فصل 33

33

REVERENCE

“Wake up, Emma. It’s time to wake up.”

There was a gentle hand on her forehead, a gentle voice calling her out of the long dark.

For some time there had been only shadows. Shadows and cold after a long period of burning. The world had tilted at a distance. She had seen a place too bright to remember and figures that shone like blades in the sun. She had heard voices calling her name. Emma. Emma.

Emma means universe, Julian had said.

But she had not woken up. She had heard Julian’s voice again, this time mixed with Jem’s.

“It was a clever touch,” Jem said, “having not one meeting but two. You knew any of the Shadowhunters might be loyal to the Cohort, so you had them attend only the first meeting. That way when they reported to Horace what your plans were, he was prepared only for you to interrupt the parley. Not for the Downworlder attack.” “Jace and Clary agreed to be the bait,” Julian said. He sounded tired, even in her dream.

“We knew Horace would do anything to get his hands on them. That way we could march them in front of everyone and prove that Horace wasn’t just wrong that they were dead—he was trying to kill them.” There was a long pause. Emma floated in more darkness, though she could see shapes in it now, shapes and shadows.

“I knew there would be spies at the meeting,” Julian said. “I admit they surprised me by sending a demon. I didn’t even figure it out until I saw the Eidolon on the battlefield. How do you think it got into the Sanctuary? Just posing as Oskar Lindquist shouldn’t have protected it.” “Demons have been known to use Shadowhunter blood to enter Institutes. Oskar Lindquist was found dead yesterday. It is possible his blood was used.” “But would that grant the demon the power to be invulnerable to seraph blades?” Julian said.

There was a long pause. “I know of no magic strong enough for that.” Jem sounded troubled. “The Silent Brothers will want to know—” Emma dragged her eyes open reluctantly, not wanting to leave the softness of the dark. “Jem?” she whispered. Her throat and mouth were incredibly dry.

“Emma!” She was pulled into a hug. Jem’s arms were strong. She pressed her head into his shoulder. It was like being hugged by her father—a memory she kept always in the back of her mind, precious and unforgotten.

She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “Julian?” she whispered.

Jem drew back. She was able to see where she was—in a small room with two white beds, a window in the wall letting in sunshine. Julian sat on the bed opposite hers, wearing a clean T-shirt and loose pants like training garments. Someone had put her into the same clothes; her hair was tangled, and her whole body ached like a giant bruise.

Julian looked unharmed. Their eyes met and his expression softened; his back was straight and tense, his shoulders a hard line.

She wanted to go and hug him. At least to hold his hand. She forced herself not to move. She felt fragile inside, her heart thundering with love and fear. She didn’t trust herself to control her emotions.

“You’re in the Basilias,” said Jem. “I woke you, Emma, after Julian had woken. I thought you would want to see each other.” Emma looked around. Through a window in the wall, she could see a bigger room of white-sheeted cots, about half of which were taken up with patients. Silent Brothers moved among the rows and the air smelled of healing—herbs and flowers, the medicines of the Silent City.

Their room had a low arched ceiling painted with healing runes in gold and red and black. More windows faced out onto the buildings of Alicante: the red-roofed houses, the slim needles of the demon towers.

“The children, are they all right?” Emma said. “Helen—?”

“I already asked,” Julian said. It was hard for Emma to look away from him, and also painful to look at him—he seemed different somehow. Changed. She tore her gaze free and stared at Jem, who had risen to stand by the window. “Everyone’s all right, Emma.” “Even Kit? He saved my life—”

“He was quite drained and ill,” said Jem. “But he has recovered well. He is in the Silent City. We lost good warriors on the battlefield, but your friends are safe. You have been unconscious for three days, so you missed the funerals. But then, you’ve attended too many funerals lately as it is.” Emma frowned. “But why is Kit in the Silent City? The Basilias—”

“Emma,” Jem said. “I did not come to you to talk about Kit. I came to talk about you and Julian.” He pushed his hair back from his face; he looked tired, the white streak in his hair more pronounced. “You asked me a long time ago about the parabatai curse. What happens when two parabatai fell in love. I told you what I knew, but I didn’t dream you were asking for yourself.” Emma felt herself go still. She looked at Julian, who nodded.

“He knows,” Julian said in a flat sort of voice. Emma wondered what he was feeling. She couldn’t quite read him as she usually could, but they were likely both in shock. “Everyone does now.” Emma hugged her arms around herself. “But how—”

“I wish I had known,” Jem said, “though I can understand why you did not tell me. I have spoken with Magnus. I know all that you did to try to combat the curse. No one could have struggled more. But this is not a curse that can be undone, save by the destruction of every parabatai bond in all the world.” He looked at Emma with sharp eyes, and she felt the sudden weight of how very old Jem was, and how much he knew about people. “Or at least, that’s what was believed, and every attempt to investigate the curse turned up no records of what might happen if the curse were to be realized. We only knew symptoms: increased power with runes, ability to do things no other Nephilim could do. The fact that you broke the Mortal Sword, Emma—I am sure it was partly the strength of Cortana and partly the power of the curse. But these were all things we only guessed at for many years. Then the battle of three days ago happened. What of it do you remember?” “Emma was dying in my arms,” Julian said. His voice shook. It was strange, though—normally Emma would have felt a twinge inside her ribs, a flicker of his pain. Now she didn’t. “There was a white light—and we were giants, looking down. I don’t feel what we felt, but I remember people looking like ants running around our feet. And feeling like we were on a mission, like we were being directed. I don’t know how to explain it. Like we were being told what to do and we had no choice except to do it.” “As if something were working through you,” said Jem. “A will greater than yours?”

Emma put her hands to her chest. “I remember now—Zara stabbed me—I was bleeding—” She remembered again the feeling of burning, and the world spinning away and down. “We were giants?” “I need to tell you a piece of Nephilim history,” said Jem, though Emma wished he would stick more closely to the topic of Giants: Had Emma and Julian Turned into Them? “Long, long ago, in the early history of Shadowhunters, there were huge demons that threatened the earth. Much bigger than any demon we have now save what Greater Demons can sometimes become. In that time, it was possible for Shadowhunters to become true Nephilim. Giants on the earth. We have old woodcuts and drawings of them, and the writings of those who saw them battling demons.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and read aloud: “ ’The land that we have gone through as spies is a land that devours its inhabitants; and all the people that we saw in it are of great size. There we saw the Nephilim; and to ourselves we seemed like grasshoppers, and so we seemed to them.’ ” “But this is history,” said Julian. “People don’t turn into giants now.”

A land that devours its inhabitants. Emma could not help but think of Thule and the stories of giants there.

“Most did not survive their transformations,” said Jem. “It was the ultimate sacrifice, to blaze up with heavenly fire and die destroying demons. But it was noticed that many who survived were parabatai. Shadowhunters were more likely to live through the transformation if they had a parabatai who did not transform, anchoring them to earth.” “But we both transformed,” said Emma.

“You understand,” Jem said, “that for years we have tried to understand the parabatai curse and what it might be, but we certainly never tied it in to the time of Nephilim. The end of the time of Nephilim came when the giant demons ceased to come to earth. We don’t know why they disappeared; they simply did. Perhaps they were all slain. Perhaps they lost interest in this world. Perhaps they feared the Nephilim. This was eight hundred years ago, and many records have been lost.” “So when we turned into giants,” said Julian, looking as if the words made him ill, “you realized the parabatai curse was tied to Nephilim somehow?” “After the battle, we raced to turn up every record of the true Nephilim. In doing so, I discovered one tale of a terrible event. A Shadowhunter became a true Nephilim to battle a demon. Their parabatai was meant to stay behind as an anchor, but instead, they too transformed, uncontrollably. Both went wild. They slaughtered the demon and then they murdered their families and all those who tried to stop them until they burned alive from the heavenly fire.” He paused. “They were a married couple. In those days there was no Law against loving your parabatai. Some months later it happened again, this time with another pair of lovers.” “And people didn’t know about this?” said Emma.

“Much was done to cover it up. The practice of parabatai is one of the most powerful tools the Shadowhunters possess. No one wanted to lose it. And since the great demons had vanished, it was not thought that there would be a need to employ true Nephilim again. Indeed, no one ever has, and the method by which true Nephilim were made has been lost. It could have ended there, and indeed there are no records in the Silent City of what happened, but Tessa was able to find an archive in the Spiral Labyrinth. It was the tale of two Shadowhunters who became like warlocks—powerful magicians, whose runes were unlike others’. They razed a peaceful town to the ground before they were burned to death. But I suspect they were not burned to death by the townspeople. I suspect that they died from the heavenly fire.” He paused. “Not long after the date of this tale, the Law was passed that no parabatai could fall in love.” “That’s suspicious,” muttered Emma.

“So what you’re saying,” said Julian, “is that the Shadowhunters destroyed their own records of why they created the Law about parabatai love being forbidden? They were afraid that people would take advantage of the power—but they valued the benefits of parabatai too much to give up the ritual?” “That is what I suspect,” said Jem, “though I do not think we will be able to prove it.”

“This can’t keep happening,” said Emma. “We need to tell everyone the truth.”

