Diego did know of the Hollow Place, a secret room in the Scholomance where, it was said, a pool had been filled with enchanted water. To gaze into the water was to gaze into your own soul: to see all the evil you had ever done, intentionally or otherwise.

They turned a corner and encountered a blaze of light. It was Rayan, standing in the middle of a long corridor, wearing a grim expression. He had a massive sword strapped to his back.

“They dragged him into the Hollow Place,” he said. “I couldn’t follow them—I don’t have my stele on me. Do either of you?”

“I do,” said Diego, and they jogged down a short, sloping hall to a set of closed doors. Loud giggles spilled out from inside the room.

Diego scrawled a quick Open rune on the door. It wrenched open with a puff of rust and they charged inside.

The Hollow Place was a wide space with granite floors, clear of any furniture. The walls were rough rock, glittering with mica. In the center of the room was a tile-lined pool with water so clear and clean it reflected like a mirror. Gold metal lettering deco- rated the floor: And God split open the hollow place, and water came out from it.

“Well, thank the Angel,” drawled Manuel, who was leaning against a far wall in a pose of total disinterest. “Look who’s here to save us all.”

Zara giggled. She was surrounded by a group of other Cohort members—among them Diego recognized several Scholomance students and their family members. Mallory Bridgestock and Milo Coldridge. Anush Joshi, Divya’s cousin. Several Centurions were there too: Timothy Rockford, Samantha Larkspear, and Jessica Beausejours were standing around smirking while Anush dragged Kieran toward the pool in the center of the room. Kieran was jerking and twisting in his grip; there was blood on his face, his shirt.

“It’s a fair punishment for the princeling, don’t you think?” said Zara. “If you look or swim in the water of the pool, you feel the pain you’ve inflicted on others. So if he’s innocent, it should be just fine for him.”

“No one is that innocent,” said Rayan. “The pool is to be used sparingly, to allow students to seek for truth within themselves. Not as a torture device.”

“What an interesting thought, Rayan,” said Manuel. “Thank you for sharing. But I don’t see any of the teachers running in here to stop us, do you?”

I swore I would protect Kieran. Diego reached for his ax, only to realize it wasn’t there. He saw Zara’s eyes narrow and turned; Divya had yanked Rayan’s sword from its scabbard and was pointing it at the Cohort.

“Enough,” Divya said. “Stop it, all of you. And I’m especially ashamed of you, Anush,” she added, shooting her cousin a dark look. “You know what it’s like to be treated unfairly. When your mother finds out . . .”

Anush let Kieran go with a shove. He landed at the edge of the pool with a grunt of agony. Move away from the water, Diego thought, but Kieran was clearly wounded; he knelt in place, dazed and gasping.

“We’re just having a little fun,” protested Anush.

“What are you going to do, Divya, attack us?” said Samantha. “Just for having a little fun?”

“He’s bleeding,” said Diego. “That’s more than just ‘a little fun.’ And what happens if you kill him? Do you really want to deal with the consequences? He’s the son of the Unseelie King.”

There was a rumble of discontent among the Cohort. Clearly they’d never thought about that.

“Fine, fine,” said Zara. “Be killjoys. But I knew he was here, hiding out in your room,” she said to Diego. “I saw a hollowed acorn on your floor. So this is your fault. If you hadn’t brought him here, none of this would have happened.”

“Give it a rest, Zara,” said Divya, still holding the sword levelly. “Diego, go get Kieran.”

Diego started across the room, just as Manuel spoke. “Why don’t you look in the water yourself, Rocio Rosales?” he said. “If you think your soul is so clean. It should be painless for you.”

“Cállate la pinche boca,” Diego snapped, nearly at Kieran’s side; the faerie prince was coughing, blood on his lips. He’d started to pull himself upright when Manuel moved with the speed of a snake: Planting a boot in Kieran’s back, he kicked him into the water.

 

They collected their weapons from the bed of the truck, snapping on wrist protectors and buckling weapons belts. Cristina strapped her trusted balisong to her belt, while Mark found a runed black whip and cracked it a few times: he wore a look of pleasure on his face as it snaked across the darkening sky.

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

The first thing Emma noticed was missing was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren. 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 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 hard 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 mahagony 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."

