to do something important for Shadowhunters and Downworlders. For I will always be part of each world.” “I can’t believe you remember I always wanted to be like Jace. That’s so embarrassing.” “It was cute that you wanted to be such a fighter, especially when you were very small.” He smiled a real smile, one that lit up his face. “I remember you and Julian when you were ten—both of you with wooden swords, and me trying to teach you not to smack each other in the head with them.” Emma giggled. “I thought you were so old—fourteen!”

He sobered. “I have been thinking that not everything that is strange is bad,” he said. “Since I came from Faerie the way I did—it closed the gap of years between me and Julian, and me and you. I have been able to be much better friends with both of you now, rather than an older sibling, and that has been a gift.” “Mark—” she began, and broke off, staring out the west-facing picture window. Something—someone—was walking up the road toward the Institute, a dark figure moving purposefully.

She caught a flash of gold.

“I have to go.” Emma grabbed a longsword and bolted out of the training room, leaving Mark staring after her. Energy was ping-ponging through her body. She took the stairs three at a time, burst out the front doors, and crossed the grass just as the figure she’d seen reached the top of the road.

The moon was bright, flooding the world with bright spears of illumination. Emma blinked away stars and gazed at Zara Dearborn, stalking toward her across the grass.

Zara was fully decked out in her Centurion gear, Primi Ordines pin and all. Her hair was tightly braided around her head, her brown eyes narrowed. In her hand was a golden sword that shone like the light of dawn.

Cortana. A flash of gold.

Emma stiffened all over. She whipped the longsword from its scabbard, though it felt like dead weight in her hand now that she was looking at her own beloved blade. “Stop,” she said. “You aren’t welcome here, Zara.” Zara gave her a narrow little smile. She was gripping Cortana all wrong, which blinded Emma with rage. Wayland Smith had made that blade, and now Zara had it in her sticky, incompetent hand. “Aren’t you going to ask about this?” she asked, twirling the sword as if it were a toy.

Emma swallowed bitter rage. “I’m not going to ask you anything except to get off our property. Now.” “Really?” Zara cooed. “Your property? This is an Institute, Emma. Clave property. I know you and the Blackthorns treat it like it’s yours. But it isn’t. And you won’t be living here much longer.” Emma tightened her grip on her longsword. “What do you mean?”

“You were sent a message,” Zara said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know about it. Most of the other Institutes have shown up in Idris to prove their support. Not you guys, though.” She twirled Cortana inexpertly. “You haven’t even replied to the summons. And the names in your registry were a joke. Did you think we were too stupid to get it?” “Yes,” Emma said. “Also, it seems like it took you a week to figure it out, at least. Who got it in the end? Manuel?” Zara flushed angrily. “You think it’s cute, not taking anything seriously? Not taking the Downworlder threat seriously? Samantha’s dead. She hurled herself out the window of the Basilias. Because of your faerie friend—” “I already know what really happened,” Emma said, with a feeling of immense sadness for Samantha. “Kieran pulled Samantha out of the pool. He tried to help her. You can twist things and twist things, Zara, but you can’t just make facts whatever you want them to be. You stood around and laughed when Samantha fell into that water. And the cruelty she saw—the terrible pain she’d caused—that was because of you and what you made her do. And that’s the truth.” Zara stared at her, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You don’t deserve Cortana,” Emma said. “You don’t deserve to have it in your hand.” “I don’t deserve it?” Zara hissed. “You were given it because you’re a Carstairs! That’s all! I worked and worked to get respect, and people just gave it to you like you’re special because your parents died in the Dark War. A lot of people died in the Dark War. You’re not special at all.” She took a step toward Emma, Cortana shaking in her grip. “Don’t you get it? None of this is yours. Not the Institute. Not this sword. Not the Blackthorns, who aren’t your family. Not the reputation for being a great warrior. You didn’t earn any of it.” “How lucky for you that your reputation as a bigoted asshole is totally justified,” said Emma.

Zara’s flush had faded. Her eyes glittered angrily. “You have twenty-four hours to come to Idris and swear loyalty to the Cohort. If you are even five minutes late you will be considered deserters and I will strike down every deserter myself. Starting with you.” Emma raised her sword. “Then strike me down now.”