“The truth won’t stop it happening,” said Julian. He looked at her steadily. “I would have fallen in love with you even if I’d known exactly what the danger was.” Emma’s heart seemed to trip over itself. She tried to keep her voice steady. “But if the horrible punishments are taken away,” she said, “if people don’t think they’ll lose their families, they’ll come forward. Mercy is better than revenge—isn’t it?” “The Silent Brothers have conferred and agree with you,” said Jem. “They will make a recommendation to the Consul and the new Inquisitor when he or she is appointed.” “But Jia—Jia is still the Consul?” said Emma.

“Yes, though she is very ill. She has been for some time. I hope she will now have the time and space to rest and get well.” “Oh.” Emma was surprised—Jia had seemed invulnerable to her.

“The Cohort members who survived are being held in the Gard prison. You did win the battle for us, after all. Though I would not recommend trying that tactic again.” “What’s going to happen to us?” Julian said. “Will we be punished?”

“For what happened on the field? I do not think so,” said Jem. “It was a war. You slew the Riders of Mannan, for which everyone is grateful, and you slew several Cohort members, which you might have done anyway. I think you will be curiosities now—true Nephilim have not been seen in centuries. Also, you may have to do community service.” “Really?” said Emma.

“Not really,” said Jem, and winked at her.

“I meant about the parabatai thing,” said Julian. “We’re still breaking the Law by feeling like we do about each other. Even if they make the Laws gentler, we’ll still have to be separated, exiled even, so this never happens again.” “Ah,” said Jem, and he leaned back against the wall, his arms folded. “When your clothes were cut from you so you could be healed, here in the Basilias, it was noticed that your parabatai runes had disappeared.” Emma and Julian both stared at him.

“Now, a parabatai rune can be cut from your skin, and you will not lose your bond,” said Jem. “The rune is the symbol, not the bond itself. But it was curious, because there were no marks or scars where your parabatai runes had been; it was as if they had never been drawn. The Silent Brothers looked into your minds and saw the bond had been severed.” He paused. “In most cases, I would feel I was giving you bad news, but in this case, perhaps not. You are no longer parabatai.” Neither of them moved or even breathed. Inside Emma’s chest, her heart seemed to be ringing like a bell in a vast space, the deep echo of a cavern whose roof was so high all sound vanished into silence and dreams. Julian’s face was as white as the demon towers.

“Not parabatai?” he said at last, his voice like a stranger’s.

“I’ll give you two a moment to digest the news,” Jem said, a smile curling the edge of his mouth. “I will go to speak with your family. They have been worried about you.” He left the room, and even though he wore jeans and a sweater, the shadow of robes seemed to move about him as he went.

The door closed behind Jem, and still Emma couldn’t move. The terror of letting herself believe that the horror was over, that it would be all right, kept her frozen in place. For so long she had lived with a weight on her shoulders. For so long it had been the first thing she’d thought of when she woke up and the last of her thoughts before she slept; the food of nightmares and the close of every secret fear: I will lose Julian. I will lose my family. I will lose myself.

Even in the brightest moments, she had thought she would lose one of those things. She had never dreamed she would keep them all.

“Emma,” Julian said. He had gotten to his feet, limping slightly, and Emma’s heart broke: She knew this could be no easier for him than it was for her. She rose to her feet, her legs shaking. They faced each other across the space between their two cots.

She didn’t know who broke and moved first. It could have been her, or him; they could have moved in unison as they had done for so long, still connected even though the parabatai bond was gone. They collided in the middle of the room; she flung her arms around Julian, her bandaged fingers digging into the back of his shirt.

He was here, really here, solid in her arms. He kissed her face feverishly and ran his hands through her hair. She knew tears were running down her face; she held on to him as tightly as she could, feeling him shaking in her arms. “Emma,” he was saying, over and over, his voice breaking, shattering on the word. “Emma, Emma, my Emma.” She couldn’t speak. Instead, she traced her fingers clumsily across his back, writing out what she couldn’t say aloud, as they had for so long. A-T L-A-S-T, she wrote. A-T L-A-S-T.

The door flew open. And for the first time ever, they didn’t leap apart: They kept hold of each other’s hands, even as their family and friends poured into the room, tearful and bright with happiness and relief.

“They are quite afraid of you in Faerie now, Cristina,” said Kieran. “They call you a slayer of kings and princes. A terrifying Shadowhunter.” The three of them—Mark, Cristina, and Kieran—were sitting by a dry fountain in Angel Square, outside the Basilias. Cristina sat between Mark’s legs, his arms around her. Kieran leaned against his side.

“I am not terrifying,” Cristina protested.

“You terrify me,” Mark said, and Cristina turned and made a face at him. Kieran smiled but did not laugh: there seemed too much tension in him. Perhaps because it was difficult for him to be in Alicante. It had been heavily faerie-proofed during the Dark War, iron and salt and rowan strategically deployed in nearly every street. The Basilias was covered in hammered iron nails, so Mark and Cristina waited for news of Jules and Emma in the square with Kieran, letting the bright sun warm them as they rested.

After the Dark War, Mark knew, this square had been full of bodies. Corpses laid out in rows, their eyes bound with white silk, ready for burning and burial. Now it was peacefully quiet. There had been deaths in the battle three days before, and the next day a great funeral at the Fields. Jia had spoken: of the sorrow endured, of the necessity of building again and the importance of not acting in revenge against the Cohort, fifty of whom were now in the Gard jail.

“My mother is the one who is terrifying,” said Cristina, shaking her head. She was warm in Mark’s arms, and Kieran was a comforting weight against his side. If it had not been for worry over Emma and Jules, he would have been perfectly happy. “I told her about us last night.” “You did?” Mark was agog. Cristina’s mother was terrifying—he’d heard that after the gates of the City had been opened by the Silent Brothers, she’d climbed up on one of the walls and thrown dozens of spears at the Unseelie faeries with a deadly precision that had sent redcaps scurrying away from the city. There was also a rumor that she’d punched Lazlo Balogh in the nose, but he decided not to confirm it.

“What did she say?” Kieran’s black and silver eyes were worried.

“She said that it was perhaps not the choice she would have made for me,” said Cristina, “but that what mattered was that I was happy. She also said she wasn’t surprised it took two men to fill Diego’s shoes.” She grinned.

“Because Diego saved my life, I will absorb that slight without retort,” said Kieran.

“And I’ll tie his shoelaces together the next time I see him,” said Mark. “Can you believe they found Manuel hiding under Horace’s dead body?” “I am only surprised he did not cut Horace’s body open and hide inside it,” said Kieran dourly.

Mark punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Why do you strike me?” Kieran protested. “It has been done before in Faerie. Once a cowardly warrior hid inside a kelpie for a week.” Something white fluttered down from the sky. A moth, who deposited an acorn in Kieran’s lap and winged away.

“A message?” Mark said.

Kieran unscrewed the acorn’s top. He looked darkly serious, probably because he was now clad in the raiment of an Unseelie King. It still gave Mark a jolt to see him, all in black—black boots, black breeches, and a black waistcoat sewed with embroidered waves of gold and green to symbolize Kieran’s nixie heritage. “From Winter,” Kieran said. “All the Shadowhunters and Downworlders are now returned from the Unseelie Lands to their homes.” Kieran had opened the hospitality of the Unseelie Court to those who had fled the battle on the Fields. Alec had said he thought the gesture would go a long way toward rolling back the laws of the Cold Peace. A meeting to discuss how the Clave would go forward was scheduled for the next day, and Mark was anxious for it.

Kieran had not stayed long in the Unseelie Court. He had returned to Mark and Cristina the day after the battle, and they had been glad to have him back.

“Look!” Cristina cried. She sat up, pointing: One of the windows of the Basilias had opened and Dru had poked her head out. She was waving down at them, gesturing for them to come inside. “Emma and Julian are awake!” she called. “Come up!” Cristina scrambled to her feet and the others followed. Julian and Emma. And Dru had been smiling. Now, Mark thought, now he was perfectly happy.

He started toward the Basilias, Cristina beside him. They were nearly there when they realized Kieran hadn’t followed.

Mark turned. “Kieran—” He frowned. “Is the iron too difficult?”

“It is not that,” Kieran said. “I should return to Faerie.”

“Now?” Cristina said.

“Now and forever,” said Kieran. “I shall not come back from there.”