The cast after their panel 💜 #MCMComicCon #Shadowhunters
(via @JadeHassoune IG Stories) pic.twitter.com/873Dg8Npnv

— Bane&Lewis (@baneandlewis) 27 oktober 2018

Shadowhunters gang at #MCMComicCon

Via @JadeHassoune IG story pic.twitter.com/YeI2tcd8z4

— Shadowhunters Updates #SaveShadowhunters (@NephilimUpdates) 28 oktober 2018

We are assuming this hi-five is some sort of vampire bro code, right? #mcmcomiccon #SaveShadowhunters pic.twitter.com/lU5waJ3Lkf

— MCM Comic Con (@MCMComicCon) 28 oktober 2018

Our press room with the #Shadowhunters cast in a nutshell! #MCMLondon pic.twitter.com/DAH7WumBbV

— Verena Cote (@youdefinebeauty) 28 oktober 2018

"What's that?" Tavvy asked, his eyes big.

"This," said Aline, "is a frittata. And you're all going to eat it." She slammed it down onto a metal trivet in the center of the table.

"Don't like frittata," said Tavvy.

"Too bad," said Aline, crossing her arms and glaring at each of them in turn. "You made Helen cry yesterday, so you're going to eat this frittata — which, by the way, is goddamn delicious — and you're going to like it. It's what's for breakfast and since I'm not Helen, I don't care if you starve or eat Cheetos for every single meal. Helen and I both have a lot of work to do, the Clave isn't giving us an inch, all she wants is to be with you guys, and you are not going to make my wife cry again. Understood?"

The younger Blackthorns nodded, wide-eyed.

Gwyn seated himself opposite her, large hands at his sides, his brow creased with concern. His size and bulk somehow made him seem more helpless than he would have otherwise. "I know what happened," he said. "When death comes in great and unexpected ways, the Wild Hunt knows it. We hear the stories told by spilled blood."

Diana didn't know what to say — that death was unfair? That Livvy hadn't deserved to die that way, or any way? That the broken hearts of the Blackthorns would never be the same? It all seemed trite, a hundred times said and understood already.

Instead, she said, "I think I would like it if you kissed me."

Gwyn didn't hesitate. He was beside her in a moment, graceful despite his bulk; he put his arms around her and she was surrounded by warmth and the smell of the forest and horses. She wrinkled her nose slightly and smiled, and he kissed her smiling mouth.

It was a gentle kiss, for all his size. The softness of his mouth contrasted with the scratch of his stubble and the hard musculature under her hands when she put them timidly on his shoulders and stroked.

It had been a long time, and she had never imagined something quite like this: moonlight and flowers and kissing in glades were for other people.

But apparently not.

 

The pyres were still burning as the procession turned and headed back toward the city. It was customary for the smoke to rise all night, and for families to gather in Angel Square to mourn among others.

Not that Emma thought it was likely the Blackthorns would do that. They would remain in their house, closeted in with each other: They had been too much apart all their lives to want comfort from other Shadowhunters who they barely knew.

She had trailed away from the rest of the group, too raw to want to try to talk to Julian again in front of his family. Besides, he was holding Tavvy’s hand.

“Emma,” said a voice beside her. She turned and saw Jem Carstairs.

Jem. She was too surprised to speak. Jem had been a Silent Brother once, and though he was a Carstairs, he was a very distant relative, due to being more than a century old. He only looked about twenty-four, though, and was dressed in jeans and scuffed shoes. He wore a white sweater, which she guessed was his concession to Shadowhunter funeral whites.

Jem was no longer a Shadowhunter, though he had been one for many years, and was one of the most famous of the Carstairs family, along with his cousin Cordelia.

“Jem,” she whispered, not wanting to alert anyone else in the procession. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wished you to know how sorry I am,” he said. He looked pale and drawn, but that couldn’t be grief for Livvy, could it? He’d barely known her. “I know you loved Livia like a sister.”

“Can we talk?” she said abruptly. “Just us?”

He nodded and indicated a low rise some distance away, partially hidden by a stand of trees. After whispering to Cristina that she was going to talk to Jem—“The Jem? The really old one? Who’s married to a warlock? Really?”—she followed Jem to where he was sitting on the grass, among a tumble of old stones.

They sat for a moment in silence, both of them looking out over the Imperishable Fields. “When you were a Silent Brother,” Emma said abruptly, “did you burn people?”

Jem looked over at her. His eyes were very dark. “I helped light the pyres,” he said. “A clever man I knew once said that we cannot understand life, and therefore we cannot hope to understand death. I have lost many I loved to death, and it does not get easier, nor does watching the pyres burn.”

“We are dust and ashes,” Emma said.