Zara took a step backward. “I said you had twenty-four hours.”

Rage sizzled through Emma’s nerves. “And I said strike me down now.” She jabbed the sword toward Zara; it caught the edge of Zara’s cloak and sliced through it. “You came here. You challenged me. You threatened my family.” Zara gaped. Emma suspected Zara had rarely ever had to engage in a fight that wasn’t on her terms.

“You’re a liar, Zara,” she said, advancing with her sword drawn. Zara stumbled back, almost tripping over the grass. “You’ve never accomplished anything. You’ve taken credit for what other people do and used it to prop yourself up, but people can see through you. You pick on those who have less power than you to make yourself look strong. You’re a bully and a thief and a coward.” Zara snarled, raising Cortana. “I am not a coward!”

“So fight me!” Emma swung her sword; Zara barely got Cortana up in the air and it clanged hard against Emma’s blade, the awkward angle turning Zara’s wrist back on itself. She yelped in pain and Emma slammed Cortana again—it felt beyond wrong to be fighting against Cortana, as if the world had been turned inside out.

She ought to feel sympathy for Zara’s pain, Emma thought. But she didn’t. She felt only a savage anger as she drove the other girl panting and gasping back and back across the tufted grass until they were at the edge of the bluffs, until the sea was below them.

Zara dug her heels in then and fought back, but when she raised Cortana and wheeled it through the air at Emma, the blade turned aside at the last moment, seeming to bend like a live thing in her hand. Zara shrieked, almost overbalancing; Emma kicked out and swept Zara’s legs out from under her. Zara thumped to the ground, her body half-dangling over the edge of the bluff.

Emma stalked toward her, longsword in hand. A surge of power went through her like electricity coursing through a wire. She felt almost dizzy with it, as if she were rising above Zara to an immense height—looking down at her with the indifference of an avenging angel, a being of light gifted with power so great it had rendered them nearly inhuman.

I could bring my blade down and cut her in half. I could take Cortana back.

She raised her longsword. She could see herself as if from the outside, a massive figure towering over Zara.

Their runes began to burn like fire, as if they had fire in their veins instead of blood. People said that the blades of those who fought them shattered in their hands. Black lines spread over their bodies and they became monstrous—physically monstrous.

Emma stumbled back, Diana’s voice echoing in her head. She stood without moving as Zara, gasping, scrambled back from the edge of the cliff, rolling onto her knees.

Emma’s vision of herself as an avenging angel was gone. In its place, a cool and reasonable voice whispered in the back of her head, unmistakably Julian’s, telling her that Horace Dearborn surely knew where his daughter was, would know who to blame when she went missing, that either hurting Zara or taking Cortana would bring the Clave down on the Los Angeles Institute.

“Get up,” Emma said, her voice edged with contempt. Zara scrabbled to her feet. “And get out of here.” Zara was panting, her face smeared with dirt. “You little pervert,” she hissed, all pretense at smirking gone. “My father told me about you and your parabatai—you’re disgusting—I guess you want to be like Clary and Jace, huh? Wanting what’s forbidden? And nasty?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Zara, Clary and Jace weren’t related.”

“Yeah, well, they thought they were, and that’s the same!” Zara screamed, a tower of howling illogic. “And they’re dead now! That’s what’ll happen to you and Julian! We’ll leave your corpses on the battlefield and the crows will pick out your eyes, I’ll make sure of it—” “What battlefield?” Emma said quietly.

Zara blanched. Her mouth worked, spittle flecking her lips. At last she raised Cortana between herself and Emma, as if she were warding off a vampire with a crucifix. “Twenty-four hours,” she breathed. “If you’re not at the gates of Alicante then, there won’t be a single one of you left alive.” She turned and stalked away. It took every ounce of Emma’s self-control not to follow her. She forced herself to turn away from Zara. To turn back to the Institute.

She raced across the lawn and up the stairs. By the time she reached the front door, her anger was turning into anticipation: She would need to talk to Julian. She had to tell him about Zara.

She yanked the front door open, already picturing what Julian would say. He would tell her not to worry. He would have an idea about what they should do. He might even make her laugh— There was a flare of sharp pain against her arm.