“What?” Mark strode back toward Kieran. The white letter from Winter fluttered in Kieran’s hand like the wing of a bird. “Speak sense, Kieran.” “I am speaking sense,” Kieran said softly. “Now that we know Emma and Julian will live, I must go back to Faerie. It is the bargain I made with Winter.” He glanced down at the letter. “My general summons me. Without a King the Land is at risk of falling into chaos.” “They have a King!” Cristina had run to Kieran’s side. She wore a light blue shawl; she drew it around herself tightly in agitation, shaking her head. “You are their King, whether you are there or here.” “No.” Kieran closed his eyes. “The King is linked to the Land. Every moment that the King is in the mortal world, the Land weakens. I cannot stay here. I did not want to be King—I did not ask to be King—but I am King, and I cannot be a bad one. It would not be right.” “We could come with you, then,” said Mark. “We could not stay in Faerie all the time, but we could visit—” “I thought that as well. But after even a short time as King in the Court, I know otherwise now,” Kieran said. His hair had gone entirely black under the slim gold circlet that now encircled his brow. “The King is not permitted to have a mortal consort—” “We know that,” said Cristina, remembering her words in Brocelind. Even then she had believed Kieran might not become King. That a way would be found. “But your father had mortal consorts, didn’t he? Isn’t there some way around the rules?” “No. He had mortal lovers.” The word sounded ugly. “A consort is an official position. Mortal companions are playthings to be toyed with and tossed aside. He cared not how they were treated, but I do care. If I brought you to the Court as such, you would be treated with contempt and cruelty, and I could not stand to see it.” “You’re the King,” Cristina said. “They’re your people. Can’t you order them not to be cruel?” “They have had years of a cruel reign,” said Kieran. “I cannot teach them overnight. I did not know it myself. I had to learn kindness from both of you.” His eyes glittered. “My heart is breaking and I cannot see a way out. You are all I want, but I must do what is best for my people. I cannot weaken my Land by coming here, and I cannot hurt you by bringing you there. We would never have peace in either place.” “Please, Kieran,” said Mark. He caught at Kieran’s wrist: I am holding the arm of the Unseelie King, he thought. It was perhaps the first time he had thought of Kieran as the King and not simply his Kieran. “We can find a solution.” Kieran pulled Mark to him and kissed him, hard and suddenly, his fingers digging into Mark’s wrist. When he let him go, he was pale, his cheeks burning with color. “I have not slept for three days. This is why I wanted Adaon to be King. Others want the throne. I do not. I only want you.” “And you will be a great King because of it,” said Cristina, her brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “What if it was only you and Mark? Mark is half-faerie—surely that must mean something—” “He is a Shadowhunter to them,” said Kieran, releasing Mark’s hand. He strode over to Cristina. His eyes were smudged with tiredness. “And I love you both, my brave Cristina. Nothing can change that. Nothing ever will.” The tears she had been holding back spilled down her cheeks as Kieran cupped her face gently. “You’re truly leaving? There must be another way!” “There is no other way.” Kieran kissed her, swiftly and hard, as he had kissed Mark; Cristina closed her eyes. “Know that I will always love you no matter how far away I am.” He let her go. Mark wanted to protest, but more than Cristina, he understood the cruel realities of Faerie. The thorns among the roses. What it would mean to be a toy and plaything of the King of a faerie Court; he could stand it for himself but not for Cristina.

Kieran leaped onto Windspear’s back. “Be happy with each other,” he said, his eyes averted as if he could not bear to look at them. “It is my wish as King.” “Kieran—” Mark said.

But Kieran was already riding away with thunderous speed. The flagstones trembled with Windspear’s retreating hoofbeats; within seconds, Kieran was out of sight.

Kit hated it in the Silent City, even though his room was fairly comfortable, at least compared to the rest of the Silent City, which was all sharp-edged objects made out of human skeletons. Once you’d picked up three or four skulls and muttered “Alas, poor Yorick,” to them, the novelty wore off quickly.

He suspected his rooms were a Silent Brother’s chambers. There were a lot of books on a wooden shelf, all of them about history and glorious battles. There was a comfortable bed and a bathroom down the hall. Not that he wanted to think about the bathroom conditions in the Silent City. He hoped to forget them as soon as possible.

He had been left with little to do but heal and think about what had happened on the battlefield. He remembered over and over the surge of power that had gone through him when he’d struck the Riders and made their horses disappear. Was it dark magic? Was that why he was locked up? And how was it possible he had faerie blood? He could touch iron and rowan wood. He’d lived his whole life surrounded by technology. He didn’t look anything like a faerie and no one in the Shadow Market had ever whispered at the possibility.

It was more than enough to occupy his mind and keep him from thinking about Ty. At least, it should have been.

He was lying on the bed staring at the stone ceiling when he heard footsteps approaching in the hallway outside his room. His first thought was food—a Silent Brother brought him a tray of plain, nourishingly boring food three times a day.

But the footsteps clicked on the stone. Heels. He frowned. The Consul? Diana, even? He’d play it cool and explain that he hadn’t done anything wrong. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair and wondering how the Silent Brothers ever got anything done without owning mirrors. How did they know their robes weren’t on backward?

The door opened and Tessa Gray came in. She wore a green dress and a hairband like Alice in Wonderland. She smiled at him affectionately.

“Please break me out of here,” said Kit. “I don’t want to be trapped here forever. I didn’t do anything wrong, especially not any necromancy.” Tessa’s smile faded. She came over to sit down at the foot of the bed, her gray eyes worried. So much for playing it cool, Kit thought.

“Christopher,” she said. “I’m sorry for having left you here for so long.”

“It’s all right,” he said, though he wasn’t sure it was. “But don’t call me Christopher. No one does.” “Kit,” she said. “I’m so sorry that we left you here. We were looking after Julian and Emma, so we couldn’t leave the city. It was touch and go for a while, but they just woke up.” She smiled. “I thought you’d want to know.” Kit was glad to hear it. And yet—“What about the others, are they okay? What about Ty?”

“Ty and the others are fine. And Emma is all right in part thanks to you. You saved her life.” Kit slumped back against the metal headboard of the bed, relief coursing through him. “So I’m not in trouble for what I did on the battlefield?” “No,” Tessa said slowly. “But you need to know what it means. There is a story. One shrouded in mystery and misdirection. One that very few people alive know.” “Something about faerie blood,” Kit said. “The Rider . . . He said, ‘Kit is the child. The descendant of the First Heir.’ But I don’t see how that would be possible.” Tessa smoothed her skirt out over her legs. “Long ago, the King of Unseelie and the Seelie Queen formed an alliance to unite the faerie Courts. They brought magicians from all over Faerie to cast spells ensuring that the child they had would be the perfect heir. Not all the magic was good magic. Some of it was dark. The King dreamed of a son who would unite the realms, inspire perfect loyalty and perfect love, who would be braver than any faerie knight that had gone before.” “Sure sounds like me,” muttered Kit.

Tessa flashed him a sympathetic smile. “But when the child was born, she was a girl, Auraline.” “Plot twist,” said Kit.

“The King had expected a male heir and was . . . upset. In his eyes, the child was flawed, and eventually he set a faerie knight the task of having her killed, though the King had the tale put around that she had been kidnapped, and that is the story most believe.” “The King planned to kill his own daughter?”

“Indeed, and he has had every daughter of his killed since, in bitterness over Auraline. For she defied him—she was still the Heir. She called upon the knight’s loyalty to her and he let her go. That is what the King tried to hide. He pretended Auraline’s death was the fault of another, even when Auraline fled to the mortal world. There she met a magician who became her husband—a magician who was descended from a line of Shadowhunters who had left the Clave.” “The Lost Herondales,” Kit guessed.

“Correct. They were your ancestors; their line led to your mother. Through all the past decades, the Unseelie King has hunted those he thought were descended from his daughter, and so the Herondales have hidden, concealed by false names and powerful magic.” “Why would the King do that?” said Kit.

“Auraline inherited a great deal of magic. The spells done on her before and after she was born were powerful. She is called the First Heir because she was the first faerie born who was heir to the Seelie and Unseelie Court both. And so are all her descendants. Your blood gives you claim to the High Kingship of Faerie.” “What?” said Kit. “But—I don’t want it. I don’t want to be High King of Faerie!”

“It doesn’t matter what you want, not to them,” Tessa said sadly. “Even if you never went near the throne of Faerie, there are warring factions who would love to get hold of you and use you as a pawn. An army with you at the head of it could take down the King or Queen or both.” Goose bumps flooded along Kit’s arms. “But doesn’t everyone know who I am now? Because of what happened with the Riders? Are they hunting me?” Tessa put her hand on his wrist. It was a gentle, motherly touch. Kit could not remember such a touch in all his life. Only the memory of light blond hair and the sound of a lilting voice singing to him. The story that I love you, it has no end.

“Part of the reason we kept you here these last few days was to reach out into Downworld to see if anyone has been talking about you,” said Tessa. “We have many connections, many ways of following gossip in the Markets. But with the chaos of the battle, all the talk is of the death of the Riders, what happened with Emma and Julian, and Kieran’s ascension. There have been words of a warlock who made the great horses of the Riders vanish, but we have spread the word that it was Ragnor Fell.” She rolled her eyes.

“I thought his name was Ragnor Shade?”

“It is Ragnor Fell,” she said, and smiled in a way that made her look nineteen. “He is a scamp, and has been in hiding for some years. He resurfaced in grand style during the battle, and now everyone knows Ragnor Fell is back—and that he defeated the Riders, to boot.” She chuckled. “He will be insufferable.” “He didn’t actually do it,” said Kit.

“That will not make a difference to Ragnor,” said Tessa gravely.

“So . . . I’m safe?” Kit said. “I could go back to the Institute in Los Angeles?”

“I don’t know.” A line of worry had appeared between Tessa’s brows. “We felt nervous enough before, leaving you, even with you in the Institute and Ragnor nearby to protect you. He even followed you when you went to the Shadow Market.” “Did he say why we were going to the Shadow Market?” Kit said, forgetting, in his sudden fear for Ty, not to act suspicious.

“Of course not,” said Tessa. “He wasn’t there to tattle on you, just protect you.” She patted his shoulder absently while Kit mused on the strange loyalty of people you barely knew. “The thing is—before, we didn’t realize you’d manifest any of the powers of the Heir. Few of your ancestors have before, save Auraline. We thought if we kept you away from things that might trigger the powers . . .” “No faeries,” Kit recalled. “No battles.”