“It was meant to make us all equal,” said Jem. “We are all burned. Our ashes all go to build the City of Bones.”

“Except for criminals,” said Emma.

Jem’s brow furrowed. “Livia was hardly that,” he said. “Nor you, unless you are thinking of committing a crime?”

I already have. I’m horribly in love with my parabatai. The desire to say the words, to confess to someone—to Jem, specifically—was like a pressure behind Emma’s eyes. To forestall them, she said hastily: “Did your parabatai ever pull away from you? When you, you know, wanted to talk?”

“People do strange things when they’re grieving,” said Jem gently. “I was watching from a distance, earlier. I saw what Julian did for his brother at the funeral. I know how much he has always loved those children. Nothing he says or does now, in these first and worst days, is symbolic of who he is. Besides,” he added with a slight smile, “being parabatai is complicated. I hit my parabatai in the face, once.”

“You did what?”

“As I said.” Jem seemed to enjoy her astonishment. “I struck my parabatai—I loved him more than anyone else in the world I’ve ever loved save Tessa, and I struck him in the face because my heart was breaking. I can hardly judge anyone else.”

“Tessa!” Emma said, feeling suddenly rude that she hadn’t asked after her before. “Where is she?”

Jem’s hand made a fist in the grass. “She is in the Spiral Labyrinth with Catarina Loss, searching desperately for a cure. All the warlocks are sickening. Tessa herself seems protected by her Shadowhunter blood. But those who are older, who have used more magic and more powerful magic, are sickening first.”

“Magnus,” Emma said. “He’s older, and powerful, isn’t he? And he uses a lot of magic?”

Jem nodded grimly.

“How much does Tessa know about it?” Emma demanded. “What have they figured out?”

“Tessa thinks it’s connected to the murders Malcolm committed with the Followers of the Guardian,” said Jem. Emma blinked at him. All of that seemed a thousand worlds away. “He used the ley lines to power his necromantic magic—if they’re poisoned, it might be communicating that poison to any warlock who uses them.”

“Can’t warlocks just not use them?”

“There are only a few sources of power,” said Jem. “Ley lines are the easiest. Many of the warlocks have stopped using them, but it means they’re exhausting their powers very quickly, which is also unhealthy.” He gave her an unconvincing smile. “Tessa will solve it,” he said. “She found Kit—she’ll discover the answer to this as well. I’m more worried about you at this moment. You look thin and drawn—”

“I had to watch Livvy die,” said Emma. “Have you ever watched someone you loved die?”

“Yes,” said Jem.

That was the problem with very old people, Emma thought. It was rare that you had a life experience that they hadn’t.

“And Horace Dearborn is the Inquisitor now,” she said. “It’s like there’s no hope for anything now.”

“There is always hope,” said Jem. “And though I cannot stay with you, for I must return to Tessa, I will be a fire-message away. Send me a letter and I will come, no matter how distant I may be.” He put an arm around her and hugged her close for a moment. “Take care, mèi mei.”

“What does that mean?” Emma asked. But he was already gone, vanishing into the trees as swiftly as he’d come.

Fortsätt att läsa resten av kapitel 3.

Kit stood and watched the smoke rising in the distance through the window of the room he shared with Ty.

At least, he assumed he shared the room with Ty. His bag was here, tossed into a corner, and nobody had ever bothered to tell him whether he was supposed to be in a different room. He'd gotten dressed in the bathroom that morning and emerged to find Ty pulling his T-shirt on over his head. His Marks seemed unusually black, probably because his skin was so pale. He looked so delicate—Kit had to glance away from the shape of his shoulder blades, the fragility of his spine. How could he look like that and be strong enough to fight demons?

Now Ty was downstairs, with the rest of his family. People tended to cook when someone died and Shadowhunters were no exception. Someone was probably making a casserole. A demon casserole. Kit leaned his head against the cold glass of the window.

There was a time he could have run, Kit thought. He could have run and left the Shadowhunters behind, lost himself in the underground world of Shadow Markets. Been like his father, not part of any world, existing between them.

In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedroom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he'd taken off the jacket and was just in a long sleeve T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty.

"I'm glad you're here." Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his shoes. "I wanted to talk to you."

The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen's, Dru's, Emma's, Julian's. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She’d gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands.

Ty's hands were fine, but he'd been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian's when he'd gone to rinse them out at the sink, and they’d looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn't want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it.

"I know how this is going to sound," Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. "But you're not acting the way I expected."

