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The sun was shining, thebirds were singing, and itwas a beautiful day atShadowhunterAcademy.

Well, Simon was prettysure the sun was shining.There was a faintluminescence to the air inhis and George’sunderground chamber,

casting a pleasant glowupon the green slime thatcoatedtheirwalls.

And all right, he couldnot hear the birds from hissubterranean room, butGeorge did come back fromtheshowerssinging.

“Goodmorning,Si! I sawaratinthebathroom,buthe

wastakinganicenapandwedidn’tbothereachother.”

“Or the ratwasdeadof avery infectious diseasewhich has now beenintroduced to our watersystem,” Simon suggested.“We may be drinkingplague-ratwaterforweeks.”

“Nobody likes a GloomyGus,” George scolded him.

“Nobody likes a Sullen Si.Nobody is here for aMoodyMildred.Noonefancies—”

“I have gathered thegeneral tenor of yourdiscourse, George,” saidSimon. “I object strongly tobeingreferredtoasaMoodyMildred. Especially as Ireally feel like I’m a MildlyGood-Humored Mildred

right now. I see you’relooking forward to your bigday?”

“Have a shower, Si,”Georgeurged.“Startthedayrefreshed. Maybe style yourhair a little. It wouldn’t killyou.”

Simon shook his head.“There’s a dead rat in thebathroom,George. I amnot

going in the bathroom,George.”

“He’s not dead,” Georgesaid.“He’sjustsleeping.I’mcertainofit.”

“Senseless optimism ishow plagues get started,”Simon said. “Ask themedieval peasants ofEurope.Oh,wait,youcan’t.”

“Were they a jollybunch?” George askedskeptically.

“I’msuretheyweremuchjollierbeforealltheplague,”saidSimon.

He felt he was makingreally goodpoints, and thathewasbackedupbyhistory.He pulled off the shirt he’dslept in, which read LET’S

FIGHT! and below in tinylettersOUR ENEMY OFF WITH

CUNNING ARGUMENTS.George whipped Simon’sback with his wet towel,whichmadeSimonyelp.

Simon grinned as hepulled his gear out of theirwardrobe.Theyweregettingstartedrightafterbreakfast,so he might as well change

into gear straight off. Plus,everydaywearinggearmadeformenwasavictory.

HeandGeorgewentuptobreakfast in good humorwithalltheworld.

“Youknow,thisporridgeisn’tatallbad,”Simonsaid,digging in. George noddedenthusiastically, his mouthfull.

Beatriz looked sad forthem, and possibly sad thatboys were so stupid ingeneral. “This isn’tporridge,” she told them.“Thesearescrambledeggs.”

“Oh no,” Georgewhispered faintly, hismouth still full, his voiceterriblysad.“Ohno.”

Simondroppedhisspoonandstaredintothedepthsofhisbowlwithhorror.

“If they are scrambledeggs . . . ?” he asked. “AndI’m not arguing with you,Beatriz,I’mjustaskingwhatI feel is a very reasonablequestion . . . if they arescrambled eggs, why aretheygray?”

Beatriz shrugged andcontinued eating, carefullyavoiding the lumps. “Whocansay?”

Thatcouldbemadeintoasad song, Simon supposed.If they are eggs, why are theygray? Who can say, who cansay?He found himself stillthinking of song lyrics

sometimes, even though hewasoutoftheband.

Admittedly, “Why Arethe Eggs So Gray?” mightnotbeabighit,evenonthehipstercircuit.

Julie plopped her bowldown on the table besideBeatriz.

“The eggs are gray,” sheannounced. “I don’t know

how they do this. Surely atthispoint, itwouldactuallymake sense for them not tomess up the foodsometimes. Every time,everyday,foroverayear?IstheAcademycursed?”

“I have been thinking itmight be,” George saidearnestly.“Ihearaneldritchrattling sometimes, like

ghostsshakingtheirterriblechains. Honestly, I washoping the Academy wascursed, since otherwise it’sprobably creatures in thepipes.” George shuddered.“Creatures.”

Julie sat down. Georgeand Simon exchanged aprivate pleased look. Theyhad been keeping track of

how often Julie chose to sitwith the three of them,rather than with JonCartwright. Currently theywerewinning, sixty percenttoforty.

Julie choosing to sitwiththem seemed like a goodsign,sincethiswasGeorge’sbigday.

Now that they wereShadowhunter trainees intheirsecondyear,andinthewords of Scarsbury “nolonger totally hopeless andliable to cut off your ownstupid heads,” they weregiven their own slightlymore important missions.Every mission had anappointed team leader, and

the team leader got doublepoints if the mission was asuccess. Julie, Beatriz,Simon, and Jon had alreadybeen team leaders, and theyhad killed it: everyone’smission accomplished,demons slain, people saved,Downworlders breaking theLaw penalized severely butfairly.Insomewaysitwasa

pity that Jon’s mission hadgone so well, as he hadbragged about it for weeks,but they couldn’t help it.They were just too good,Simon thought, even as heslappedthewoodentablesoasnottojinxhimself.Therewasnowayforthemtofail.

