فصل 6

6

FROM A PROUD TOWER

Emma awoke with a pounding headache to a knocking on her bedroom door. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in all her clothes; her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks. She felt, and suspected she looked, like a shipwreck.

“Come in,” she called, and the door swung open. It was Julian.

She sat up. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Emma felt cold all over; he would notice her blotchy face, her rumpled clothes. Even if he didn’t love her, he would feel— “You’d better get dressed and cleaned up,” he said. He wore jeans and a blue sweater and looked as if he’d slept fine. He looked good, even. Like a handsome stranger, someone she didn’t know.

There was nothing harsh in his voice, just a calm pragmatism. She hadn’t needed to worry he’d feel pity for her, she realized, or even guilt; he didn’t feel anything at all.

“Dane Larkspear just came by the house with a message,” he said. “The Inquisitor wants to see us right away.” * * *

The moment Cristina opened the door to the kitchen, Helen popped up from behind the counter, holding a ladle and smiling brightly. “Good morning!” Cristina had woken early, her body scrambled by the time difference between L.A. and Idris, and sleepwalked her way to the kitchen, meaning to throw together some toast and coffee. Helen’s energetic greeting made her want to lie down and nap on the table. She would never understand morning people, especially those who functioned without a caffeine injection.

“I’m making oatmeal,” Helen went on.

“Oh,” said Cristina. She didn’t really like oatmeal.

“Aline’s up in the office, trying to make sense of all the papers. It looks like the Centurions tore the place apart.” Helen grimaced.

“I know.” Cristina looked longingly at the coffeemaker. Would it be rude to push past Helen and grab for the coffee beans and filter?

“Don’t bother,” Helen said. “The Centurions left moldy coffee in the pot.” She gestured toward the sink, where the coffeepot was soaking.

Cristina instantly hated the Centurions even more than she had before. “Is there anything they don’t ruin?” “They left laundry,” Mark said, coming in with his hair wet. He must have just showered. Cristina felt the immediate and uncontrollable spark of nerves in her stomach, and sat down on a counter stool. She could still see the healing weal of skin around Mark’s wrist, where the binding spell had cut him; she had one that matched. His eyes glowed in the morning sunlight, blue and gold as the heart of the ocean; she turned quickly away from looking at him and began studying a kitchen tile depicting Hector’s body being dragged around the walls of Troy. “So much laundry. Piles and piles of laundry.” “I’ll do the laundry.” Helen had moved to the stove and was stirring a pot industriously. “I’m making oatmeal.” “Oh,” said Mark. He met Cristina’s eyes briefly. A shared moment of oatmeal dislike passed between them.

More Blackthorns started piling into the kitchen: Ty, followed by Kit and then Dru and Tavvy. There was a babble of voices, and for a moment, things felt nearly normal. Nearly. Without Emma, she knew, the Institute would never be normal for her. Emma had been the first person she’d met in Los Angeles; Emma had befriended her instantly and without hesitation. Her introduction to L.A. had been going to all of Emma’s favorite places, her secret beaches and canyon trails; it had been driving in the car with her with the radio on and their hair down, hot dogs at Pink’s, pie at the Apple Pan at midnight.

It was hard not to feel anchorless now, an unmoored boat on the tide. But she clung to what Emma had said to her: They’ll need you. Mark will need you.

Ty grabbed a bag of potato chips off the counter and handed it to Kit, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had a way of communicating without words, almost like Emma and Julian did.

“You don’t need those,” Helen said. “I’m making oatmeal!” She pointed at the table with her spoon: She’d set it with matching bowls and even a vase with a sprig of wildflowers.

“Oh,” said Kit.

“I want pancakes,” announced Tavvy.

“We’re not staying for breakfast,” said Ty. “Kit and I are going to the beach. We’ll see you later.” “But—” Helen began, but it was no use; they’d already left, Ty dragging Kit behind him with a firm grip on his wrist. Kit shrugged apologetically before disappearing through the door.