Ty kicked his boots off. "Because I climbed up the pyre?"

"No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did," said Kit. "I just..."

"I did it to get this," Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy's locket, the one he'd helped her put on before the Council meeting. It had a circlet of the family thorns on the front, and she had told him Julian had added an etching to the back: a pair of crossed sabres, Livvy's weapon.

Kit vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched.

"Livvy's necklace," he said. "I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would..."

"Cry?" Ty didn't look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. "Everybody is supposed to cry. But that's because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don't. I don't accept it."

"What?"

"I'm going to get her back," said Ty.

Kit sat down heavily on the windowsill. "How are you going to do that?"

Ty let go of the necklace and took his phone out of his pocket. "These were on Julian's phone," he said. "He took them when he was in the library with Annabel. They're photos of the pages of the Black Volume of the Dead." He looked at Kit with a worried frown. "Will you come and sit down next to me so you can see them?"

Kit wanted to say no; he couldn't say it. He wanted this not to be happening, but it was. When he sat down next to Ty on the bed, the mattress sagged, and he knocked against Ty's elbow accidentally. Ty's skin felt hot against his, as if the other boy had a fever.

It had never crossed his mind that Ty was lying or wrong, and he didn't seem to be either. After fifteen years with Johnny Rook, Kit was pretty familiar with what bad spell books were like and this one looked decidedly evil. Spells in cramped handwriting littered the pages, along with creepy sketches of corpses crawling out of the grave, screaming faces, and charred skeletons.

Ty wasn't looking at the photos like they were creepy, though; he was looking at them like they were the Holy Grail. "This is the most powerful spell book for bringing back the dead that's ever existed," he said. "That's why it didn't matter if they burned Livvy's body. With spells like these she can be brought back whole no matter what happened to her, no matter how long—" He broke off with a shuddering breath. "But I don't want to wait. I want to start as soon as we get back to Los Angeles."

"Didn't Malcolm kill a lot of people to bring Annabel back?" said Kit.

"Correlation, not causation, Watson," said Ty. "The simplest way to do necromancy is with death energy. Life for death, basically. But there are other sources of energy. I would never kill anyone." He made a face that was probably supposed to be scornful but was actually just cute.

"I don't think Livvy would want you to do necromancy," Kit said.

Ty put his phone away. "I don't think Livvy would want to be dead."

Kit felt the words like a punch to the chest, but before he could reply, there was a commotion downstairs. He and Ty ran to the top of the stairwell, Ty in his stocking feet, and looked down into the kitchen.

Zara Dearborn's Spanish friend, Manuel, was there, wearing the uniform of a Gard officer and a smirk. He was shrugging, and Kit leaned forward more to see who he was talking to. He caught sight of Julian leaning against the kitchen table, his face expressionless. The others were ranged around the kitchen—Emma looked furious, and Cristina had her hand on the other girl's arm as if to hold her back.

"Really?" Helen said furiously. "You couldn't wait until the day after our sister's funeral to drag Emma and Jules to the Gard?"

Manuel shrugged, clearly indifferent. "It has to be now," he said. "The Consul insists."

"What's going on?" Aline said. "You're talking about my mother, Manuel. She wouldn't just demand to see them without a good reason."

"It's about the Mortal Sword," Manuel said. "Is that a good enough reason for all of you?"

Ty tugged on Kit's arm, pulling him away from the stairs. They moved down the upstairs hallway, the voices in the kitchen receding but still urgent.

"Do you think they'll go?" Kit said.

"Emma and Jules? They have to. The Consul's asking," said Ty. "But it's her, not the Inquisitor, so it'll be all right." He leaned in toward Kit, whose back was against the wall; he smelled like a campfire. Kit realized it was probably sap from the pyre wood, and his stomach lurched again. "I can do this without you. Bring back Livvy, I mean," he said. "But I don't want to. Sherlock doesn't do things without Watson."

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"No." Ty had pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands and was worrying at the fabric with his fingers. "I know it has to be a secret. People wouldn't like it, but when Livvy comes back, they'll be happy and they won't care."

"Better to ask forgiveness than permission," Kit said, feeling dazed.

"Yes." Ty wasn't looking directly at Kit—he never did—but his eyes lit up hopefully; in the dim light of the hallway, the gray in them was so pale it looked like tears. Kit thought of Ty sleeping, how he'd slept the whole day of Livvy's death and into the night, and the way Kit had watched him sleep in terror of what would happen when he awoke.