“Feeling nervous, teamleader?” asked Julie. Simon

had to admit she couldsometimes be an unsettlingcompanion.

“No,” said George, andunder Julie’s gimlet eye:“Maybe. Yes. You know, anappropriate amount ofnervous, but in a cool,collected, and good-under-pressureway.”

“Don’t go all to pieces,”said Julie. “I want a perfectscore.”

An awkward silencefollowed. Simon comfortedhimself by looking over atJon’s table. When Julieabandoned him, Jon had toeat all alone.UnlessMarisoldecided she wanted to sitwith him and torment him.

Which, Simon noted, shewasdoingtoday.Littledevil.Marisolwashilarious.

Jonmadeurgentgesturesfor help, but Julie had herback turned to him and didnotsee.

“I’m not saying this toscareyou,George,”shesaid.“That’s a side benefit,obviously. This is an

important mission. Youknow faeries are the worstkind of Downworlder.Faeries crossing over intothe mundane realm andtrickingthepoorthingsintoeatingfaeriefruitisnojoke.Mundanes can wither awayand die after eating thatfruit,youknow.It’smurder,and it’s murder we can

hardly ever get them for,because by the time themundanesdiethefaeriesarelonggone.You’retakingthisseriously,right?”

“Yes, Julie,” said George.“I actually do knowmurderisbad,Julie.”

Julie’s whole face pursedup in that alarming way itdid sometimes. “Remember

it was you who almostscrewedupmymission.”

“I hesitated slightly totackle that vampire child,”Georgeadmitted.

“Precisely,” said Julie.“Nomorehesitation.Asourteamleader,youhavetoacton your own initiative. I’mnot saying you’re bad,

George. I am saying youneedtolearn.”

“I’m not sure anybodyneeds this kind ofmotivational speech,”Beatriz said. “Itwould freakanyoneout.Andit’stooeasytofreakGeorgeoutasitis.”

George, who had beenlooking touched at Beatriz’s

gallant defense, stoppedlookingtouched.

“I just think they shoulddo a repeat team leaderoccasionally,” Juliegrumbled, letting themknowwhereallthishostilitywas coming from. Shestabbed her gray eggswistfully.“Iwassogood.”

Simon raised hiseyebrows. “You had ahorsewhipandthreatenedtobeatmeabout theheadandface if I didn’t do what yousaid.”

Juliepointedherspoonathim. “Exactly. And you didwhat I said. That’sleadership, that is. What’smore,Ididn’tbeatyouabout

the head and face. Kind butfirm,that’sme.”

Julie discussed her owngreatness at some length.Simongotuptogetanotherglassofjuice.

“What kind of juice doyou think this is?” CatarinaLoss asked, joining him intheline.

“Fruit,”saidSimon.“Justfruit. That’s all they wouldtellme.Ifounditsuspiciousaswell.”

“I like fruit,” Catarinasaid, but she did not soundsure about that. “I knowyou’re excused from myclass this afternoon. Whatareyouuptothismorning?”

“Amissiontostopfaeriesfrom slipping over theirborders and engaging inillicit trade,” Simon said.“Georgeisteamleader.”

“George is team leader?”Catarinaasked.“Hm.”

“Why is everyone sodown on George today?”Simon demanded. “What’swrongwithGeorge?There’s

nothingwrongwithGeorge.Itisnotpossibletofindfaultwith George. He’s a perfectScottish angel. He alwaysshares the snacks that hismother sends him, and he’sbetter-looking than Jace.There, I said it. I’m nottakingitback.”

“I see you’re in a goodmood,” said Catarina. “All

right then. Go on, have agood time. Take care ofmyfavoritestudent.”

“Right,” said Simon.“Wait,who’sthat?”

Catarina gestured himaway from her with herindeterminate juice. “Getlost,Daylighter.”

Everyoneelsewasexcitedto go on another mission.

Simon was looking forwardtoitaswell,andpleasedforGeorge’s sake. But Simonwas mostly excited becauseafter the mission, he hadsomewhereelsetobe.

***

TheFair Folkhadbeen seenlast on a moor in Devon.Simon was a bit excited to

Portalthereandhopedtherewould be time to see redpostboxesanddrinklageratanEnglishpub.

Instead, themoor turnedout to be a huge stretch ofunevenfield,rocks,andhillsin the distance, no redpostboxesorquaintpubs insight. They wereimmediatelygivenhorsesby

the contact with the Sightwhowaswaitingforthem.

Lots of fields, lots ofhorses. Simon was not surewhy they had bothered toleave theAcademy, becausethis was an identicalexperience.