Her rune. She gasped and flinched; she was in the entryway of the Institute. It was deserted, thank the Angel. She pulled up the sleeve of her shirt.

The parabatai rune there glowed on her upper arm like a brand, red against her skin.

She sagged back against the wall. If even thinking of Julian did this, then how much time did they have left? How much time before she had to go to Magnus and have her runes stripped forever?

Slumped against the wall of the Gard cell, Diego held his brother in his arms.

Jaime had fallen asleep at some point during the night before, or at least Diego assumed it was night—it was hard to tell when there was no way to measure the passage of time except for meals, and those were served irregularly. There was only sleeping, eating, and trying to conserve Jaime’s strength.

Jaime breathed against him, low irregular breaths; his eyes were closed. Some of Diego’s earliest memories were of holding his brother. When he was five and Jaime was three, he had carried him everywhere. He’d been afraid that otherwise Jaime, toddling around on his short little legs, would miss out on all the things in the world Diego wanted him to see.

Sometimes at the end of a long day, his baby brother would fall asleep in his arms, and Diego would carry him to bed and tuck him in. Diego had always taken care of his brother, and the helplessness he felt now filled him with rage and despair.

For so long, he had thought of Jaime as a little boy, quick and mischievous. Even when he’d run off with the Eternidad, it seemed like another of his games, one where he was always slipping out of trouble and playing tricks. But in these past few days, as Jaime had grown weaker but refused to speak a word to Zara about the heirloom, Diego had seen the steel beneath his brother’s playful attitude, his commitment to their family and their cause.

He kissed Jaime on the top of the head; his black hair was ragged, messy and dirty. Diego didn’t care. He was filthy himself. “Siempre estuve orgulloso de ti,” he said.

“I’ve always been proud of you, too,” Jaime murmured without opening his eyes.

Diego gave a rough chuckle of relief. “You’re awake.”

Jaime didn’t move. His brown cheeks were red with fever, his lips chapped and bleeding. “Yes. I’m awake, and I’m going to hold this over you forever.” Forever. Most likely neither of them had forever. Diego thought of the heirloom, its optimistic infinity symbol looping over and over, promising a never-ending future. Eternidad.

There was nothing to say. He stroked Jaime’s hair in silence and listened to his brother breathe. Every breath a struggle, in and out like rough water through a broken dam. Diego’s desperation for a stele was like a silent scream, rising in the back of his throat.

They both looked up as a familiar clanking sound announced the arrival of what Diego guessed was breakfast. Surely it had to be morning. He blinked at the dim light coming from the open door of the prison. A figure came closer to their cell; it was Anush Joshi, carrying a tray.

Diego looked at Anush without speaking. He’d given up begging any of the guards for help. If they were monstrous enough to sit back and watch Jaime slowly die, then there was no point asking them for anything. It only made Jaime feel worse.

Anush knelt down with the tray. He wore the livery of the Council guard, his dark hair tangled, his eyes red-rimmed. He set the tray on the ground.

Diego cleared his throat. “Jaime’s too sick to eat that,” he said. “He needs fresh fruit. Juice. Anything with calories.” Anush hesitated. For a moment Diego felt a flicker of hope. But Anush only pushed the tray slowly through the gap in the bottom of the door.

“I think he’ll want to eat this,” he said.

He stood up and hurried away, closing the prison door behind him. Keeping Jaime cradled against him, Diego pulled the tray toward himself with one hand.

A jolt of surprise went through him. Lying beside the usual bowls of gruel was a stele, and a note. Diego seized them both up with a shaking hand. The note read: You were the only one who was kind to me at the Scholomance. I’m leaving Idris and the guards. I know there’s a resistance out there. I’m going to find it.

Take care of your brother.

“What’s that?” Kit called; he could see Ty coming down the dirt road toward the highway, a witchlight rune-stone in his hand. It cast him into shadow, but the small crouched creature on his shoulder was still visible.

“It’s a wood rat,” said Ty. The witchlight blinked off as he joined Kit by the side of the highway. He was all in black, with the glimmer of Livvy’s pendant at the collar of his shirt.

Kit, who was not a fan of rats, eyed the animal on Ty’s shoulder with some wariness. It didn’t look like the usual sort of rat: It had rounded ears and a furry face and tail. It appeared to be nibbling on a shelled nut.