“I hate oatmeal,” said Dru. She sat down at the table, frowning.

“I hate oatmeal too,” said Tavvy, pushing in next to his sister. He frowned too, and for a moment the resemblance between them was almost comical.

“Well, oatmeal is what there is,” Helen said. “But I can make toast, too.” “Not toast,” said Tavvy. “Pancakes.”

Helen shut the stove off. For a moment she stood staring down into the pot of cooling oatmeal. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.” Cristina got hurriedly off her stool. “Helen, let me help you make some eggs and toast,” she said.

“Julian can make pancakes,” said Tavvy.

Helen had made room for Cristina at the counter by the stove. Cristina handed over bread; as Helen loaded up the toaster, Cristina saw that her hands were shaking.

“I really don’t want eggs for breakfast,” said Dru. She picked one of the flowers out of the vase on the table and plucked off its head. Petals showered down onto the table.

“Come on, both of you,” said Mark, going over to his younger brother and sister and ruffling their hair affectionately. “We just got back. Don’t give Helen a hard time.” “Well, she doesn’t have to make breakfast,” said Dru. “We could make our own.” Helen hurried over with the plate of toast and set it on the table. Dru stared at it blankly. “Come on, Dru,” she said. “Just eat the bread.” Dru stiffened all over. “Don’t tell me what to eat and not eat,” she said.

Helen flinched. Tavvy reached for the jam and upended it, shaking it until sticky jelly splattered all over his plate, the table, and his hands. He giggled.

“Don’t—no!” Helen said, grabbing the jam out of his hands. “Tavvy, don’t do that!” “I don’t have to listen to you,” Tavvy said, his small face flushing. “I don’t even know you.” He pushed his way past Dru and bolted from the kitchen. After a moment, Dru shot Helen a reproachful look and darted after him.

Helen stood where she was, holding the empty plastic jam jar, tears running down her face. Cristina’s heart went out to her. All she wanted was to please her siblings, but they couldn’t forgive her for not being Julian.

She moved toward Helen, but Mark was already there, putting his arms around his sister, getting jam on his shirt. “It’s all right,” Cristina heard him say. “When I first got back, I was always messing things up. I got everything wrong. . . .” Feeling like an intruder, Cristina slipped out of the kitchen; some family scenes were private. She headed down the hall slowly (she was sure there was a second coffeemaker in the library), half her mind on what Mark had said to Helen. She wondered if he really felt that way. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, crouched against the wall of his bedroom as the wind blew the curtains around him like sails. The bond she had felt with him had been immediate—she hadn’t known him before the Hunt had taken him, and had no expectations of what he was like or who he should be. It had tied them together as strongly as the binding spell, but what if everything had changed? What if what they had was broken and could never be repaired?

“Cristina!”

She spun around. Mark was behind her, flushed; he’d been running to catch up to her. He stopped when she turned and hesitated a moment, looking like someone about to take a step off a high cliff.

“I have to be with Helen now,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. I’ve needed to talk to you since—for a long time. Meet me in the parking lot tonight, when the moon is high.” She nodded, too surprised to say anything. By the time it occurred to her that “when the moon is high” wasn’t very helpful—what if it was cloudy?—he’d already vanished down the hall. With a sigh, she headed off to send Catarina Loss a fire-message.

It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.

The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.

“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.

Dearborn straightened up. “ ’Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—” “I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.” “Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.

“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.” “The Clave has changed,” said Emma.

“Not all change is for the worse,” said Horace. “This has been a long time coming.” Julian swung his feet up, planting his boots on Horace’s desk. Emma blinked. Julian had always been rebellious at heart, but rarely openly. He smiled like an angel and said, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?” Horace’s eyes glinted. There was anger in them, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “You two have really fucked up,” he said. “More than you know.” Emma was jolted. Shadowhunter adults, especially those in positions of authority, rarely swore in front of anyone they considered children.

“What do you mean?” she said.