The first words Georgesaid as they were riding onthe moor were: “I think it

wouldbeagoodideatosplitup.”

“Like in . . . a horrormovie?”Simonasked.

Julie, Beatriz, and Jongave him looks of irritatedincomprehension. Marisol’suncertain expressionsuggested she agreed withSimon, but she did notspeak up and Simon didn’t

want to be the onemutinying against hisfriend’s leadership. Theywould cover more moor iftheysplitup.Maybeitwasagreatidea.Moremoor!Howcoulditgowrong?

“I’llbepartnerswithJon,”Marisol said instantly, aglint in her dark eyes. “Iwish to continue our

conversation frombreakfast.Ihavemanymorethings to say to him on thesubjectofvideogames.”

“I don’twant tohear anymore about video games,Marisol!” snapped Jon, aShadowhunter in anightmare of torrentialmundaneinformation.

Marisolsmiled.“Iknow.”

Marisol had only justturned fifteen. Simon wasnot sure how she hadworked out that telling Jonevery detail about themundane world would besuch effective psychologicalterrorism.Her evil hadonlygrown in the year andchange Simon had knownher. Simon had to respect

that.“And Si and I will be

together,” George saideasily.

“Um,”saidSimon.Neither he nor George

was a Shadowhunter yet,and thoughCatarinahelpedthemseethroughglamours,no mundane . . . er, non-Shadowhunter . . . was as

securely protected fromfaerieglamourasoneof theNephilim. But Simon didn’twant to question George’sauthority or suggest hedidn’t want to be partners.Hewas also scared of beingpartnered with Julie, andbeaten about the head andface.

“Great,” Simon finishedweakly.“Maybewecansplitupbut also stay . . .withinhearing range of eachother?”

“Youwanttosplitupbutstay together?” Jon asked.“Do you not know whatwordsmean?”

“Do you know what thewords ‘World of Warcraft’

mean?” asked Marisolmenacingly.

“Yes, I do,” said Jon. “Allputtogetherinthatway,no,I do not, and I do not wishto.”

He urged his horseonward across the moor.Marisol followed in pursuit.Simon stared at the back of

Jon’s head and worried hewouldgotoofar.

Except that they weremeant to be splitting up.Thiswasallright.

George gazed around atthe remaining members ofthe team and appeared tocome to a decision. “We’llstaywithinhearingrangeofeach other, and comb over

themoors,andseeifwecanseetheFairFolkinanyoftheplaces they were reportedlurking. Are you with me,team?”

“I’mwithyou to theend,if it doesn’t take too long!You know I’m going toHelen Blackthorn and AlinePenhallow’s wedding,” saidSimon.

“Ugh, hate weddings,”saidGeorgesympathetically.“Youhavetowearamonkeysuit and go sit around forages while everybodysecretly hates each otherover some fight about theflower arrangements. Plus,bagpipes. I mean, I don’tknow how Shadowhunterweddings go. Are there

flowers? Are therebagpipes?”

“Can’t talk right now,”said Beatriz. “Picturing JaceHerondale in a tuxedo. Inmy head, he looks like abeautifulspy.”

“James Bond,” Georgecontributed.“JamesBlond?Istilldon’tlikemonkeysuits.

But it doesn’t seem like youmind,Si.”

Simonliftedahandfromthereinstopointproudlytohimself, a maneuver thatwould’vehadhimfallingoffhis horse a year ago. “Thismonkey is going as IsabelleLightwood’sdate.”

Just saying the wordssuffusedSimonwithasense

of well-being. In such awonderfulworld,howcouldanythinggowrong?

He looked around at histeam:thewholelotofthem,wearing long-sleeved gearagainst the winter chill,figures in black with bowsstrapped to their backs andtheirbreathwhiteplumesinthe cold air, riding fast

horses through the moorson a mission to protecthumankind. His threefriends by his side, and JonandMarisol in thedistance.George,soproudtobeteamleader.Marisol,scornfulcitykid, riding her horse witheasygrace.EvenBeatrizandJulie, even Jon, bornShadowhuntersall, lookeda

little different to Simon,nowthattheywerewellintotheir second year at theAcademy. Scarsbury hadhoned them, Catarina hadlectured them, and eventheir fellow Academystudentshadchangedthem.Now the bornShadowhunters rode withmundanes and performed

missions with them as aunit,andtheso-calleddregscouldkeepup.

The moor was rollinggreen, tree line to their leftallquivering leavesas if thetrees were dancing in theslight breeze. The sunlightwas pale and clear, shiningon their heads and theirblack clothes alike. Simon

found himself thinking,with affection and pride,that they looked like theymight make realShadowhuntersafterall.