“Exactly. If it happens again, word might spread. Besides, faeries have long memories, and we want to make you as safe as possible.” “Does that mean leaving me in the Silent City? Because I don’t like it here,” Kit said. “I’m not good at Silent. And I don’t want to talk about the bathroom situation.” “No,” Tessa said. She took a deep breath, and Kit realized she was actually nervous. “What I’m saying is that you should come and live with me and Jem and the child we’re going to have. After all our wandering, we’ve decided to settle down and build a home. We want you to—to build it with us. To be part of our family.” Kit was almost too stunned to speak, not the least at the revelation that Tessa was pregnant. “But—why?” Tessa looked at him forthrightly. “Because a long time ago the Herondales gave both Jem and me a home, and we want to do the same for you.” “But am I actually a Herondale?” he asked. “I thought my father was a Herondale and my mother was a mundane, but it looks like they were both Shadowhunters. So I don’t even know what my name should be.” “Your father’s real last name isn’t known,” Tessa said. “He did have a small amount of Shadowhunter blood. It allowed him to have the Sight.” “I thought Shadowhunter blood bred true?”

“It does, but over the course of many generations it can become diluted. Still, your father could have trained and Ascended had he wanted. He never did. It was your mother who bore runes. It was your mother who has made you the Lost Herondale we searched for for so long. It is your choice, of course. You can bear any name you wish. We would still welcome you in our family whether you were called Kit Herondale or not.” Kit thought of Jace and of the mother he had never known, who he remembered now only in the songs she had sung him once. The mother who had given up her own life for his.

“I’ll be a Herondale,” he said. “I like the family ring. It’s classy.”

Tessa smiled at him.

“Anyway,” Kit said. “Where are you planning to live?”

“Jem owns a house in Devon. A big old pile. We’ll be going there. We know you care about the Blackthorns, so we’ll understand if you want to stay with them,” she added quickly. “We would be sad, but we would do whatever we can to protect you. Ragnor would help, and Catarina—we’d have to tell the Blackthorns why you needed the protection, of course—” She was still talking, but Kit had stopped hearing her. The words spilled around him in a meaningless rush as all the memories he’d been trying to push back flew at him like sharply pecking birds. The Institute, the beach, the Blackthorns, always kind to him; Emma saving his life, Julian driving him to the Market and listening to him talk about Ty—even then, he’d wanted to talk about Ty.

All his energy had gone into Ty, all his devotion and hopes for the future. He liked the other Blackthorns, but he hardly knew them well. He probably knew Dru the best, and he liked her as a friend, but that was a small thing compared to the burning hurt and humiliation he felt when he thought about Ty.

He didn’t blame Ty for what had happened. He blamed himself: He’d been too fixated on not losing Ty to tell him what he needed to hear. Everyone needed to be stopped from making bad choices sometimes, but he hadn’t stopped Ty. And he’d gotten what he deserved, really. Now that he knew he meant nothing much to Ty, how could he live in the Institute again? See him every day? Feel like an idiot constantly, feel the pity of his family, listen to them tell him he should try to make other friends, survive in the same house with Ty while Ty avoided him? There was no real question about it. I can’t face going back there and living with them. This is my chance to start again and learn what it means to be who I am.

“I’ll go with you. I’d like to live with you,” Kit said.

“Oh.” Tessa blinked. “Oh!” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, smiling all over her kind face. “That’s lovely, Kit, that’s wonderful. Jem will be so happy too. And it will be wonderful for the baby to have company. I mean, hopefully you’ll like the baby as well.” She blushed. Kit thought it would actually be kind of nice to have a small sibling-type person in his life, but he said nothing. “I’m babbling,” Tessa said. “I’m just so excited. We’ll go tonight—get you safe and settled as fast as possible. We’ll arrange for you to have a tutor—for all the necessary protection spells to be done by the Silent Brothers—” “That sounds good,” Kit said, a little exhausted already by the thought of everything that needed to be done. “I only have this bag—no other luggage.” It was true, and there was nothing he cared about much in the bag either, besides the Herondale dagger and the witchlight Ty had given him.

“I imagine you’d like to say good-bye to the Blackthorns before we go—”

“No,” Kit said. “I don’t want to see them.”

Tessa blinked.

“It’s better if they don’t know about all this First Heir stuff,” Kit said. “It’s safer for them. Jem can tell them I just decided L.A. wasn’t for me. They’re all so far ahead of me in training, and I should learn from the beginning if I want to be a Shadowhunter.” Tessa nodded. Kit knew she didn’t entirely buy his excuse, but she also knew enough not to pry. It was very reassuring.

“I do have one question before we go,” Kit said, and Tessa looked at him curiously. “Will I be growing pointy ears? Maybe a tail? I’ve seen some weird-looking faeries in the Shadow Market.” Tessa grinned. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Everyone wanted to come by the canal house and say hello to Emma and Julian now that they had left the Basilias. People Dru was familiar with as well as people she wasn’t flooded into the ground floor, bringing flowers and small gifts: new gauntlets for Emma, a gear jacket for Julian.

Some were overly bright and cheery and greeted Emma and Julian as if nothing odd had happened to them at all. Some complimented them as if they thought the whole “becoming enormous and almost dying” was part of a predetermined plan that had paid off nicely. Others were awkward—those who had been a little too close to the Cohort, Dru suspected—as if they wondered if Emma and Julian might grow huge at any moment and squash them right there in the kitchen. One kindly older lady complimented Julian on being tall and a terrible silence fell; Tavvy said, “What’s going on?” and Dru had to drag him into the sitting room.

A few others seemed to have had major life experiences. “It just came to me on the field that I should spend more time with my family,” said Trini Castel. “Moments of peace are precious moments. We’ll never get them back.” “So true,” said Julian.

He looked as if he was trying not to laugh. Everyone else nodded thoughtfully. It was very strange—for days, Dru had been worried that Emma and Julian would be punished in some way when they woke up: either officially, by the Clave, or by the ignorant judgment of other Shadowhunters. But it didn’t seem to be happening.

She edged close to Magnus, who was sitting by the fire eating the chocolates out of a box someone had brought for Emma. He’d come over with Maryse, Max, and Rafe so they could play with Tavvy. Alec, Jace, and Clary were coming later, apparently with some sort of surprise. Isabelle and Simon had already returned to the New York Institute to keep an eye on things.

“Why aren’t people mad?” she whispered. “At Emma and Julian?”

Magnus wiggled his eyebrows at her. Magnus had very amusing eyebrows; Dru had always found him an amusing person generally, with his immense tallness and refusal to take anything seriously. “Well,” Magnus said, “without Julian’s war council and his strategy for dealing with Dearborn, it’s likely that the Cohort would have prevailed. The road the Cohort was traveling led to civil war and bloodshed. Everyone is glad it was avoided.” “True,” said Drusilla, “but that was before they became giant angel monsters.”

“Angels are messengers.” Magnus dusted cocoa powder off his hands, looking thoughtful. “They speak in strange ways, even to you, their children. Horace and his Cohort spoke as if they were doing the angels’ will, and because of it, people feared them. On the battlefield, burning with heavenly fire, Julian and Emma proved that wasn’t the case. The angels spoke through them.” “So basically everyone who didn’t like Horace wanted a big angel to squash the Cohort?” Dru said.

Magnus grinned. “They don’t want to say that, but believe me, it was immensely satisfying to them.” At that moment Jace and Clary arrived with Alec and an enormous cake they’d iced themselves. Most of the strangers had already departed, and Ty helped them put it on the sideboard, where the cake box was opened to reveal that the lettering said: CONGRATULATIONS ON NOT BEING GIANTS ANYMORE!

Everyone laughed and gathered around to cut pieces of the lemon-chocolate cake. Julian and Emma leaned against each other, their shoulders touching. Since they had returned from the Basilias, it had seemed that a massive weight was off Julian’s shoulders. He seemed lighter and happier than he had since before the Dark War. Dru knew that he and Emma were no longer parabatai: the angel magic had burned it out of them somehow. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were probably very pleased about that, considering all the smiling and hand touching they were doing.

Mark and Cristina, on the other hand, seemed sad. They were quiet among all the bright chatter in the room. At one point Dru saw Emma take Cristina into the kitchen and hug her as if something bad had happened.

Dru didn’t know what it was, but she did notice that Kieran wasn’t there.

Ty was also quiet. Every time he passed Julian, Jules would pull him in for a hug and ruffle his hair the way he’d liked when he was little. Ty would smile, but he seemed unusually listless, uninterested even in eavesdropping on the guests’ conversations and making notes for his detective manuals the way he usually did.

Eventually he went up to Magnus, who was sitting in a deep blue chair by the fireplace holding his deep blue son on his lap and tickling him. Dru edged closer to the hearth, wondering what Ty wanted to say to the warlock.

“Where’s Kit, really?” Ty said, and Dru thought: I should have known. Jem had told them that Kit was coming to live with him and Tessa in Devon, but not why, nor why they had to leave in such a hurry. Julian and the others seemed to think Kit would visit them soon, but Dru wasn’t so sure. “I keep asking, but no one will tell me.” Magnus looked up, his cat’s eyes hooded. “Kit’s all right. He’s with Tessa and Jem. He’s going to be living with them.” “I know,” Ty said. His voice shook. “I know, but—can I say good-bye to him? If I could just talk to him once—” “He’s already gone,” Magnus said. “He didn’t want to say good-bye to you. To anyone really, but I suspect it was mostly you.” Dru had to stifle a gasp. Why would Magnus say something so flatly unkind?