He opened a desk drawer and took out a black leather notebook. “Robert Lightwood’s notes,” he said. “He took them after every meeting he had. He took them after the meeting he had with you.” Julian went white; he clearly recognized the notebook. Robert must have written in it after Emma had left his office with Manuel.

“I know what you told him about your relationship,” Dearborn said with relish. “Parabatai in love. Disgusting. And I know what you wanted from him. Exile.” Though the color had left his face, Julian’s voice was steady. “I still think you should tell us what you want from us.” “To fall in love with your parabatai is, shall we say, a breach of contract. The contract you’ve made as Nephilim, with the Clave. It desecrates our holiest of holy bonds.” He set the notebook back in its drawer. “But I am not an unreasonable man. I’ve come up with a mutually beneficial solution to all our little problems. And a few of the big ones.” “Solutions aren’t usually mutually beneficial when one party has all the power,” said Julian.

Dearborn ignored him. “If you agree to be sent on a mission to the Land of Faerie, if you promise to find and to kill Annabel Blackthorn there and bring back the Black Volume of the Dead, I’ll honor the terms Robert set out. Exile and secrecy. No one will ever know.” “You can’t be sure she’s in Faerie—” Julian began.

“You have got to be kidding,” Emma said at the same time.

“My sources say she’s in the Unseelie Court, and no, I am not ‘kidding,’ ” said Dearborn. “I would swear it on the Mortal Sword, if Carstairs hadn’t broken it.” Emma flushed. “Why do you want the Black Volume? Planning on raising some dead?” “I have no interest in some warlock’s pitiable book of necromantic amusements,” said Horace, “save keeping it out of the hands of Annabel Blackthorn and the King of Unseelie. Do not even consider trying to fob me off with imitations or fakes. I will know, and I will punish you. I want the Black Volume in the control of Nephilim, not Downworlders.” “You must have older, more capable people who can do this?” said Julian.

“This mission must be carried out with the utmost secrecy,” Dearborn snapped. “Who has a better reason to keep it a secret than you?” “But time works differently in Faerie,” said Julian. “We could wind up coming back ten years from now. That won’t help you much.” “Ah.” Dearborn sat back. There was a pile of cloth behind him, in one corner of the room: Emma realized with a jolt that it was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren, thrown away like so much trash. Strange for a man who claimed to value Nephilim history. “A long time ago, three medallions were given to the Clave by the Fair Folk. They prevent time slippage in Faerie. One is missing, but you’ll be given one of the remaining two. You can return it when you yourselves come back.” A medallion? Emma remembered Cristina’s necklace, its power to control time in Faerie. One of them is missing. . . .

“And how are we supposed to get back?” Emma said. “It’s not as if returning from Faerie is easy for a human.” “You will use the map we give you to locate a place called Bram’s Crossroads,” said Horace. “There you will find a friend ready to bring you home.” He steepled his fingers together. “I will conceal the fact that you are not in Alicante by placing guards around the Princewater house. The word will be that you are under house arrest until the matter of the Mortal Sword is cleared up. But I must insist that you find the book and return within four days. Otherwise I may assume you decided to strike out on your own, in which case I will have no choice but to reveal your secret.” “What makes you think we can do this in four days?” said Julian.

“Because you have no choice,” Horace replied.

Emma exchanged a look with Julian. She suspected his feelings, such as they were, mirrored her own—suspicion and helplessness. They couldn’t trust Horace Dearborn, but if they didn’t agree to this plan, he would destroy their lives. Their Marks would be stripped. They would never see the other Blackthorns again.