He noticed that by silentmutual agreement, Beatrizand Juliewerecoaxing theirmounts on faster. Simonsquinted up into thedistance, where he could

justaboutstillmakeoutJonand Marisol, and thensquinted at Beatriz’s andJulie’s backs. He felt againthatpangofuneasiness.

“Why are they all racingahead?” Simon asked. “Um,nottotellyouyourjob,but,brave team leader, maybecommand them not to gotoofar.”

“Ah, give them aminute,” George said. “Youknowshekindoflikesyou.”

“What?”saidSimon.“Not that she’s going to

do anything about it,” saidGeorge. “Nobody who likesyou is going to do anythingabout it. On account of,nobody would enjoy having

IsabelleLightwoodcut theirheadoff.”

“Likes me?” Simonechoed. “Something aboutthe way you’re talkingsuggests multiple people.Wholikeme.”

George shrugged.“Apparently you’re the typewhogrowsonpeople.Don’t

askme.Ithoughtgirlslikedabs.”

“Icouldhaveabs,”Simontold him. “I watched in themirror once and I think Ifoundanab.I’mtellingyou,all this training isdoingmybodygood.”

It wasn’t like Simonthought he was a hideouscreature or anything. He’d

now seen several demonswho had tentacles comingoutoftheireyes,andhewasfairly sure it did not revoltpeoplemerely to look uponhim.

But he wasn’t Jace, whomade girls’ heads spinaround as if they werepossessed. Itmade no sensethatoutofallthestudentsin

theAcademy, Beatrizmightlikehim.

George rolled his eyes.George did not trulyunderstand the slowdevelopment of actualphysical fitness. He’dprobably been born withabs. Some were born withabs,someachievedabs,andsome—likeSimon—hadabs

thrust upon them by cruelinstructors.

“Yes, Si, you’re a realkiller.”

“Feel this arm,” saidSimon. “Rock hard! I don’tmean to brag, but it’s allbone.Allbone.”

“Si,”saidGeorge.“Idon’tneed to feel it. I believe inyou, because that’s what

bros do. And I’m happy foryour mysterious popularitywith the ladies, becausethat’s how bros are. Butseriously,watchoutforJon,becauseIthinkhe’sgoingtoshankyouoneofthesedays.He does not get yourindefinable but undeniableallure. He’s got abs to thechinandhe thoughthehad

the ladies of the Academylockeddown.”

Simon rode on,somewhatdazed.

He’d been thinking thatIsabelle’s affection for himwas a stunning andinexplicableoccurrence,likealightningstrike.(Gorgeousand courageous lightningwhom he was lucky to be

struck by!) Given currentevidence, however, he wasstarting to believe it wastimetoreevaluate.

He had been reliablyinformed that he’d datedMaia, the leader of theNewYorkwerewolfpack,thoughhe’dreceivedtheimpressionthat he had well and trulymessed that one up. He’d

heard rumors about avampire queen who mighthave been interested. He’deven gathered, strange as itseemed, that there was abriefperiodoftimewhenheandClaryhadgoneout.Andnow possibly Beatriz likedhim.

“Seriously, George, tellme the truth,” said Simon.

“AmIbeautiful?”George burst out

laughing, his horsewheeling back a few easypacesinthesunlight.

And Julie shouted:“Faerie!” and pointed.Simon looked toward ahooded and cloaked figurewith a basket of fruit overone arm, emerging as if

innocently from the mistbehindatree.

“After it!” roaredGeorge,and his horse charged forthe figure, Simon plungingafterhim.

Marisol, far ahead,shouted: “Trap!” and thengaveascreamofpain.

Simonlookeddesperatelytowardthetrees.Thefaerie,

hesaw,hadreinforcements.They had been warned theFairFolkwereallmorewaryand desperate in theaftermathoftheColdPeace.They should have listenedbetter and thought harder.They should have plannedforthis.

Simon,George,Julie,andBeatrizwereall ridinghard,

but they were too far fromher.Marisolwas swaying inher saddle, blood pouringdownherarm:elfshot.

“Marisol!”JonCartwrightshouted.“Marisol,tome!”

She pulled the horsetowardhis. Jonstoodonhishorse and leaped onto hers,bow already in hand andfiring arrows into the trees,

standingonthehorse’sbackand thus shielding Marisollike a strange bow-shootingacrobat. Simon knew he’dneverbeabletodoanythinglike that, ever, unless heAscended.

Julie and Beatriz turnedtheirhorsestowardthetreeswhere the concealed faerieswerefiring.

“They have Marisol,”Georgepanted.“Wecanstillgetthefruitseller.”

“No, George,” Simonbegan, but George hadalready wheeled his horsetoward the hooded figure,now disappearing behindthetreeandthemist.