“They’re harmless,” Ty said. “They like to collect things for their nests—bottlecaps and leaves and acorns.” The wood rat finished its snack and looked at Ty expectantly.

“I don’t have any more,” he said, plucked the rat off his shoulder, and set it down gently. It scampered off into the bushes by the roadside. “So,” Ty said, dusting off his hands. “Should we go over everything we have for the spell?” Kit’s stomach knotted. He was half-wondering where Dru was, half-anxious about what Shade was going to do. If the warlock planned to stop Ty, he was certainly waiting until the last minute.

“Sure,” Kit said, pulling the list out of his pocket. “Incense from the heart of a volcano.” “Got it at the Shadow Market. Check.”

“Chalk powdered from the bones of a murder victim.”

“Same.”

“Blood, hair, and bone of the person to be brought over,” Kit said, a slight catch in his voice.

Ty’s pale face was like a half-moon in the darkness. “I have a lock of Livvy’s hair and one of her baby teeth.” “And the blood?” said Kit, gritting his teeth. It seemed beyond grim to be talking about pieces of Livvy, as if she’d been a doll and not a living, breathing person.

Ty touched the pendant at his throat, still stained with rust. “Blood.”

Kit forced a noise of recognition through his tight throat. “And myrrh grown by faeries—” A twig snapped. Both of them swung around, Ty’s hand going to his waist. Kit, realizing, put a hand on Ty’s arm a moment before Drusilla stepped out of the shadows.

She held up her hands. “Whoa. It’s just me.”

“What are you doing here?” Ty’s voice crackled with anger.

“I was looking out my window. I saw you walking down toward the highway. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.” Kit was impressed. Dru really was a good liar. Face open and honest, voice steady. His dad would have given her a gold star.

“Why were you talking about faeries and myrrh and all that other stuff?” she went on. “Are you doing a spell?” Ty looked a little sick. Guilt hit Kit with the force of a whip. Ty wasn’t good at lying, and he didn’t do well with surprise changes to plans he’d made. “Go back to the house, Dru,” he said.

Dru glared at him. “I won’t. You can’t make me.”

Kit wondered if any of this was still playacting.

“If you send me back, I’ll tell everyone you’re doing weird spell stuff with evil chalk,” said Dru.

Ty flushed with annoyance. Kit pulled Ty toward him by his sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Better let her come with us. If we don’t, and she tells, we could get caught or get Shade in trouble.” Ty started to shake his head. “But she can’t—”

“We’ll make her wait outside the cave,” Kit said. He’d realized they would have to do that anyway; the first words Shade said would undermine the careful half-truths Kit had told Dru.

Ty exhaled. “Fine.”

Dru clapped her hands together. “Woo-hoo!”

They crossed the highway together, and Dru took off her shoes when they reached the sand. It was a soft night, the air tickling their skin, the ocean breathing in low, soft exhalations, rushing the tide up the beach. Kit felt a sort of ache at the center of him at how beautiful it all was, mixed with bitterness at his father for never bringing him here. Another truth denied to him: His city was beautiful.

As were other things. Ty kicked his way along the edge of the sand, his hands in his pockets. The wind lifted his hair, and the strands clung to his cheekbones like streaks of dark paint. He was purposely ignoring Drusilla, who was playing tag with the tide, running up and down the beach with her hair askew, the cuffs of her jeans wet with salt water. She looked over at Kit and winked, a conspiratorial wink that said: We’re helping Ty together.

Kit hoped that was true. His stomach was in painful knots by the time they made it to the cave entrance. Ty stopped at the dark hole in the stone bluff, shaking his head at his sister.

“You can’t come with us,” he said.

Dru opened her mouth to protest, but Kit gave her a meaningful look. “It’s better if you wait outside,” he said, enunciating each word clearly so she’d know he meant it.

Dru flopped down in the sand, looking woebegone. “Okay. Fine.”

Ty ducked into the cave. Kit, after an apologetic look at Dru, was about to follow when Ty emerged again, carrying an angry gray ball of fluff.

Dru’s face broke into a smile. “Church!”