“I don’t understand,” Ty said, his left hand fluttering at his side. He caught at his wrist with his right hand as if he could stop it.

Julian had always called Ty’s hands his butterflies and told him they were beautiful, graceful, and useful—why not let them fly? But Dru worried. She thought they fluttered like hearts, a sign that Ty was uneasy.

Magnus’s expression was grave. “Come with me.”

Magnus gave his son to Maryse to carry into the sitting room and headed upstairs, Ty at his heels. Dru didn’t hesitate. If Magnus was angry with Ty she was going to find out why, and defend Ty if necessary. Even if Magnus turned her into a toad. She followed.

There was an empty bedroom at the top of the stairs. Magnus and Ty went into it, Magnus leaning his long body against the bare wall. Ty sat down on the edge of the bed while Dru stationed herself by the crack in the mostly open door.

“I don’t understand,” Ty said again. Dru knew he’d probably been working on the problem in his mind all the way up the steps: What did Magnus mean? Why did Kit not want to say good-bye to him?

“Ty,” said Magnus. “I know what you did. Ragnor told me. I wish he’d told me earlier, but then I was dying, so I understand why he didn’t. Also, he thought he’d headed you off. But he didn’t, did he? You got an energy source from the Market and you did the spell anyway.” The spell? The one to raise Livvy’s ghost?

Ty stared. “How do you know?”

“I have sources in the Markets,” said Magnus. “I’m also a warlock, and the son of a Greater Demon. I can sense the dark magic on you, Ty. It’s like a cloud around you I can see.” He sat down on the window ledge. “I know you tried to raise your sister from the dead.” He did what? Realization exploded in Dru’s mind, along with shock: You didn’t just try to raise the dead. Look what had happened to Malcolm. Trying to communicate with a spirit was one thing, necromancy quite another.

Ty didn’t protest, though. He sat on the bed, his fingers knotting and unknotting.

“You are so, so lucky your spell didn’t work,” Magnus said. “What you did was bad, but what you could have done would have been so much worse.” How could you, Ty? How could you, Kit?

“Clary brought Jace back from the dead,” Ty said.

“Clary asked Raziel to bring Jace back from the dead. Think about it—Raziel himself. You are messing about in magic reserved for gods, Ty. There are reasons necromancy is something people hate. If you bring back a life, you must pay with something of equal consequence. What if it had been another life? Would you have wanted to kill someone to keep Livvy with you?” Ty lifted his head. “What if it was Horace? What if it was someone bad? We kill people in battle. I don’t see the difference.” Magnus looked at Ty for a long time; Dru was afraid he might say something harsh to him, but the lines of Magnus’s face had softened. “Tiberius,” he said at last. “When your sister died, she didn’t deserve it. Life and death aren’t doled out by a judge who decides what is fair, and if it were, would you want to be that judge? Every life at your fingertips, and also every death?” Ty squeezed his eyes shut. “No,” he whispered. “I just want my sister back. I miss her all the time. It feels like there’s a hole in me that will never be filled up.” Oh, Dru thought. How odd that it would be Ty who would most accurately describe what it felt like to lose Livvy. She pressed her hand to her side. A hole where my sister should be.

“I know,” Magnus said gently. “And I know that you’ve spent a lot of your life knowing you’re different and that’s true. You are. So am I.” Ty looked up at him.

“So you think this feeling you have, of missing half of yourself, must be fixed. That it can’t be what everyone else is feeling when they lose someone. But it is. Grief can be so bad you can’t breathe, but that’s what it means to be human. We lose, we suffer, but we have to keep breathing.” “Are you going to tell everyone?” Ty said in a near whisper.

“No,” Magnus said. “Provided you promise never to do anything like that again.”

Ty looked nauseated. “I never would.”

“I believe it. But, Ty, there’s something else I’d like you to do. I can’t order you to do it. I can only suggest it.” Ty had picked up a pillow; he was running his hand over the rough, textured side of it, over and over, his palm reading messages in the fabric.

“I know you always wanted to go to the Scholomance,” said Magnus.

Ty started to protest. Magnus held up a hand.

“Just let me finish, and then you can say anything you want to,” Magnus said. “At the L.A. Institute, Helen and Aline can keep you safe and love you, and I know you might not want to leave your family. But what you need is mysteries to solve to keep your mind busy and your soul filled. I’ve known people like you before—they don’t rest until their minds are flying free and solving problems. I knew Conan Doyle back in the day. He loved to travel. Spent his third year of medical school on a whaling boat.” Ty stared.

Magnus seemed to realize he’d veered off course. “All I’m saying is that you have a curious mind,” he said. “You want to solve mysteries, to be a detective of life—that’s why you always wanted to go to the Scholomance. But you didn’t think you could. Because your twin wanted to be parabatai with you, and you couldn’t do both.” “I would have given up the Scholomance for her,” Ty said. “Besides, everyone I met who went there—Zara and the others—was awful.” “The Scholomance is going to be quite different now,” said Magnus. “The Cohort poisoned it, but they’ll be gone. I think it would be a wonderful place for you.” His voice gentled. “Grief is hard. Change can be all that helps.” “Thanks,” Ty said. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Magnus looked weary and a little regretful. As if he wished things could have been different; as if he wished there were something else to say than the things he’d said. He turned toward the door—Dru shrank back—and paused.

“You understand that from now on you’re tied to the ghost of your sister,” Magnus said.

Tied to the ghost of your sister?

Livvy’s ghost?

“I do understand,” Ty said.

Magnus stared at the door of the bedroom as if he were seeing through into the past. “You think you do,” he said. “But you don’t really see it. I know she set you free in the forest. Right now this feels better than nothing, better than being without her. You don’t yet understand the price. And I hope you never have to pay it.” He touched Ty’s shoulder lightly, without looking at him, and left. Dru ducked into the next bedroom until Magnus’s footsteps had disappeared down the stairs.

Then she took a deep breath and went in to talk to Ty.

He hadn’t moved from the end of the bed in the empty room. He stared into the gathering shadows, his face pale as he looked up at her. “Dru?” he said haltingly.

“You should have told me,” Dru said.

He furrowed his arched eyebrows. “You were listening?”

She nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t want you to stop me. And I’m not good at lying. It’s easier for me to just not say.” “Kit lied to me,” she said. She was furious at Kit, though she tried not to show it. Maybe it was better that he wasn’t coming back with them. Even if he had shown her how to pick locks. “Livvy’s ghost—is she really around?” “I saw her today. She was in the Basilias when Emma and Julian woke up. She was sitting on one of the bureaus. I never know when she’s going to be there or not be there. Magnus said she’s tied to me, so . . .” “Maybe you can teach me to see her.” Dru knelt down and put her arms around Ty. She could feel the slight vibrations going through his body; he was shaking. “Maybe we can see her together.” “We can’t tell anyone,” Ty said, but he had put his arms around Dru, too; he was hugging her, his hair against her cheek as soft and fine as Tavvy’s. “No one can know.” “I won’t say anything.” She held on to her brother, held on hard, as if she could keep him tethered to the earth. “I’ll never tell.” * * *

Emma lay atop the covers of her bed, the only light in the room the reflected radiance of the demon towers as it shone through the window.

She supposed it wasn’t surprising that she couldn’t sleep. She’d slept for three days and awakened to a series of shocks: realizing what had happened, Jem’s explanation, the house full of people. The odd feeling that followed her constantly that she’d forgotten something, that she’d put something down in the other room and needed to remember to get it.

It was the parabatai bond, she knew. Her body and her brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that it was gone. She was missing it the way people who lost limbs sometimes still felt them there.

She was missing Julian. They’d been together all day, but always surrounded by other people. When the house had finally emptied of strangers, Julian had taken Tavvy up to bed, bidding her an awkward good night in front of the others.

She’d gone up to bed herself not long after, and had been lying there worrying for hours. Would everything be awkward now that they weren’t parabatai? Now that they floated in a new, foreign place between being friends and lovers? They had never declared themselves because words like “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” seemed banal in the face of curses and giant monsters. What if everything that had happened was so devastating that they could never reach a place of normalcy?

She couldn’t stand it. She rolled out of bed, got to her feet, and smoothed down her nightgown. She flung open her bedroom door, ready to march across the hall to Julian’s room and make him talk to her, no matter how awkward it might be.

Just outside her door stood Julian, his hand outstretched, looking as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

He lowered his hand slowly, the distant moonlight glinting off his sea-glass bracelet. The hallway was dark and quiet, casting Julian’s face into shadow. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to come in,” he said.

Relief made Emma sag against the doorway. “I do want you to come in.”

She moved back into the room while he shut the door behind him. They were both in darkness now, only the light of the glass towers providing illumination. Julian, in all black, was a shadow among shadows as he looked down at her; his hair looked black too, striking against his pale skin. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to kiss you.” She didn’t move. More than anything else she wanted him to come to her and put his hands on her. She wanted to feel him against her when the space between them was no longer a space of cursed and forbidden things.

“I do want you to kiss me,” she whispered.

He closed the distance between them in one step. His hands cupped the back of her head, his mouth slanting down over hers, hot and sweet as tea with honey. She ran her teeth lightly across his bottom lip and he made a guttural sound that raised the hairs along her arms.

His warm lips moved to graze her cheek, her jawbone. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to touch you,” he murmured against her skin.