There was a spear ofsunlight shooting between

the trunkand thebranchofthe tree, a dazzling whitelinebetweenthecrookedarcof tree limbs. It seemed torefract in Simon’s eyes,becoming broad and fair,like the path of moonlighton the sea. The hoodedfigure was slipping away,half-disappeared into thedazzle, and George’s horse

was inches from danger,George’s hand reaching forthe edge of the figure’scloak,Georgeheedlessofthecoursehehadplacedhimselfupon.

“No, George!” Simonshouted. “We are not goingtotrespassintoFaerie!”

He forced his own horseinto George’s path, making

George pull up, but he wasso hell-bent on stoppingGeorge that he did not takeinto consideration hismount, now terrified andfleeingandurgedtospeed.

Until the white dazzlinglight filled Simon’s vision.He remembered suddenlythe feeling of falling awayinto Faerie, soaked to the

skin, in a pool filled withwater: remembered Jacebeingkind tohim,andhowmuch he had resented that,how he’d thought: Don’tshow me up any further, andhis chest had burned withresentment.

Now he was tumblinginto Faerie with the screamof a terrified horse in his

ears, leaves blinding himand twigs scraping at hisface and his arms. He triedtoshieldhiseyesandfoundhimself thrownon rockandbones, with darknessrushing at him. He wouldhave been very grateful ifJacehadbeenthere.

***

Simon woke in Faerieland.His whole skull wasthrobbing, in the way yourthumb did when you hit itwith a hammer. He hopednobody had hit his headwithahammer.

He woke in a gentlyswayingbed,slightlypricklyunder his cheek.He openedhiseyesandsawthathewas

not exactly in a bed, butlying amid twigs andmoss,scattered across a swayingsurface constructed ofwooden laths. There werestrange stripes of darknessin front of his vision,obscuring his view of thevistabeyond.

Faerieland almost lookedlikethemoorsinDevon,yet

itwasentirelydifferent.Themists in the distance werefaintly purple, like stormcloudsclingingtotheearth,and therewasmovement inthe cloud suggesting oddand menacing shapes. Theleaves on the trees weregreen and yellow and redlike the trees of themundane world, but they

shone too brightly, likejewels, and when the windrustledthroughthemSimoncould almost make outwords, as if they werewhispering together. Thiswas nature run riot,alchemized into magic andstrangeness.

And Simon was, herealized, in a cage. A big

wooden cage. The stripes ofdarkness across his visionwerehiscagebars.

The thing that outragedhimmost was how familiaritfelt.Herememberedbeingtrapped like this before.Morethanonce.

“Shadowhunters,vampires, and now faeries,all longing to throw me in

prison,” Simon said aloud.“Why exactly was I soanxioustogetbackallthesememories?Why is it alwaysme? Why am I always thechumpinthecage?”

His own voice made hisachingheadhurt.

“You are in my cagenow,”saidavoice.

Simon sat up hastily,though it made his headthrob fiercely and all ofFaerieland reel drunkenlyaroundhim.Hesaw,on theother side of his cage, thehooded and cloaked figurewhom George had tried sodesperately to capture onthe moors. Simonswallowed.Hecouldnotsee

thefacebeneaththehood.There was a whirl in the

air, like a shadowwhippingover the sun. A new faeriedroppedoutoftheclearbluesky, the leaves of the forestfloor crunching under hisbare feet. Sunlight washedhis fair hair into radiance,anda longknifeglittered inhishand.

The hooded and cloakedfaeriedroppedhishoodandbowed his head in suddendeference. Unhooded,Simon saw, he had largeears, tinted purple, as if hehad an eggplant stuck toeach side of his face, andwispsoflongwhitehairthatcurledoverhis eggplant earlikecloud.

“Whathashappened,andwhy are your tricksinterferingwiththeworkofyour betters, Hefeydd? Ahorse from the mundaneworld ran into the path ofthe Wild Hunt,” the newfaerie said. “I do hope thesteed was not of immenseemotional significance,because the hounds have it

now.”Simon’s heart bled for

that poor horse. Hewondered if he too wasabout to be fed to thehounds.

“I am so sorry to havedisturbed the Wild Hunt,”the cloaked faerie said,bowinghiswhitehead evenfurther.

“You should be,”answered the faerie of theWild Hunt. “Those whocross the path of the Huntalwaysregretit.”

“This is aShadowhunter,” continuedthe other anxiously. “Or atleastoneofthechildrentheyhope to change. They werelying in wait for me in the

mortal world, and this onepursuedmeevenintoFaerie,so he is my rightful prey. Ihad no wish to disturb theWild Hunt and bear nofault!”

Simon felt this was aninaccurate and hurtfulsummaryofthesituation.

“Isitso?Comenow,Iamin a merry mood,” said the

Wild Hunt faerie. “Give meyourregretsandwordswithyour captive—as you know,Ihavesomelittle interest inShadowhunters—and I willnot bring back my lordGwynyourtongue.”