“He can keep you company,” Ty said, and put the cat into his sister’s lap. Dru looked at him with shining eyes, but Ty was already ducking back into the cave. Kit followed, though he couldn’t help but wonder if Ty had ever noticed how much Dru looked up to him. He couldn’t help but think that if he had a little sibling who admired him, he would have spent all his time showing off.

Ty was different, though.

The moment they entered the tunnel, Kit could hear scratchy music—something like the sound of a song that hadn’t downloaded properly. When they entered the main cave, they found Shade twirling slowly around the room to the sound of a mournful tune playing on a gramophone.

“Non, rien de rien,” Shade sang along. “Je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait, ni le mal—” Kit cleared his throat.

Shade didn’t seem the least embarrassed. He ceased his twirling, glared, and snapped his fingers. The music vanished.

“I don’t recall inviting you to come tonight,” the warlock said. “I might have been busy.” “We sent a note,” said Kit. Shade beetled his white brows at him and glanced down at the scratched wooden table. An empty vial sat on it, the kind they’d used to distribute the Lake Lyn water. Kit was pleased to see Shade had drunk the cure, although a little worried he might be hallucinating.

Ty took an eager step forward. “We have everything. All the ingredients for the spell.” Shade’s gaze flicked to Kit quickly and then away. He looked grim. “All of them?” Ty nodded. “Incense, blood, and bone—”

“An object from another world?”

“We have that, too,” said Kit as Ty drew the folded letter from his pocket. “It’s from a place called Thule.” Shade stared at the letter, the color draining from his face, leaving it the sickly hue of lettuce. “Thule?” “You know that world?” Ty said.

“Yes.” Shade’s voice was toneless. “I know many other worlds. It is one of the worst.” Kit could see that Ty was puzzled: He hadn’t expected Shade to react this way. “But we have everything,” he said again. “All the ingredients. You said you would give us a power source.” “Yes, I did say that.” Shade sat down at the rickety wooden table. “But I won’t.” Ty blinked disbelievingly. “But you said—”

“I know what I said,” Shade snapped. “I never intended you to find all the ingredients, you foolish child. I thought you would give up. You didn’t.” He threw his arms into the air. “Don’t you understand this would be the worst thing you could possibly do? That its effects would follow you all your life? Death is the end for a reason.” “But you’re immortal.” Ty’s eyes were huge and pale gray, silver coins against his stark face.

“I have a long life, but I won’t live forever,” said Shade. “We all have the life that’s been allotted to us. If you pull Livvy to you from where she belongs, you leave a hole in the universe to be filled by black sorrow and miserable grief. That’s not something you can walk away from unscathed. Not now. Not ever.” “So you lied to us,” Ty said.

Shade stood up. “I did. I would again. I will never help you to do this thing, do you understand me? And I will spread the word. No warlock will help you. They will face my wrath if they do.” Ty’s hands were working themselves into fists, his fingers scrabbling at his palms. “But Livvy—” “Your sister is dead,” said Shade. “I understand your grief, Tiberius. But you cannot break the universe to get her back.” Ty turned and ran for the tunnel. Kit stared at Shade.

“That was too brutal,” he said. “You didn’t have to talk to him like that.”

“I did,” Shade said. He slumped back into his chair. “Go after your friend. He needs you now, and God knows I don’t.” Kit backed up, then spun and ran, following Ty’s witchlight. He spilled out onto the beach to find Ty already there, bent over and gasping for breath.

Dru leaped to her feet, spilling a meowing Church onto the ground. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” Kit put his hand on Ty’s back, between his shoulder blades. He was a little startled to find Ty’s back more solid and lightly muscled than he would have thought. He always thought of Ty as fragile, but he didn’t feel fragile. He felt like iron hammered thin: flexible but unbreakable.

Kit remembered hearing somewhere that it was soothing to rub circles on someone’s back, so he did that. Ty’s breaths began to regulate.

“It isn’t going to work,” Kit said, looking firmly at Dru over Ty’s back. “We aren’t going to be able to see Livvy’s ghost.” “I’m sorry,” Dru whispered. “I would have liked to have seen her too.”