It was a pleasure just to look up at him slowly. To know that none of this needed to be rushed. She slipped her nightgown over her head and watched his face go tight with desire, his eyes dark as the bottom of the sea.

“I want you to touch me,” she said. “There’s nothing you could do to me that I wouldn’t want, because it’s you.” He caught her in his arms and it was strange for a moment, her bare skin against his clothes, cotton and denim and metal rivets as he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. They crashed onto it together, Julian struggling out of his shirt, his jeans; Emma crawled atop him, leaning down to kiss his throat, to lick and suck at the pulse point there where she could feel the beating of his heart.

“I want to go slowly,” she whispered. “I want to feel everything.”

He gripped her hips and flipped their position, rolling over so that he was above her. He grinned down at her wickedly.

“Slowly it is,” he said.

He started with her fingers, kissing each one; he kissed the palms of her hands and her wrists, her shoulders and her collarbones. He traced a path of kisses over her stomach until she was writhing and gasping and threatening him, which only made him laugh softly and turn his attention to even more sensitive places.

When the world had gone white behind her eyes several times, he rose up over her and brushed her damp hair away from her face. “Now,” he whispered, and covered her mouth with his own as he joined their bodies together.

It was slow as he had said it would be, as it had never been before; there was no desperation beyond their desire. They lay crosswise on the bed, sprawled and hungry, yearning and touching. She stroked his face lightly, reverently: the curve of his mouth, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones, and with every touch and moment his breath grew more ragged, his grip on the sheets tighter. Her back arched to meet him, her head full of sparks: they rose and blended together until everything was fire. And when they caught alight at last, neither able to wait a moment longer, they were one person. They were incandescent as angels.

From Mark’s room, he could see the moon, and it troubled him.

There had been so many nights on horseback, the moon riding with them as if it, too, hunted the sky. He could hear Kieran’s laughter in his ears, even now, clear laughter untouched by sorrow.

He hoped Kieran would laugh again like that someday.

He could only picture him sitting in darkness, in the blackened throne room of the Unseelie King, a bleak and lonely place. A King of shattered hearts and broken souls, solitary on his granite throne, growing older slowly through the ages of the world.

It was more than he could stand. He was grateful beyond measure when Cristina slipped into his room and crawled onto the bed with him. She wore white pajamas, her hair loose and dark. She curled up against his side, pressing her face into his neck. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Is this really how it ends? The three of us, all miserable?” he said.

She placed her hand over his heart. “I love you, Mark,” she said, her voice gentle. “I hate to think of your heart torn as mine is.” “I am happier when you are here,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “And yet . . .”

“And yet,” she said. “I have an idea, Mark. Perhaps a mad one. But it might work. It might mean we could see him again.” Her dark eyes were straightforward. “I would need your help.” He drew her up his body and kissed her; she went soft against him, her body curving into his. She was rich and sweet as honey, silken as a bed of wildflowers. She was the only woman he would ever love.

He thumbed the tears away from her cheeks and whispered, “My hand, my heart, my blade are yours. Tell me what I need to do.” * * *

Emma lay with her head on Julian’s chest, feeling the beat of her heart slowly return to normal. Somehow most of the covers had come off the bed and were on the floor; they were half-wrapped in sheets, Julian’s free hand idly playing with her hair.

“So I guess you feel pretty good about yourself,” she said.

He blinked at her sleepily. “Why would that be?”

She laughed, her breath stirring the soft dark curls of his hair. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” He smiled. “How do you feel?”

She folded her arms on his chest, looking up at him. “Happy. So happy but also like I don’t deserve to be.” His hand stilled in her hair. “Why not? You deserve to be happy more than anyone I know.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I would have done a terrible thing,” Emma said. “I would have broken all the parabatai bonds. It would have caused so much devastation.” “You were half-crazy from the curse,” Julian said. “You weren’t thinking straight.”

“Still. I let myself be manipulated by the Queen. Even though I knew she only cares about herself. I knew it, and I let her get into my head. I should have had faith.” “But you did,” he said. “Faith isn’t never having any doubts; it’s having what you need to overcome them.” He lightly stroked her cheek. “We all have things we regret doing. I regret asking Magnus to do that spell. I regret that we couldn’t help Ash. He was just a kid.” “I know,” she said. “I hate that we left him behind. But if he was here—someone would always be looking for him. All it would take is some spells from the Black Volume to make him so powerful everyone would want to use him.” “Good thing there aren’t any Black Volumes left,” said Julian. “For a while it was like a whack-a-mole game. I guess I contributed to that.” He smiled crookedly. “Oh, and I regret killing Dane Larkspear.” “He was going to kill us,” Emma said. “You did what you had to do.”

“Ah, there’s the murderous girl I know and love,” said Julian. “I don’t know how I’ll ever make up for Dane. But I have the faith you’ll help me figure it out.” “I believe you deserve to be happy,” Emma said. “You’re the bravest and most loving person I know.” “And I believe you deserve to be happy,” said Julian. “So how about I believe it for you, and you believe it for me? We can believe it for each other.” Emma glanced toward the window. She could see the first traces of sunlight in the sky. Morning was breaking.

She looked up at Julian. Dawn touched the edges of his hair and eyelashes with gold. “Do you have to go back to your room?” she whispered.

He smiled down at her. “No,” he said. “We don’t have to lie or pretend now. We don’t have to lie or pretend ever again.” * * *

It was the first time Emma had been in the Council Hall since Livvy had died.

It wasn’t the only reason she was desperate for the meeting to be over, but it was certainly part of it. The blood might have been scrubbed out of the dais, but she would always see it there. She knew it was the same for Julian; he tensed beside her as they went in through the doors with the rest of the Blackthorns. The whole family was quiet, even Tavvy.

The Hall was filled to bursting. Emma had never seen it so full: Shadowhunters were smashed together on the rows of seats, and the aisles were filled with those who were standing; some were Projecting in from distant Institutes, their half-transparent shimmering forms glowing along the back wall. Emma recognized Isabelle and Simon among them and waved.

Thankfully, seats had been kept for the Blackthorns by Jaime and Diego. Jaime had held an entire row by lying across it; he popped up when they approached and let them all slide in, winking at several glaring Shadowhunters who had been hoping to find a seat.

People stared at all the Blackthorns, but especially Emma and Julian, as they took their seats. It had been the same at the house the day before: strangers gawking, wide-eyed. Emma remembered what she had thought about Jace and Clary at the war council meeting: So this is what it’s like to be heroes. To be the ones with angel blood, the ones who’ve literally saved the world. People look at you as if . . . almost as if you’re not real.

As it turned out, it made you wonder yourself how real you were.

Emma wound up sitting between Cristina and Julian, her fingertips touching Julian’s discreetly on the seat between them. Now that she and Julian were no longer parabatai, all she wanted was to get home and start their new life. They would discuss their travel year and plan all the places they would go. They would visit Cristina in Mexico, and Jace and Clary in New York, and Great-Aunt Marjorie in England. They would go to Paris and stand in front of the Eiffel Tower holding hands and there would be nothing wrong with it and nothing forbidden.

Maybe it would be a short meeting? She glanced around the room, noting the serious expressions on everyone’s faces. Knots of those who had been friendly to the Cohort, but had not fought with them on the field, huddled together on benches, whispering. Dearborn sympathizers like Lazlo Balogh, who had remained in the city for the duration of the battle, hadn’t been arrested—only those who had raised weapons against other Nephilim would stand trial.

“People look grim,” she murmured to Julian.

“No one wants to sentence the Cohort,” he said. “A lot of them are young. It feels brutal, I think.” “Zara deserves sentencing,” Emma muttered. “She stabbed me and she totally upset Cristina with that whole fake engagement.” Julian looked over at Cristina, who had her head on Mark’s shoulder. “I think Cristina has moved on,” he said. “And Diego, too.” Emma darted a look at where Diego—his cheek bandaged—was sitting and chatting with a glowing Divya, who had been thrilled Anush had fought on their side on the field. Interesting.

There was a rustle and a flourish as the guards closed the side doors and Jia entered through the back of the Hall. The room hushed as she moved down to the dais, her robes sweeping the steps. Behind her, wearing the flame-colored tunics of prisoners, were the captured Cohort members. There were perhaps fifty or sixty of them, many of them young, just as Julian had said. So many had been recruited through the Scholomance and its outreach. Vanessa Ashdown, Manuel Villalobos, Amelia Overbeck, and Zara herself, her expression defiant.

They filed onto the dais behind Jia, the guards guiding them into rows. Some were still bandaged from the battle. All bore iratzes. Their tunics were printed with runes meant to keep them trapped in the city. They could not pass the gates of Alicante.

Flame to wash away our sins, Emma thought. It was odd to see prisoners with their hands unbound, but even if each of them had been freely bearing two longswords, they would hardly have been a match for the hundreds of other Shadowhunters in the Council Hall.

She saw Diego lean over to whisper something to Jaime, who shook his head, his face troubled.

“We come together in a time of grief and healing,” announced Jia, her voice echoing off the walls. “Thanks to the bravery of so many Shadowhunters, we have fought nobly, we have found new allies, we have preserved our relationships with Downworlders, and we have opened a new way forward.” Zara made a horrible face at the phrase “preserved our relationships.” Emma hoped she would be sentenced to cleaning toilets for the rest of eternity.

“However,” said Jia. “I am not the leader who can take us on that path.”