“There’s no need for you to look so untrusting,” said Dearborn. “We are in this together. None of us want Annabel Blackthorn or the Unseelie King to possess such a powerful item as the Black Volume.” He gave a yellowish smile. “Besides, Julian, I thought you’d be pleased. This is your chance to kill Annabel Blackthorn and take her precious book from her. I would have thought you’d want revenge.” Unable to bear the way the Inquisitor was looking at Julian, Emma stood up. “I want Cortana,” she said. “It was my father’s before mine, and it has belonged in my family since before Jem and Cordelia Carstairs. Give it back to me.” “No,” Horace said, his thin mouth flattening. “We are still investigating how it managed to shatter the Mortal Sword. We will furnish you with weapons, food, a map, and all the gear you need, but not Cortana.” “Seraph blades don’t work in Faerie,” said Julian. “Neither will our runes.” Dearborn snorted. “Then you’ll be given daggers and swords and crossbows. You know we have every weapon you might need.” He rose to his feet. “I don’t care what you use to kill Annabel Blackthorn. Just kill her. You brought that bitch to us. It’s your responsibility to rid us of her.” Julian slid his boots off the desk. “When are we supposed to be leaving?” “And how will we get there?” said Emma.

“That’s for me to know,” said Dearborn. “As for when you leave, it might as well be now. It’s not as if you have anything you need to be doing in Alicante.” He gestured toward the door, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. “Go home and retrieve whatever personal items you require. And don’t waste time. Guards will be coming to get you shortly. Be ready.” “Fine,” Emma said. She strode over to the corner and picked up the tapestry of Alec. “But I’m keeping this.” It was surprisingly heavy. Dearborn raised his eyebrows but said nothing as she staggered out of the room clutching it.

“Where are we going?” Kit said. He was holding the bag of potato chips, salt and grease on his fingers. It was a weird breakfast, but he’d had weirder in his life. Besides, the ocean breeze was lifting his hair off his forehead, the beach was deserted, and he and Ty were walking into a golden haze of sand and sunshine. Despite everything, his mood was lifting.

“Remember that cave?” Ty said. “The one we were in when we saw Zara talking to Manuel?” “Yeah,” Kit said, and almost added, when we were with Livvy, but he knew that was what Ty meant by “we.” It was a word that for him would always include Livvy. The shadow of memory fell over Kit’s good mood: He remembered that night, Livvy laughing, Ty holding up a starfish—the salt air had tangled his usually straight hair, and his eyes had echoed the silver color of the moon. He had been smiling, his real, shining Ty-smile. Kit had felt closer to the two of them than he had ever felt to anyone else. “Wait—why are we going there?” They had reached the part of the beach where long fingers of pocked granite reached out into the ocean. The waves rushed in from the sea, slamming against the rocks, whipping themselves up into white-silver spray.

Ty reached into the bag of chips, his arm brushing against Kit’s. “Because we need help to do necromancy. We can’t do it on our own.” “Please tell me we don’t need help from an army of the dead. I hate armies of the dead.” “Not an army of the dead. Hypatia Vex.”

Kit nearly dropped the chips. “Hypatia Vex? The warlock from London?”

“Yep,” said Ty. “Keep up, Watson.”

“That’s not a ‘keep up,’ ” said Kit. “How would I know you contacted her? I didn’t think she liked us very much.” “Does it matter?”

“You make a good point.” Kit stopped, sand kicking up around his sneakers. “Here we are.” The dark hole in the bluff opened up in front of them. Ty paused too, rooting around in the pocket of his hoodie. “I have something for you.” Kit rolled up the bag of chips and stashed it behind a rock. “You do?”

Ty produced a small white stone, about the size of a golf ball, with a rune etched into it. “Your witchlight rune-stone. Every Shadowhunter has one.” He took Kit’s hand unselfconsciously and pressed the stone into his palm. A hot flutter went through Kit’s stomach, surprising him. He’d never felt anything like it before.

“Thanks,” he said. “How do I activate it?”

“Close your fingers around it and think of light,” said Ty. “Imagine a light switch flicking on; that’s what Julian said to me. Come on—I’ll show you.” Kit held the stone awkwardly as they headed up the path to the cave entrance. A few steps into the cave and the darkness enveloped them like velvet, muffling the sound of the waves outside. Kit could barely see Ty, the shadow of a shadow beside him.

Like flicking a switch, he thought, and closed his fingers around the rune-stone.