“Never was a fairerbargain made,” said thecloakedfaerieinsomehaste,andranoffasthoughafraid

theWildHunt faeriemightchange his mind, almosttrippingoverhisowncloak.

As far as Simon wasconcerned, this was out ofthe faerie frying pan andintothefaeriefire.

Thenewfaerielookedlikea boy of sixteen, not mucholder than Marisol andyounger than Simon, but

Simon knew that howfaeries looked was noindicator of their age. Hehad mismatched eyes, oneamberasthebeadsfoundinthe dark heart of trees, andone the vivid blue-green ofsea shallows when sunlightstrikes through. The jarringcontrast of his eyes and thelightofFaerie,filteredgreen

through wickedlywhispering leaves andtouched with false gold,madehis thin,dirt-streakedfacewearasinisteraspect.

He looked like a threat.Andhewascomingcloser.

“WhatdoesafaerieoftheWild Hunt want with me?”Simoncroaked.

“I amno faerie,” said theboywitheerie eyes,pointedears, and leaves in his wildhair. “I amMarkBlackthornoftheLosAngelesInstitute.It doesn’t matter what theysayorwhat theydotome. Istill remember who I am. IamMarkBlackthorn.”

He looked at Simonwithwildhungerinhisthinface.

Histhinfingersclutchedthebarsofthecage.

“Are you here to saveme?” he demanded. “HavetheShadowhunterscomeformeatlast?”

***

Oh no. This was HelenBlackthorn’s brother, theonewhowashalf-faerie like

her, the one who hadbelievedhisfamilydeadandbeentakenbytheWildHuntandneverreturned.Thiswasveryawkward.

Thiswasworsethanthat.Thiswashorrific.

“No,” said Simon,because hope seemed thecruelest blow he could dealMark Blackthorn. “It’s just

like the other faerie said. Iwandered here by accidentand I was captured. I’mSimon Lewis. I . . . knowyourname,andIknowwhathappenedtoyou.I’msorry.”

“Do you know when theShadowhunters are comingfor me?” Mark asked withheartbreaking eagerness. “I—sent them a message,

duringthewar.Iunderstandthe Cold Peace must makeall dealings with faeriedifficult, but they mustknow I am loyal and wouldbe valuable to them. Theymust be coming, but it hasbeen . . . it has beenweeksandweeks.Tellme,when?”

Simon stared at Mark,dry-mouthed. It had not

beenweeksandweeks sincethe Shadowhunters hadabandoned him here. It hadbeenayearandmore.

“They’re not coming,” hewhispered. “Iwasnot there,but my friends were. Theytoldmewhathappened.TheClave took a vote. TheShadowhuntersdonotwantyouback.”

“Oh,” saidMark, a singlesoftsoundthatwasfamiliartoSimon: Itwasthekindofsoundcreaturesmadewhentheydied.

He turned away fromSimon,hisbackarched in aspasm of pain that lookedphysical. Simon saw,onhisbare lean arms, the oldmarks of a whip. Even

thoughSimoncouldnotseehisface,Markcovereditforamoment,asifhecouldnoteven bear to look uponFaerieland.

Then he turned andsnapped: “What about thechildren?”

“What?” Simon askedblankly.

“Helen, Julian, Livia,Tiberius,Drusilla,Octavian.And Emma,” said Mark.“You see? I have notforgotten. Every night, nomatter what has happenedduringtheday,nomatterifIam torn and bloodied or sobone-tired I wish I weredead, I look up at the starsand I give each star a

brother’s name or a sister’sface. I will not sleep until Iremember every one. Thestars will burn out before Iforget.”

Mark’s family, theBlackthorns. They were allyounger than Mark butHelen; Simon knew that.And Emma Carstairs livedwiththeyoungerBlackthorn

kids in the Los AngelesInstitute, the little girlwithblond hair who had beenorphaned in the war andwhowrotetoClaryalot.

Simon wished he knewmoreaboutthem.ClaryhadtalkedaboutEmma.Magnushadspokenpassionatelythissummer, several times,about the Cold Peace and

hadgiventheBlackthornsasan example of the horrorsthat the Clave’s decision topunishfaerieshadvisitedonthoseoffaerieblood.Simonhad listened toMagnus andfelt sorry for theBlackthorns, but they hadseemed like just anothertragedy of the war:something terrible but

distant, and ultimately easyto forget. Simonhad felt hehad so much to rememberhimself. He had wanted togo to the Academy andbecome a Shadowhunter, tolearn more about his ownlife and remembereverything he had lost, tobecome someone strongerandbetter.

Except that you did notbecome someone strongerand better by only thinkingaboutyourself.

He did not know whatthey were doing toMark inFaerie, to make his familyslipawayfromhim.

“Helen’s well,” he saidawkwardly. “I saw herrecently. She came and

lecturedattheAcademy.I’msorry.Ihadademontake—alot of memories from me,notsolongago.Iknowwhatit’slike,nottoremember.”