Everyone had been terrified. Ty would fall apart, they'd thought. Kit remembered Julian standing over Ty as he slept, one hand stroking his brother’s hair, and he'd been praying—Kit didn’t even know Shadowhunters prayed, but Julian definitely had been. Ty would crumble in a world without his sister, they'd all thought; he'd fall away to ashes just like Livvy's body.

And now he was asking Kit for this, saying he didn't want to do it without him, and what if Kit said no and Ty crumbled from the pressure of trying to do it alone? What if Kit took away his last hope and he fell apart because of it?

"You need me?" Kit asked slowly.

Ty nodded. "Yes."

"Then," Kit said, knowing already that he was making a huge mistake, "I'll help you."

Julian's room was small, and painted an incongruously cheerful shade of blue. A white-painted four-poster bed dominated the space. Emma tugged him toward it, sitting him down gently, and went to bolt on the door.

“Why are you locking the door?” Julian raised his head. It was the first thing he'd said since they'd left Ty's room, though he’d followed her calmly enough.

"You need some privacy, Julian," she said. She turned toward him; God, the way he looked broke her heart. Blood freckled his skin, darkened his stiff clothes, had dried in patches on his boots. Livvy's locket glittered in the hollow of his throat, though it had dangled against Livvy's sternum. Emma remembered that locket: a gift from Julian to his sister when she'd turned thirteen, it had belonged to their grandmother. It had a circlet of the family thorns on the front, and Julian had added an etching to the back: a pair of crossed sabres, Livvy's weapon.

It held a picture of Ty, Emma knew. She'd barely noticed Livvy wearing it at the Council meeting, though she knew Livvy often wore it when she was feeling nervous, the same way Emma kept tight hold of Cortana.

She wished she'd noticed Livvy more in those last moments, paid more attention to her, rather than worrying about the Cohort, about Manuel and Zara and Jessica, about Robert Lightwood and exile, about her own broken, messed-up heart. She wished she had held Livvy one more time, marveling at how tall and grown-up she was, how she had changed from the chubby toddler she recalled in her own earliest memories.

"Don't," Julian said, roughly.

Emma came closer to him; she couldn't stop herself. He had to look up to meet her eyes. "Don't do what?"

"Blame yourself," he said. "I can feel you thinking about how you should have done something different. I can't let those kind of thoughts in, or I'll go to pieces."

He was sitting on the very edge of the bed, as if he couldn't bear the thought of lying down. Very gently, Emma touched his face, sliding the palm of her hand across his jaw. He shuddered and caught her wrist, hard.

"Emma," he said, and for one of the first times in her life, she couldn't read his voice — it was low and dark, rough without being angry, wanting something, but she didn't know what.

"What can I do," she breathed. "What can I do, I'm your parabatai, Julian, I need to help you."

"I am not a princess," Cristina said; she was leaning over him, one of her hands braced against the blanket. Kieran's face was close to hers, so close she could see the dark fringe of his eyelashes. "And I do not want you to go."

"Julian, remember what Dane said, that you were the kind of guy who would have a girl for a parabatai?" She knelt up on the bed, raising her chin to look him directly in the eye. "That's what I always loved about you, even before I was in love with you. You never thought for a second about it diminishing you to have a girl as your warrior partner, you never acted as if I was anything less than your complete equal. You never for a moment made me feel like I had to be weak for you to be strong."

In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedroom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he'd taken off the jacket and was just in a black long-sleeve T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty.

"I'm glad you're here." Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his shoes. "I wanted to talk to you."

The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen's, Dru's, Emma's, Julian's. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She'd gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands.

Ty's hands were fine, but he'd been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian's when he'd gone to rinse them out at the sink, and they'd looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn’t want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it.

"I know how this is going to sound," Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. "But you're not acting the way I expected."

Ty kicked his boots off. "Because I climbed up the pyre?"

"No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did," said Kit. "I just..."

"I did it to get this," Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy's locket, the one he'd helped her put on before the Council meeting. He vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched.

"Livvy's necklace," he said. "I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would..."

"Cry?" Ty didn't look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. "Everybody is supposed to cry. But that's because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don't. I don't accept it."

"What?"

"I'm going to get her back," said Ty.

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

With a scream of fear and anger, she slashed up and backward with her sword, slicing the harpy's claws off at the joint. The demon shrieked and Cristina tumbled through the air, her sword falling out of her hand, reaching out as if she could catch on to something to slow her fall—she saw Mark's pale, terrified face turned up toward her harpies surrounding him in a dark cloud—

Something reached out to seize her out of the sky.