It gave a little kick in his palm, and light rayed out, illuminating the familiar stone corridor. It was much as it had been before, rough-walled and spidery, reminding Kit of the underground tunnels in the first Indiana Jones movie.

At least this time they knew where they were going. They followed the curve of the tunnel around a bend, into an enormous stone chamber. The walls were granite, though black lines scored through them showed where they had cracked long ago. The room smelled like something sweet—probably the smoke that rose from the candles placed on the wooden table in the room’s center. A hooded figure in a black robe, its face lost in shadow, sat where Zara had been sitting the last time they’d been here.

“Hypatia?” said Ty, stepping forward.

The figure raised a single, silencing finger. Both Kit and Ty hesitated as two gloved hands rose to push back the enveloping hood.

Ty licked his dry lips. “You’re—not Hypatia.” He turned to Kit. “That’s not her.” “No,” Kit agreed. “Seems to be a green fellow with horns.”

“I’m not Hypatia, but she did send me,” said the warlock. “We have met before, the three of us. In the Shadow Market in London.” Kit remembered quickly moving green-tinted hands. I have to say I never thought I’d have the pleasure of entertaining the Lost Herondale.

“Shade,” he said.

The warlock looked amused. “Not my real name, but it’ll do.”

Ty was shaking his head. “I want to deal with Hypatia,” he said. “Not you.” Shade leaned back in his chair. “Most warlocks won’t touch necromancy,” he said quietly. “Hypatia isn’t any different; in fact, she’s smarter than most. She wants to run the Shadow Market herself one day, and she’s not going to endanger her chances.” Ty’s expression seemed to splinter, like the cracked face of a statue. “I never said anything about necromancy—” “Your twin sister just died,” said Shade. “And you reach out to a warlock with a desperate request. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what you want.” Kit put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “We don’t have to stay here,” he said. “We can just leave—” “No,” said Shade. “Hear me out first, little Shadowhunters, if you wish for my help. I understand. Grief makes people mad. You search for a way to end it.” “Yes,” said Ty. “I want to bring my sister back. I will bring my sister back.” Shade’s dark eyes were flinty. “You want to raise the dead. Do you know how many people want to do that? It’s not a good plan. I suggest you drop it. I could help you out with something else. Have you ever wanted to move objects with your mind?” “Sure,” said Kit. “That sounds great.” Anything but this.

“I have the Black Volume of the Dead,” said Ty. “Or at least, I have a copy.” He didn’t seem to recognize the absolute astonishment on Shade’s face, but Kit saw it. It increased both his pride in Ty and, at the same time, his apprehension.

“Well,” said Shade finally. “That’s better than the real thing.”

Odd thing to say, Kit thought.

“So it’s not the spells we need help with,” said Ty. “We need your help in gathering spell components. Some are easy to get, but Shadowhunters aren’t welcome at the Shadow Market, so if you could go, I could give you money, or we have a lot of valuable weapons in the Institute—” Kit was pleased. “I thought about selling those once, myself.”

Shade held up his gloved hands. “No,” he said. “I’ll help you, all right, but it won’t be fast, and it won’t be easy.” “Good,” said Ty, but Kit was instantly suspicious.

“Why?” said Kit. “Why would you help us? You don’t approve—”

“I don’t,” said Shade. “But if it isn’t me, it’ll be someone else, some other warlock with fewer scruples. At least I can make sure you do this as cleanly as possible. I can show you how to cast the spell properly. I can get you a catalyst—a clean energy source that won’t corrupt what you do.” “But you won’t go to the Shadow Market?” said Kit.