“Fortunateistheonewhoknows the name of theirheart. They are the oneswhoseheartsarenevertrulylost. They can always calltheir heart back home,”

Marksaid,hisvoicealmostachant. “Do you rememberthe name of your heart,SimonLewis?”

“I think so,” Simonwhispered.

“How are they?” Markasked in a low, worn voice.Hesoundedverytired.

“Helen’s gettingmarried,” Simon offered. It

was theonlygood thing,hefelt, that he had to offerMark.“ToAlinePenhallow.Ithink—they really love eachother.”

He almost said he wasgoing to theirwedding, buteven that felt cruel. Markcould not go to his ownsister’swedding.Hehadnot

been invited. He had notevenbeentold.

Markdidnot seemangryorhurt.Hesmiled,softlyasachildbeingtoldabedtimestory, and leaned his faceagainst the bars of Simon’scage.

“Sweet Helen,” he said.“My father used to tellstoriesaboutHelenofTroy.

Shewasbornoutofanegg,and the most beautifulwoman in the world. Beingborn out of an egg is veryunusualforhumans.”

“I’ve heard that,” saidSimon.

“Shewasveryunhappyinlove,” Mark continued.“Beauty can be like that.Beauty cannot be trusted.

Beautycanslipthroughyourfingers like water and burnon your tongue like poison.Beauty can be the shiningwall thatkeepsyou fromallyoulove.”

“Um,” said Simon.“Totally.”

“I am glad that mybeautiful Helen will behappier than the last

beautifulHelen,”saidMark.“I amglad shewillbegivenbeauty for beauty, love forlove, and no false coin. Tellher that her brother Marksends her felicitations onherweddingday.”

“IfImakeitthere,Iwill.”“Alinewillbeabletohelp

her with the children, too,”Marksaid.

Hewas paying very littleattention toSimon,his facestill wearing that fixed andfaraway expression, as if hewere listening to a story orrecalling a memory. Simonfeared that stories andmemory were becomingmuch the same to MarkBlackthorn: longed-for,beautiful,andunreal.

“Ty needs specialattention,”Markwenton.“Iremember my parentstalkingaboutit.”Hismouthtwisted. “I mean my fatherand the woman who sangme to sleep every nightthough I was not of herblood, the Shadowhunter Iamnolongerallowedtocallmy mother. Songs are not

blood. Blood is all thatmatters to Shadowhuntersand faeries alike. The songsmatteronlytome.”

Blood is all thatmatters toShadowhunters.

Simon could notremember the context, buthe could remember theconstant refrain, frompeoplehelovednowbuthad

not loved then. Mundane,mundane, mundane. Andlater,vampire.Downworlder.

He remembered that thefirstprisonhehadeverbeeninside was a Shadowhunterprison.

He wished he could tellMark Blackthorn thatanythinghesaidwaswrong.

“I’msosorry,”hesaid.

He was sorry for notlistening, and sorry for notcaring more. He’d thoughthewasthevoiceofreasoninthe Academy, and had notrealized how complacenthe’dgrown,howeasyitwasto hear his friends sneer atpeople who were—after all—notlikehimanymore,andletthemgetawaywithit.

He wished he knew howto say any of this to MarkBlackthorn, but he doubtedMarkwouldcare.

“If you are sorry, speak,”said Mark. “How is Ty?ThereisnothingwrongwithTy, but he is different, andthe Clave hates all that isdifferent. They will try topunish him, for being who

he is. They would punish astar for burning. My fatherwas there to stand betweenhimandourcruelworld,butmy father is gone and I amgone too. Imightaswellbedead,forallthegoodIamtomy brothers and sisters.Livvy would walk over hotcoals and hissing serpentsforTy,butsheisasyoungas

he is. She cannot do and beeverything to him. Is Helenhaving difficulties withTiberius? Is Tiberiushappy?”

“I don’t know,” Simonsaidhelplessly.“Ithinkso.”

All he knew was thatthere were a bunch ofBlackthorn kids: faceless,namelessvictimsofthewar.

“And there’s Tavvy,” saidMark.

His voice grew strongeras he kept talking, and heused nicknames for hisbrothers and sisters ratherthan the full names he hadworked so laboriously toremember. Simon supposedMark was not usuallyallowedeventospeakofhis

mortal life or his Nephilimfamily. He didn’t want tothink about what the WildHuntmightdotoMark,ifhetried.

“He is so little,” saidMark. “He won’t rememberDad, or M—or his mother.He’s the littlest thing. Theyletmeholdhim, thedayhewas born, and his head fit

into thepalmofmyhand. Icanstillfeelitsweightthere,evenwhenIcannotgrasphisname.IheldhimandIknewI had to support his head:thathewasminetosupportandprotect.Forever.Oh,butforever lasts such a shorttimeinthemortalworld.Hewill not remember meeither. Maybe Drusilla will

forget as well.” Mark shookhishead.“Idonot thinkso,though. Dru learnseverythingbyheart,andshehas the sweetest heart of usall. I hope her memories ofmestaysweet.”