She gasped as a hand caught her elbow, and she was yanked sideways to land awkwardly atop something warm and alive. A flying horse.

"That's why I did all this," Ty said. "I want you with me in any way you can be."

Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray are finally united after waiting over a century to be together, but they become aware a dark threat is looming over a child of the Shadow Market: a lost Herondale, from a line of Herondales who have used the Market to hide from their fellow Nephilim. Now is the time for the lost Herondale to be discovered. Jem and Tessa have to find him before his enemies can. (x)

He bent down and tore a strip of material from the shirt he'd worn at the Council meeting. It was stiff and dark with his sister's dried blood.

He tied it around his wrist. It would stay there, he told himself, until he had vengeance. Until there was justice. Until everyone he loved was safe.

“What’s that you have there, sweetie?” Lily asked as Alec came in.

“What he has is my phone,” said Alec. “Which he stole.”

In Rafael’s hands, Alec’s phone buzzed. Alec reached for it, but Rafael moved casually out of reach. He didn’t seem terribly concerned that Alec had grabbed for him. He was staring at the phone.

Alec reached for the phone, then stopped, caught off guard. As Rafael studied the phone, the sullen line of his mouth twitched, then slowly curved into a smile. The smile, slow and warm and sweet, altered his whole face.

Alec’s hand dropped. Rafael turned a suddenly-bright countenance up to him and chirped a question. Even his voice sounded different when he was happy.

“I don’t understand you,” Alec said helplessly.

Rafael waved the phone in Alec’s face to illustrate his point. Alec looked at the screen, and kept looking. He’d had a sick unsteady feeling in his chest since he realized what the Shadowhunters were doing here, but the world felt steady again now.

Magnus had sent a picture with the caption “Blueberry and I home from a wild and dangerous mission with a swingset.”

Magnus was leaning against their front door. Max was laughing, all dimples, the way he did whenever Magnus did magic to amuse him. There were blue and golden lights streaming all around them, and huge iridescent bubbles that seemed made of light too. Magnus was smiling a small fond smile, and the black spikes of his hair were wreathed with radiant ribbons of magic.

Alec had asked Magnus to send him pictures whenever he was away, after their first mission when Max was a baby. To remind Alec what he was fighting for.

Lily cleared her throat. “The kid asked: ‘Who is that cool man?’”

“Oh,” said Alec, kneeling by the bed. “Oh, that’s—that’s Magnus. His name is Magnus Bane. He’s my—I’m his–he and I are going to get married.”

One day, they would.

Alec wasn’t sure why it felt important to tell this child.

Lily translated. Rafael looked from the phone to Alec’s face, then back again, his brow furrowed in clear surprise. Alec waited. He’d heard kids say terrible things before now. Adults poured poison in their minds and then it came out of their mouths.

Lily laughed.

“He said,” Lily reported with unholy joy, “‘What is that cool man doing with you?’”

Alec said: “Rafael, give me back my phone.”

Alec Lightwood, partner of the High Warlock of Brooklyn and father of a warlock child, is sent to Buenos Aires to re-establish the Shadowhunters amidst the ruins left by the Dark War. When he arrives, he is not welcomed by the Shadowhunters there. He believes it is because of his companion Lily, the head of the New York vampire clan, until a Shadowhunter orphan confides a dark secret to him under cover of the Shadow Market.

The morning air caught the edge of Emma’s hood as she turned. “What is this about?” One of the Faerie girls shook her head. “The King is suspicious, naturally. Too long has there been enmity between the Courts. The Riders are inspecting each guest.” Emma froze in horror. “The Riders of Mannan?”

"They fear your influence," said Gwyn. "They know others listen to you. You are very persuasive, Diana, and startlingly wise."

She made a face at him. "Flatterer."

"I am not flattering you." He stood up. "I am afraid for you. Horace Dearborn may not be a dictator yet, but he yearns to be one. His first move will to be to eliminate all who stand against him. He will move to extinguish the brightest lights first, those who illuminate the pathway for others."

Diana shivered. "You are cynical, Gwyn."

"It is possible I do not always see the best in people," he said, "as I hunt down the souls of slain warriors on the battlefield."

She raised her eyebrows. "Are you making a joke?"

"Maybe." He looked puzzled. "I think I might have. Was it funny?"