“The spell only works if the spell caster collects the components themselves,” said Shade. “And you’ll be the one casting this spell, even if you need me to direct you. So whatever is between you two and the people of the Shadow Market—and I saw some of it myself, so I know it’s personal—clean it up.” His voice was gruff. “You’re clever, you can figure it out. When you’ve got what you need, come back to me. I’ll remain here in the cave for as long as you’re committed to this insane project. But send a note if you’re planning on dropping by. I like my privacy.” Ty’s face was alight with relief, and Kit knew what he was thinking: This was step one accomplished, one move closer to getting Livvy back. Shade looked at him and shook his head, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight. “Of course, if you reconsider, and I never hear from you again, that will be even better,” he added. “Consider this, children. Some lights were never meant to burn for long.” He closed his gloved fingers around the wick of the largest candle, extinguishing it. A plume of white smoke rose toward the ceiling. Kit glanced at Ty again, but he hadn’t reacted; he might not even have heard Shade. He was smiling to himself: not the blazing smile Kit had missed on the beach, but a quiet, private smile.

If we go forward, I have to shoulder this alone, Kit thought. Any guilt, any apprehension. It’s only mine.

He glanced away from the warlock before Shade could see the doubt in his eyes.

Some lights were never meant to burn for long.

“I can’t believe the Centurions left such a mess,” Helen said.

For years, Helen had promised Aline that she would take her on a full tour of the Institute and show her all her favorite places from her childhood.

But Helen’s mind was only partly on showing Aline around.

Some of it was on the destruction wrought by the Centurions inside the Institute—towels left everywhere, stains on the tables, and old food rotting in the fridge in the kitchen. Some of it was on the message she’d paid a faerie to take to her aunt Nene in the Seelie Court. But most of it was on her family.

“Those jerks aren’t what’s really bothering you,” said Aline. They were standing on an overlook some distance from the Institute. From here you could see the desert, carpeted with wildflowers and green scrub, and the ocean as well, blue and gleaming below. There had been ocean at Wrangel Island, cold and icy and beautiful, but in no way welcoming. This was the sea of Helen’s childhood—the sea of long days spent splashing in the waves with her sisters and brothers. “You can tell me anything, Helen.” “They hate me,” Helen said in a small voice.

“Who hates you?” Aline demanded. “I’ll kill them.”

“My brothers and sister,” said Helen. “Please don’t kill them, though.”

Aline looked stunned. “What do you mean, they hate you?”

“Ty ignores me,” said Helen. “Dru snarls at me. Tavvy despises that I’m not Julian. And Mark—well, Mark doesn’t hate me, but his mind seems far away. I can’t drag him into this.” Aline crossed her arms and stared thoughtfully at the ocean. This was one of the things Helen loved about her wife. If Helen said something was the case, Aline would consider it from all angles; she was never dismissive.

“I told Julian to tell all the kids I was happy on Wrangel Island,” said Helen. “I didn’t want them to worry. But now—I think they believe I spent all these years not caring about being separated from them. They don’t know how much I missed them. They don’t know how horrible I feel that Julian had to shoulder all that responsibility, for all those years. I didn’t know.” “The thing is,” said Aline, “they don’t just see you as replacing Julian as the person who takes care of them. You also stepped into their lives just as Livvy left them.” “But I also loved Livvy! I also miss her—”

“I know,” Aline said gently. “But they’re just children. They’re grief stricken and lashing out. They don’t know this is why they feel angry. They just feel it.” “I can’t do this.” Helen tried to keep her voice steady, but it was nearly impossible. She hoped the strain would be covered by the sound of the waves crashing below them, but Aline knew her too well. She could sense when Helen was upset, even when she was trying hard not to show it. “It’s too hard.” “Baby.” Aline moved closer, wrapping her arms around Helen, brushing her lips softly with her own. “You can. You can do anything.” Helen relaxed into her wife’s arms. When she’d first met Aline, she’d thought the other girl was taller than she was, but she’d realized later it was the way Aline held herself, arrow straight. The Consul, her mother, held herself the same way, and with the same pride—not that either of them was arrogant, but the word seemed a shade closer to what Helen imagined than simple confidence. She remembered the first love note Aline had ever written her. The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. Later, she’d found out it was an Oscar Wilde quote, and had said to Aline, smiling, You’ve got a lot of nerve.

Aline had looked back at her steadily. I know. I do.