Ty straightened up. His eyes were wet; he rubbed them fiercely. “No—I’m sorry, Dru.” Kit and Dru exchanged a startled look. It hadn’t occurred to Kit before that Ty might feel not just disappointed but as if he had let others down.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dru said. “Some things aren’t possible.” She put her hand out, a little shyly. “If you feel bad, I’ll watch movies all night with you in the TV room. I can make cookies, too. That always helps.” There was a long pause. Ty reached out to take Dru’s hand. “That would be nice.” Kit felt a wash of relief so enormous he almost staggered. Ty had remembered he had a sister. Surely that was something. He had expected much worse: a disappointment he couldn’t calculate, a hurt so deep nothing he could have said would touch it.

“Come on.” Dru tugged on Ty’s hand, and together they started back toward the Institute.

Kit followed, pausing as they began to scramble up the first of the rock walls that blocked the way across the beach. As Ty and Dru climbed, he looked back over his shoulder and saw Shade watching them from the darkness of his cave entrance. He shook his head at Kit once before vanishing back into the shadows.

The wind was blowing from the desert; Cristina and Mark sat near the statues Arthur Blackthorn had imported from England and placed among the cacti of the Santa Monica Mountains. The sand was still warm from the sunlight of the day, and soft under Mark, like the deep pile of a carpet. In the Wild Hunt, he and Kieran would have found this a very fine bed.

“I am worried,” Cristina said, “that we hurt Kieran earlier today.”

She was barefoot in the sand, wearing a short lace dress and gold earrings. Looking at her made Mark’s heart hurt, so he glanced up at the statue of Virgil, his old friend of frustrated nights. Virgil stared back impassively, without advice.

“His worries are my worries too,” said Mark. “It is difficult to ease his fears when I cannot ease my own.” “You don’t have to ease other people’s fears to share yours, Mark.” Cristina was playing with her medallion, her long fingers caressing the etching of Raziel. Mark wanted badly to kiss her; instead, he dug his fingers into the sand.

“I could say the same to you,” he said. “You have been tense as a bowstring all day. You are fearful too.” She sighed and poked his leg lightly with her bare foot. “Fine. You tell me, and I’ll tell you.” “I have been worried about my sister,” Mark said.

Cristina looked puzzled. “That isn’t what I thought you would say.”

“My sister was exiled because of her faerie blood,” said Mark. “You know the story—all of it. You know it better than most.” He couldn’t help it; he put his hand over hers in the sand. “All of my family has suffered because we have faerie parentage. Our loyalty has always been questioned. How much worse would it be for her and for Aline if I were with Kieran and he were the King of the Unseelie Court? It sounds so strange to say, and so selfish—” “It is not selfish.”

They both looked up; Kieran stood in the space between two statues, pale as a statue himself. His hair was black raven wings in the darkness, which washed all the blue from its color.

“You are worried about your family,” said Kieran. “That is not selfish. It is what I have learned from you and from Julian. To want to protect others more than you want your own happiness—” He glanced sideways. “Not that I wish to assume that being with me would bring you happiness.” Mark was speechless, but Cristina stretched out her arms. Gold bracelets shimmered against her brown skin as she beckoned to Kieran. “Come and sit with us.” Kieran was also barefoot; faeries often were. He prowled like a cat through the sand, his steps kicking up no dust, his movements silent as he sank to his knees opposite Cristina and Mark.

“It would make me happy,” Mark said. “But as you said—” He took a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. “There are other considerations.” “I might not become King,” said Kieran.

“But you might,” said Cristina. “I, too, am afraid. I spoke to my mother today. Someone had said something nasty to her about me. That I was involved with faeries. That I was a—a dirty girl, besmirched by Downworlders. You know I don’t care what anyone says about me,” she added hastily. “And my mother could withstand it as well, but—it is a bad time to be a Rosales. Our history of friendship with faeries has already brought us trouble. Jaime and Diego are in jail. What if I bring further trouble on them?” “Now I will tell you something selfish,” Kieran said. “I was afraid you both regretted what happened last night. That you both regretted—me.” Mark and Cristina looked at each other. She shook her head, the wind lifting her dark hair.