Murmurs ran through the room; was Jia really saying what they thought she was saying? Emma bolted upright in her seat and looked over at Aline, but she seemed as shocked as the rest of the room. Patrick Penhallow, though, seated in the front row, seemed unsurprised.

“I will preside over the sentencing of the Cohort,” Jia continued, unfazed. “It will be my last act as Consul. After that there will be an open election for a new Consul and a new Inquisitor.” Helen whispered to Aline, who took her hand. Emma felt a chill go through her. This was a surprise and the last thing she wanted was a surprise. She knew it was selfish—she remembered Jem saying that Jia was ill—but still, Jia was a known quantity. The unknown loomed.

“And when I say an open election,” Jia continued, “I mean an open election. Everyone in this Hall will have a vote. Everyone will have a voice. No matter their age; no matter if they are Projecting from their home Institute. No matter,” she added, “if they are members of the Cohort.” A roar went through the room.

“But they are criminals!” shouted Joaquin Acosta Romero, head of the Buenos Aires Institute. “Criminals do not have a vote!” Jia waited patiently for the roar to die down into quiet. Even the Cohort were staring at her in puzzlement. “Look how full this Council Hall is,” she said. People twisted around in their seats to stare at the overflowing rows of seats, the hundreds of Projections in the back of the room. “You’re all here because over the past week, and especially since the battle, you have realized how urgent this situation always was. The Clave was nearly taken over by extremists who would have driven us into isolation and self-destruction. And everyone who stood back and allowed this to happen—through inattention, through apathy and overconfidence—” Her voice shook. “Well. We are all guilty. And therefore we will all vote, as a reminder that every voice counts, and when you choose not to use your voice, you are letting yourself be silenced.” “But I still don’t see why criminals should vote!” yelled Jaime, who had apparently taken the “no matter their age” portion of the speech to heart.

“Because if they don’t,” said Diana, rising to her feet and addressing the room, “they will always be able to say that whoever the new Consul is, they were elected because the majority had no voice. The Cohort has always flourished by telling the lie that they speak for all Shadowhunters—that they say the words that everyone would speak if they could. Now we will test that lie. All Shadowhunters will speak. Including them.” Jia assented gravely. “Miss Wrayburn is correct.”

“So what will be done with the prisoners, then?” called Kadir. “Will they walk among us, free?” “The Cohort must be punished! They must be!” The voice was a raw scream. Emma turned and flinched; she felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. It was Elena Larkspear. She was alone; her husband had not come to the meeting. She looked as haggard as if she had aged fifty years in the past week. “They used our children—as if they were trash—to do the things too filthy or dangerous for them to do! They murdered my daughter and my son! I demand reparations!” She fell back into her seat with a dry sob, covering her face with her hands. Emma stared at the Cohort, her throat aching: even Zara was having a hard time wiping the look of horror off her face.

“They will not go unpunished,” said Jia gently. “They have been tested by the Mortal Sword and confessed to their crimes. They sent Dane Larkspear to murder other Shadowhunters, and were thus directly responsible for his death.” She inclined her head toward Elena. “They murdered Oskar Lindquist that a demon might take his place at a meeting held at the Los Angeles Institute. Led by Horace Dearborn, this group used lies and intimidation to try to lead the Clave into a false alliance with Faerie—” “And now you people are trying to lead the Clave into an alliance with the new King—how is that different?” Zara shouted, rallying.

Emma whipped her head around to study the room. Many Shadowhunters looked angry or annoyed, but there were those who clearly didn’t disagree with Zara. Ugh.

A voice rang out clearly, stony and cold. Alec Lightwood’s. “Because open political engagement is very different from disavowing any relationship to Downworlders in public while conspiring to commit murder with them behind the backs of the people you’re meant to be governing.” “The Cohort imprisoned loyal Nephilim and sent others to their deaths,” said Jia after a withering glance at Zara. “We were brought to the brink of civil war.” She looked out at the Clave. “You might think I want to punish them severely, strip their Marks and send them into the mundane world they so despise. But we must consider mercy. So many of the Cohort are young, and they were influenced by misinformation and outright lies. Here we can give them a chance to again rejoin the Clave and redeem themselves. To turn from the path of deceit and hate and walk once again in the light of Raziel.” More murmurs. The members of the Cohort looked at each other in confusion. Some seemed relieved, some angrier than ever.

“After this meeting,” Jia went on, “the Cohort will be split up and sent to different Institutes. Several of the Institutes who attended Julian Blackthorn’s war council have offered to take in former Cohort members and show them a better way. They will have a chance to prove themselves before they return to the homeland.” Now there was an eruption of chatter. Some shouted the punishment was lenient. Some shouted that it was cruel to “exile them from Alicante.” Jia stilled the shouting with a gesture.

“Any who are not in favor of this punishment, please raise your hand or voice. Manuel Villalobos, you are not allowed to vote on this issue.” Zara pinned Manuel, whose hand was half-raised, with a scowl.

A few more hands were raised. Emma almost wanted to raise hers and to say that they deserved worse. But then, she had spared Zara’s life on the field, and the gesture had led to all of this: had led to the end of the battle, and her and Julian’s freedom.

Maybe Arthur had been right. Maybe mercy was better than revenge.

She kept her hand down, as did all the other Blackthorns. No one she knew well raised their hand, not even Diego or Jaime, who had good cause to hate Zara and her friends.

Jia looked relieved. “And now,” she said, “to the election of a new Consul.”

Jace was on his feet before she finished speaking. “I nominate Alec Lightwood.”

The Blackthorns clapped fiercely. Alec looked stunned and touched. Clary cheered, and the cheer spread—many in the room waved their hands in support, and Emma’s heart swelled. Jace could have reached out for the position of Consul had he wanted; he and Clary were beloved; either would win handily. But he had put Alec forward for it, because it was what Alec wanted—and because Jace knew Alec was the right choice.

Delaney Scarsbury rose to his feet, his face red. “I object. Alec Lightwood is much too young. He lacks experience and notoriously consorts with Downworlders.” “You mean by heading up the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance where his job is to consort with Downworlders?” called Julian.

“He does it in his free time as well, Blackthorn,” said Scarsbury with a nasty smile. Emma rather wished Magnus was there and could turn him into a toad, but Downworlders weren’t at the meeting. They had refused to be in the same room as the Cohort members, and Emma couldn’t blame them.

“You know what they mean,” called Zara. “He’s a filthy pervert. Jace should stand for Consul instead.” “I am also a filthy pervert,” said Jace, “or at least I aspire to be. You have no idea what I get up to in my spare time. Just last week I asked Clary to buy me a—” Clary pulled him down next to her and belabored him with her fists. He grinned.

“What about Patrick Penhallow?” someone shouted. “He knows what he’s doing!”

Patrick, seated in the front row, rose to his feet with a stony expression. “I will not stand as Consul,” he said. “My wife has given enough. My daughter has given enough. It is time for my family to be allowed some peace and rest.” He sat down in dead silence.

Delaney Scarsbury said, “I nominate Lazlo Balogh.”

Real fear stabbed through Emma for the first time that day. She and Julian looked at each other, both remembering the same moment—Lazlo rising in the Hall of Accords to deliver the words that sent Helen into exile and abandoned Mark to the Hunt. Both Mark and Helen Blackthorn have the blood of faeries in them. We know the boy’s already joined up with the Wild Hunt, so he’s beyond us, but the girl shouldn’t be among Shadowhunters. It isn’t decent.

Those who hadn’t cheered for Alec’s nomination looked pleased, as did the Cohort. “He’d be an awful Consul,” Emma said to Julian. “He’d set everything back.” “We don’t really have a better system,” said Julian. “All we can do is ask people what they want.” “And hope they choose the right thing,” said Cristina.

“Alec would look much better on the money,” said Mark.

“We don’t put the Consul on the money,” said Julian. “And we don’t print money, anyway.”

“We could start doing both,” said Mark.

“Alec Lightwood has never even lived in Idris,” said Lazlo, rising up. “What does he know about governing our homeland?” Alec rose to his feet. “My parents were exiled,” he said. “And most Shadowhunters don’t live in Idris—how will you govern them if you think the only Shadowhunters that matter live in Alicante?” “Your parents were exiled because they were in the Circle!” snapped Balogh.

“And he has learned from his parents’ mistakes!” Maryse snapped. “My son knows better than anyone else the horror that bigotry and prejudice can bring.” Alec gave her a nod, and spoke coolly. “You voted for my father for Inquisitor, Balogh, so it didn’t bother you then,” he said. “My father gave his life in this room for the Clave. What have you done besides exile Shadowhunter children because you were afraid of their faerie blood?” “Damn,” said someone in the back. “He’s good.”

“Lightwood would end the Downworlder Registry,” said Lazlo. “And the Cold Peace.”

“You’re right, I would,” said Alec. “We can’t live in fear of Downworlders. Downworlders gave us Portals. They gave us a victory over Valentine. They gave us a victory on the Fields just now. We cannot keep pretending we don’t need them, any more than they can pretend they don’t need us. Our future depends on our mandate—we are the hunters of demons, not the hunters of our own allies. If prejudice sidetracks us, we may all die.” Lazlo’s expression darkened. Applause rang through the room, though not all were applauding. Many Shadowhunters sat with their hands clasped firmly in their laps.

“I think it has come time for the vote,” said Jia. She took a tarnished glass vessel from a stand on the dais and handed it down to Patrick in the front row. He bent his head and whispered into the vial.