They both had, always, and it had stood them in good stead. But this wasn’t a situation where nerve mattered so much as patience. Helen had expected her younger brothers and sister to love her; she had needed it, in a way. Now she realized she had to show them her love first.

“In a way, their anger means good things,” said Aline. “It means they know you’ll always love them, no matter what. Eventually they’ll stop testing you.” “Is there any way to speed up ‘eventually’?”

“Would thinking about it as ‘someday’ help?”

Helen sniffled a laugh. “No.”

Aline stroked her shoulder gently. “It was worth a try.”

There were a dozen or more guards posted when Emma and Julian returned to the house. It was a bright day, and sun sparkled off the swords slung over their shoulders and the water in the canal.

As they went up the stairs, Dane Larkspear was slouching against one side of the doorway, his whippety face pale under a shock of black hair. He winked at Emma as Julian, ignoring him, reached for his stele. “Nice to see you.” “Can’t say the same,” said Emma. “Where’s your evil twin? And I mean that literally. She’s your twin, and she’s evil.” “Yeah, I got that,” said Dane, rolling his eyes. “Samantha’s at the Scholomance. And you’ve got guests.” Emma tensed. “In the house? Isn’t the point of guards to keep them out?” Dane chuckled. “Please. The point of us is to keep you in.”

Julian scrawled an unlocking rune on the door and gave Dane a dark look. “Fifteen against two?” Dane’s smirk got wider. “Just showing you who’s in power,” he said. “We control the odds. I don’t feel bad about that at all.” “You wouldn’t,” Julian said, and stalked into the house.

“Just in case I wasn’t feeling really crappy about this situation already,” Emma muttered, and followed Julian. She was wary—she hadn’t liked the way Dane had said the word “guests.” She closed the front door slowly, hand on the hilt of the dagger in her weapons belt.

She heard Julian call her name. “In the kitchen,” he said. “It’s all right, Emma.” Usually she trusted Julian more than she trusted herself. But things were different now. She went carefully toward the kitchen, only dropping her hand from the dagger when she saw Isabelle seated on the kitchen table, her long legs crossed. She was wearing a short velvet coat and a long tulle skirt. The bright glint of silver jewelry shone on her wrists and ankles.

Simon was seated at one of the kitchen chairs, elbows on the table, sunglasses pushed up on his head. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “The guards let us in.” “Not at all,” said Julian, leaning against one of the counters. “I’m just surprised they agreed.” “Friendly persuasion,” said Isabelle, and smiled a smile that was mostly teeth. “The Cohort doesn’t have all the power yet. We still know a lot of people in high places.” “Where were you?” Simon inquired. “The guards wouldn’t tell us anything.” “The Inquisitor wanted to talk to us,” said Emma.

Simon frowned. “Dearborn? You mean he wanted to interrogate you?”

“Not exactly.” Emma took off her jacket and slung it over a chair back. “He had a favor he wanted us to do. But what are you doing here?” Isabelle and Simon exchanged a glance. “We have some bad news,” Simon said.

Emma stared harder at both of them. Izzy looked tired, Simon tense, but that wasn’t surprising. She could only imagine how she looked herself.

“My brothers and sisters—” Julian began, his voice tight, and Emma glanced at him; she remembered what he’d said about climbing up the pyre after Ty; it was atavistic, the need to protect him, there was no conscious thought to it.

“Nothing like that,” said Simon. “Jace and Clary didn’t come back at the appointed time.” Speechless, Emma sank into a chair opposite Simon.

“That’s interesting,” Julian said. “What do you think happened?”

Simon looked at him oddly. Isabelle nudged him with her knee, and through her surprise and worry Emma heard her mutter something about how Julian’s sister just died, he was probably still in shock.