“There is no regret,” said Mark. “Only—”

“I know,” Kieran said. “I knew it when Gwyn came and told me I should be King. I knew what it would mean. Even what it would mean for me to be involved in the Court at all, as it seems I must be. The Clave wants to control access to the Courts. They always have. For two Shadowhunters they do not control to have the ear of the King would be anathema to them.” “But, Kieran—” Cristina said.

“I am not a fool,” Kieran said. “I know when something is impossible.” His eyes were shields of metal: one tarnished, one new. “I have always been an unquiet soul. In my father’s Court, and then in the Hunt, I raged and stormed inside my heart.” He bent his head. “I knew when I met Mark that I had found the person who gave my soul peace. I did not think I would find that in anyone else again, but I have. If I could just sit here quietly with both of you before this gathering storm, it would mean a great deal to me.” “And to me,” Cristina said. She held out her small hand and took one of Kieran’s gently. He raised his head as Mark took the other, and Mark and Cristina joined hands as well, completing the circle. None of them spoke: There was no need. It was enough to be together.

Emma still felt jittery when she walked into the kitchen in the morning, as if she’d drunk too many cups of the coffee she despised.

The hammer beat of Diana’s words in Thule echoed in her head. She hadn’t gone to Julian last night to tell him about Zara but had reluctantly woken up Helen and Aline to warn them instead. Then she’d headed back to the training room, in the hopes that kicking and punching and falling onto the hard mats on the floor would make her forget about the burning of her rune. About the parabatai of Thule. About the words of the Queen.

Later, when she’d fallen asleep, she’d dreamed about the parabatai rune in the Silent City, and about blood on the hilt of Cortana, and a ruined city where monstrous giants stalked the horizon. She still felt uneasy, as if she were half-trapped in nightmares.

She was glad to see the kitchen full of people. In fact, there were far too many to fit into the small eating area. Someone had had the brilliant idea of supplementing the existing table with an overturned weapons crate from the training room, and folding chairs had been dragged in from all over the house.

She’d been worried the morning would be grim as everyone rushed around getting ready to invade Alicante. She couldn’t help but feel resentful that she and Julian wouldn’t be going. It was their fight too. Besides, she needed the distraction. The last thing she wanted was to be left in the Institute with Julian and minimal supervision.

But the assembled group seemed anything but grim. If not for the space where Livvy should have been, the scene was almost perfect—Helen and Aline smiling at the kids over their coffee mugs. Mark between Kieran and Cristina, as if Mark had never been torn away from his family in the first place. Jace and Clary visiting the way the family had never really been able to have casual visitors when Arthur was in charge. Kit being the missing piece they had never known Ty needed, stealing a potato from Ty’s plate and making him smile. Diana radiating her steady calm, bringing a level head to a family prone to dramatics. Even Kieran, who seemed to make both Mark and Cristina happier when he was around, had folded into the group at last: He was showing Tavvy and Dru the joys of dunking strawberries in maple syrup.

And Julian, of course, standing over the kitchen range, flipping pancakes with the ease of an expert.

“One pancake at a time, Tavvy,” Helen was saying. “Yes, I know you can get three in your mouth, but that doesn’t mean you should.” Emma’s eyes met Julian’s. She saw the tension in his shoulders, his mouth, as he looked at her. Be normal, she thought. This is a happy, ordinary meal with family.

“You made pancakes?” she said, keeping her tone cheerful. “What brought that on?” “Sometimes when you start a war, you want to make pancakes,” Julian said, slipping two pancakes onto a plate and holding it out to Emma.

Jace choked on his toast. “What did you say, Julian?”

Julian glanced up at the clock that hung over the kitchen range. He flicked off the gas burner and began to calmly untie his apron. “They should be getting here any moment,” he said.