Emma watched with interest—she had heard of the process of voting for Consul but had never seen it. The vial went from hand to hand, each Shadowhunter whispering into it as if confessing a secret. Those Projecting had the vial held out to them by obliging hands since Projections could speak but not touch objects.

When the vial came to her, she lifted it to her mouth and said, “Alexander Lightwood,” in a firm, loud voice. She heard Julian chuckle as she passed it along to Cristina.

At last the vial had been shared with every Shadowhunter save the Cohort. It was given to Jia, who passed it along to Zara.

“Vote wisely,” she said. “The freedom to choose your own Consul is a great responsibility.”

For a moment, Zara looked as if she might spit in the jar. She jerked it out of Jia’s hand, spoke into it, and handed it to Manuel on her right. He smirked as he whispered into the jar, and Emma’s shoulders tightened, knowing that every Cohort vote was a vote against Alec.

At last the final vote was cast, and the jar returned to Jia, who took out her stele and drew a rune on its side. The vial shook in her hand as pale smoke poured from its open neck, the expelled breath of hundreds of Nephilim. It formed into words across the air.

ALEXANDER GIDEON LIGHTWOOD

Clary and Jace flung themselves at Alec, laughing, as the air exploded with cheers. Aline and Helen gave Alec a mutual thumbs-up. The Projections of Isabelle and Simon waved from the back of the room. The Blackthorns whooped and applauded; Emma whistled. Maryse Lightwood wiped away tears of happiness as Kadir patted her shoulder gently.

“Alec Lightwood,” cried Jia. “Please rise. You are the new Consul of the Clave.”

Emma had expected an outburst from Lazlo, or at least a look of black rage. Instead he merely smirked coldly as Alec rose to his feet among cheers and applause.

“This vote doesn’t count! It shouldn’t count!” shouted Zara. “If those who died on the field could have voted, Alec Lightwood would never have won!” “I will work toward your rehabilitation, Zara,” said Alec evenly.

Silver flashed. Zara had snatched a long dagger from the weapons belt of a guard standing near her; he made no move to stop her. There were gasps as the rest of the guards tossed weapons to the other Cohort members, steel sparking in the light from the great windows.

“We refuse to recognize Alec Lightwood as Consul!” shouted Manuel. “We stand for our old traditions, for the way things always have been and always should be!” “Guards!” Jia shouted, but the twenty or so guards were making no effort to stop the Cohort—in fact, they had joined them in a flurry of unsheathed daggers. Emma glanced at Lazlo Balogh, who was watching with folded arms, clearly unsurprised. Somehow, Emma realized, the Cohort’s allies had planted guards who were sympathetic to their cause. But what on earth were they planning? There were still only a fraction of them compared to the overwhelming number of Shadowhunters who had voted for Alec.

Jia leaped down from the dais, unsheathing her dao. All over the Hall, Shadowhunters were rising to their feet and drawing arms. Alec had reached for his bow, Jace his sword. Dru reached for Tavvy, her face pale, as the rest of the family took out their weapons.

Then Zara raised her dagger and put it to her own throat.

Movement in the room ceased. Emma still gripped Cortana, staring as Manuel followed Zara’s gesture, placing the blade of his own dagger against his throat. Amelia Overbeck did the same—Vanessa Ashdown followed, with Milo Coldridge—until all the Cohort members stood with blades to their throats.

“You can put your weapons down,” said Zara, holding the knife against her throat so tightly that blood dripped down her hand. “We are not here to harm our fellow Shadowhunters. You have harmed yourselves enough with your foolish and shortsighted vote. We are acting to save Alicante from corruption and the glass towers from ruin.” Her eyes glittered madly. “You spoke before of the value of the lands outside Alicante as if Alicante were not the heart of our people. Very well then, go out and embrace the mundane world, away from the Angel’s light.” “Are you demanding we leave Alicante?” said Diana in disbelief. “We who are Nephilim as you are?” “No consort of a faerie is as Nephilim as I am,” Zara spat. “Yes. We ask—we demand—that you go. Clary Fairchild can create Portals; let her make one now. Step through it and go where you wish. Anywhere that is not Alicante.” “You’re only a few people,” said Emma. “You can’t kick the rest of us out of Alicante. It’s not your tree house.” “I am sorry it came to this,” said Lazlo, “but we are not a few people. We are many more. You may have intimidated people into voting for Lightwood, but their hearts are with us.” “You would propose a civil war? Here in the Council Hall?” demanded Diana.

“Not a civil war,” said Zara. “We know we cannot win against you in battle. You have too many filthy tricks. You have warlocks on your side.” She glared at Alec. “But we are willing to die for our beliefs and for Alicante. We will not leave. We will spill Shadowhunter blood, yes. Our own blood. We will cut our own throats and die here at your feet. Either you will go or we will wash this room clean in our blood.” Jaime rose to his feet. “Call their bluff,” he said. “They cannot hold us hostage—”

Zara nodded to Amelia, who plunged the dagger she held into her stomach and twisted it viciously to the side. She fell to her knees spurting blood as the room exploded with gasps of horror.

“Can you build your new Clave on the blood of dead children?” Zara screamed at Alec. “You said you would show mercy. If you let us die, every time you step into this room from this moment onward, you will be walking on our corpses.” Everyone looked at Jia, but Jia was looking at Alec. Alec, the new Consul.

He was studying not Zara’s face but the faces of the others in the room—those who looked at Zara as if she were the promise of freedom. There was no mercy on the faces of the Cohort. Not a one of them reached for Amelia as her blood ran out across the floor.

“Very well,” said Alec with a deadly calm. “We will go.”

Zara’s eyes widened. Emma suspected she had not expected her plan to work, but had hoped to die as a martyr and destroy Alec and the rest of them in the process.

“You understand,” Lazlo said, “that once you go, Lightwood, you cannot return. We will lock the wards of Idris against you, tear the Portal from the walls of the Gard, brick up the entrances from the Silent City. You will never be able to come back.” “Brick up the entrances to the Silent City?” said Diego. “You would cut off your own access to the Silent Brothers? To the Cup and Sword?” “Who holds Idris holds the Mortal Mirror,” said Lazlo. “As for the Silent Brothers, they have been corrupted, as the Iron Sisters have. We will cut them off from Alicante until they see the error of their ways. Until they see who the true Shadowhunters are.” “The world is bigger than Idris,” said Jace, standing tall and proud beside Alec. “You think you are taking our homeland, but you are making it your prison. Just as we can never return, you will never be able to leave.” “Outside the wards of Idris we will fight on to protect the world,” Alec said. “In here, you will rot as you play at being soldiers with nothing to fight but each other.” Alec turned his back on Balogh, moving to face the Clave. “Let’s open the Portal now,” he said. “Those who do not live in Alicante, return through it to your homes. Those who live here will have a choice. Gather your families and come with us or remain here, trapped forever, with the Cohort as your rulers. It is the choice of each Shadowhunter whether they wish to be imprisoned or free.” Clary rose to her feet and walked to the doors at the back of the room, taking her stele from her pocket. The Clave watched in silence as her stele flashed in her hand and a silvery-gray whirlwind began to grow against the doors, opening outward, shimmering along the walls until it had become an enormous Portal.

She turned to look at the room. “I’ll keep this open for as long as anyone needs to leave Idris,” she said, her voice firm and clear. “I’ll be the last who passes through. Who wants to be the first?” Emma stood, and Julian moved with her, acting together as they always had. “We will follow our Consul,” Emma said.

“The Blackthorns will go first,” Julian said. “Keep your prison, Zara. We will be free without you.” The rest of their family rose with them. Aline went to Jia and looped her arm through her mother’s. Emma would have thought the room would have been full of cries and chaos, of arguing and fighting. But it seemed as if a cloak of stunned acceptance had been drawn over the Shadowhunters, both those leaving and those staying. The Cohort and their allies watched in silence as the majority of Shadowhunters either headed toward the Portal or went to gather up their things from their Alicante houses.

Alicante would be a ghost town, a ghost city in a ghost land, Emma thought. She looked for Diana, found her nearby in the crowd. “Your father’s shop,” she said. “Your apartment—” Diana just smiled. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I was always coming back with you to Los Angeles, love. I’m a teacher. Not a shop owner in Idris. And why would I want to live somewhere Gwyn couldn’t go?” Cristina hugged Diego and Jaime as they stood, ready to return to Mexico City. Divya and Rayan were preparing themselves. So were Cameron and Paige Ashdown, though Vanessa still stood on the dais, glaring at them with narrowed eyes. Amelia’s body lay at her feet. Emma felt a twist of pity. To sacrifice so much for a cause that cared nothing for you, and then to die unmourned. It seemed too cruel.

Cameron turned his back on Vanessa, heading for the stairs, joining the Blackthorns and their friends as Clary directed the Portal to return them to Los Angeles. He didn’t look back at his cousin. Emma hoped he saw her smile at him encouragingly.

The Ashdowns weren’t the only family that would be torn apart by this. But with every step she took toward the Portal, she knew they were doing the right thing. No shining new world could be built on blood and bones.

The Portal rose up before Emma, lucent and shimmering. Through it she could see the ocean and the shore, the looming shape of the Institute. Finally the Blackthorns were going home. They had passed through blood, through disaster, and now through exile, but they were going home at last.

She took Julian’s hand, and they stepped through.