“Maybe they’re just late because of the time being different in Faerie,” said Emma. “Or did they get one of the medallions?” “They’re not affected by the time magic in Faerie, because of their angel blood,” said Isabelle. “That’s why the Clave chose to send them. Their runes still work, even in the blighted lands.” She frowned. “What medallions?” “Oh.” Emma exchanged a look with Julian. “The Clave has medallions that prevent time slippage in Faerie. Dearborn gave us one.” Isabelle and Simon exchanged a bewildered glance. “What? Why would they give you—?” “The favor that Dearborn asked us to do,” said Julian. “It involved traveling to Faerie.” Simon straightened up. His face had gone tight-jawed, in a way that reminded Emma that he wasn’t just Isabelle Lightwood’s mild-mannered fiancé. He was a hero in his own right. He’d faced down the Angel Raziel himself. Few besides Clary could say that. “He did what?” “I’ll explain,” said Julian, and he did, with a dry economy uncolored by emotion. Nevertheless, when he was done, both Isabelle and Simon looked furious.

“How dare he,” said Simon. “How can he think—”

“But he’s the Inquisitor now. He’d know Clary and Jace haven’t come back,” interrupted Isabelle. “The Clave knows it’s dangerous, especially now. Why would he send you?” “Because Annabel escaped into Faerie, and he thinks Annabel is our problem,” said Emma.

“It’s ridiculous; you guys are just kids,” Simon said.

Isabelle kicked him lightly. “We did a lot when we were kids.”

“Because we had to,” said Simon. “Because we had no choices.” He turned back to Emma and Julian. “We can get you out of here. We can hide you.” “No,” Julian said.

“He means that we don’t have choices either,” said Emma. “There’s too much chance of the Black Volume being put to terrible use, either by Annabel or the Unseelie King. There’s no telling who might get hurt, and we have the best chance of finding the book. No one else has dealt with Annabel for centuries—in a weird way, Julian knows her the best.” “And we can look for Jace and Clary. It’s not like Horace is going to send anyone else to find them,” said Julian.

Isabelle looked flinty. “Because he’s a jerk, you mean?”

“Because he doesn’t like the support they have, or the way people look up to them and Alec and you guys,” said Julian. “The longer they’re gone, the better for him. He wants to consolidate power—he doesn’t need heroes coming back. I’m sure Jia will try to help, but he won’t make it easy for her. He can always throw delays in her path.” Julian was very pale, and his eyes looked like the blue sea glass in his bracelet. Her parabatai might not be feeling anything himself, Emma thought, but he still understood other people’s feelings, almost too well. He had made the one argument Simon and Isabelle wouldn’t be able to push back against: Clary and Jace’s safety.

Still, Simon tried. “We can figure out something ourselves,” he said. “Some way to look for them. The offer to hide you still stands.” “They’ll take it out on my family if I disappear,” Julian said. “This is a new Clave.” “Or maybe just what was always hiding under the old one,” said Emma. “Can you swear you won’t tell anyone, not even Jia, about us going to Faerie?” No one can know. If Jia confronts Horace, he’ll tell her our secret.

Simon and Isabelle looked troubled, but they both promised. “When are they asking you to leave?” said Isabelle.

“Soon,” said Julian. “We just came back here to pack our things.”

Simon muttered a curse. Isabelle shook her head, then bent down and unclipped a chain from one slender ankle. She held it out to Emma. “This is blessed iron. Poisonous to faeries. Wear it and you can pack a hell of a kick.” “Thanks.” Emma took the chain and wrapped it twice around her wrist, fastening it tightly.

“Do I have anything iron?” Simon looked around wildly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small miniature figure of an archer. “This is my D&D character, Lord Montgomery—” “Oh my God,” said Isabelle.

“Most figurines are pewter, but this one’s iron. I got it on Kickstarter.” Simon held it out to Julian. “Just take it. It could be helpful.” “I don’t understand about half of what you just said, but thanks,” said Jules, pocketing the toy.

There was an awkward silence. It was Isabelle who broke it, her dark gaze passing from Julian to Emma, and back again. “Thank you,” she said. “Both of you. This is an incredibly brave thing to do.” She took a deep breath. “When you find Clary and Jace, and I know you will, tell Jace about Robert. He should know what’s happened to his family.”