“They should what?” Diana put her fork down. “Julian, what are you talking about?” Tavvy was standing up on a wobbly chair, his face pressed to the window. He made an excited squeaking noise. “Who are all the people coming up the road, Jules?” Kit and Ty immediately jumped to their feet and scrambled for a window view. “I see faeries—” Ty said. “I think those are werewolves—those black cars have to be vampires—” “And Shadowhunters,” said Kit. “So many Shadowhunters—”

“The Sanctuary’s almost ready,” said Julian, throwing down a dish towel. “Unless someone else wants to do it, I’ll go downstairs and greet our guests.” Jace stood up. Clary looked up at him in concern: His golden eyes were flat with anger. “I’m not going to ask you a second time, Julian Blackthorn,” he said, and his usually amused voice had no amusement in it at all. “What did you do?” Julian leaned his hip against the counter. Emma realized with a shock that though he did look much younger, he was just as tall as Jace. “Remember when you said my coalition idea was a bad one because we couldn’t trust other Shadowhunters to be telling us the truth about their loyalties?” “Vividly,” said Jace. “But I gather you invited everyone to a war council anyway?” “They’re here right now?” Clary sputtered. “But—I’m wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Unicorn Power’—” “There are no such things as unicorns,” Jace said.

“I know,” Clary said. “That’s why it’s funny.”

“To return to the issue of betrayal—” Jace began.

“What if I told you I expected betrayal?” said Julian. “In fact, that I was counting on it? That it was part of my plan?” “What plan?” said Jace.

“I always have a plan,” said Julian calmly.

Dru lifted her coffee cup. “It’s great to have you back, Jules. I missed your lunatic schemes.” Helen was on her feet now. Aline appeared to be trying not to giggle. “How did you invite them all here?” Helen said. “How would you even have gotten in touch with so many Downworlders and Nephilim, and so quickly?” “I corresponded with them all for years,” Julian said. “I know how to send fire-messages to warlocks and Shadowhunters, and acorn messages to Faerie, and the telephone numbers of every important vamp and werewolf. I knew how to reach the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance. I had to know those things. For five years, it was my job.” “But didn’t you usually write to them as Arthur, before?” said Helen, clearly worried. “Who did you pretend to be this time?” “I wrote as myself,” said Julian. “I know these people. I know their personalities. I know which of them will be on our side. I’ve been the Head of the Institute here for years. I called on my allies, because it’s been my job to know who my allies are.” His voice was quiet, but firm. There was nothing disrespectful in what he’d said, but Emma knew what he meant: I’ve been a diplomat for years now, unknown and unacknowledged. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t skilled at it. I’ve put those skills to use—whether you like it or not.

“We can’t fight the Cohort alone,” he added. “They’re part of us. Part of our government. They’re not an outside threat like Sebastian was. We need these allies. You’ll see.” And then he looked at Emma, as if he couldn’t help it. The message in his eyes was clear. Though she was reeling from the shock of what he’d done, he was hoping for her approval. As he always had.

She felt a burning pulse through her parabatai rune. She winced, glanced down at her left arm: Her skin felt hot and tight, but the rune looked normal. It had just been a look, she thought. That was all.

“I’ll help finish setting up the Sanctuary for the meeting,” she said. “We’ll need chairs—” Kieran got to his feet, pushing sea-blue hair behind his ears. “I will also help,” he said. “I thank you on behalf of my people for calling Downworlders to the table as equals. You are right. None of us can do this alone.” Diana stood up. “I will send a message to Gwyn,” she said. “I know he will be pleased to come, and you will have the Wild Hunt on your side.” It was Cristina’s turn to rise. “Did you reach out to the Mexico City Institute?” “Yes,” said Julian. “Your mother said she’d be pleased to attend.”

Cristina looked alarmed. “I have to go change my clothes,” she said, and fled.

The younger Blackthorns watched with wide eyes as Jace held up his hand. Emma tensed. Jace was a powerful Shadowhunter—not just physically but politically. He and Clary could upset every facet of this plan if they wanted.

“Did you invite Magnus and Alec?” he said. “Do they know our plans have changed?” Our plans. Emma began to relax.

“Of course,” said Julian. “I invited everyone I thought would be on our side. And I told everyone I invited they could reach out to others they trusted.” “This is probably a bad idea,” Jace said. “Like, a record-breakingly bad idea. Like a go-down-in-history bad idea. But—” Clary bounced to her feet. “What he means is, we’re in,” she said. “We love bad ideas.” “That’s true,” Jace admitted, a smile breaking over his face. Suddenly he looked seventeen again.

Aline was the last to rise. “Technically, this is my Institute,” she said. “We do what I say.” She paused. “And I do what Helen wants. What do you want, baby?” Helen smiled. “I want a war council,” she said. “Let’s get ready.”