Clary must have toldSimon every one of theBlackthorns’ names, andtalkeda littlebit abouthow

eachofthemwasdoing.Shemusthaveletfallsomescrapof information, whichSimon had discarded asuseless andwhichwouldbebetterthantreasuretoMark.

Simon stared at himhelplessly.

“Just tell me if Aline ishelping with the youngerones,” said Mark, his voice

growing sharper. “Helencannot do it all by herself,andJulianwillnotbeabletohelpher!”Hisvoicesoftenedagain. “Julian,” he said.“Jules. My artist, mydreamer.Holdhimuptothelight and he would shine adozendifferentcolors.AllhecaresaboutishisartandhisEmma. He will try to help

Helen, of course, but he isstill so young. They are soyoung and so easily lost. Iknow what I am saying,Shadowhunter. In the landunderthehillwepreyonthetender and new-hearted.And they never grow old,withus.Theyneverhavethechance.”

“Oh, Mark Blackthorn,whataretheydoingtoyou?”Simonwhispered.

He could not keep thepityoutofhisvoice,andhesaw it sting Mark: the slowflush that rose to his thincheeks,andthewayheliftedhis chin, holding his headhigh.

Mark said: “Nothing Icannotbear.”

Simonwas silent.Hedidnot remember everything,but he remembered howmuchhehadbeenchanged.People could bear somuch,but Simon did not knowhow much of the originalyouwasleftwhentheworld

hadtwistedyouintoawholedifferentshape.

“I remember you,” Marksaid suddenly. “We metwhenyouwereonyourwaytoHell.Youwerenothumanthen.”

“No,” said Simonawkwardly. “I don’tremembermuchaboutit.”

“There was a boy withyou,”Markcontinued.“Hairlike a halo and eyes likehellfire, a Nephilim amongNephilim. I’d heard storiesabouthim.I—admiredhim.Hepressedawitchlightintomy hand, and it meant—itmeantalottome.Then.”

Simon could notremember,butheknewwho

thatmusthavebeen.“Jace.”Mark nodded, almost

absentmindedly. “He said,‘Show them what aShadowhunter is made of;show them you aren’tafraid.’ I thought I wasshowingthem,theFairFolkand the Shadowhuntersboth.Icouldnotdowhathe

askedme.Iwasafraid,butIdidnotletitstopme.Igotamessage back to theShadowhunters and I toldthem the Fair Folk werebetraying them and allyingwith their enemy. I madesure they knew and couldprotect the City of Glass. Iwarned them, and theHunters could have killed

me for it, but I thought if Idied I would die knowingmybrothersandsistersweresaved, and that everyonewould know I was a trueShadowhunter.”

“You did,” said Simon.“You got themessage back.Idris was protected, andyour brothers and sistersweresaved.”

“WhataheroIam,”Markmurmured. “I proved myloyalty. And theShadowhunters leftmeheretorot.”

His face twisted. In thedepthsofSimon’sheart,feartwinedwithpity.

“I tried to be aShadowhunter, even in thedepths of Faerie, and what

good did it do me? ‘Showthemwhat a Shadowhunteris made of!’ What is aShadowhunter made of, iftheydeserttheirown,iftheythrow away a child’s heartlike rubbish left on the sideof the road?Tellme,SimonLewis, if that is whatShadowhunters are, whywouldIwishtobeone?”

“Because that’s not alltheyare,”Simonsaid.

“And what are faeriesmade of? I hearShadowhunters say theyareall evil now, barely morethan demons set upon theearth to do wickedmischief.” Mark grinned,something wild and fey inthe grin, like sunlight

glittering through aspiderweb. “Andwe do lovemischief, Simon Lewis, andsometimes wickedness. Butit is not all bad, to ride thewinds, runupon thewaves,and dance upon themountains, and it is all Ihave left. At least the WildHunt wants me. Maybe Ishould show

Shadowhunters what afaerieismadeofinstead.”

“Maybe,” said Simon.“There’s more to both sidesthantheworst.”

Mark smiled, a faintterrible smile. “Where hasthe best gone? I try toremember my father’sstories, about JonathanShadowhunter,aboutallthe

golden heroes who haveserved as shields forhumanity. But my father isdead. His voice fades awaywiththenorthwind,andtheLaw he held sacred issomething written in thesand by a child. We laughand point, that anyoneshould be so foolish as to

think it would last. All thatisgood,andtrue,islost.”

Simonhadneverthoughtthere was much of a silverlining about his memoryloss.Itoccurredtohimnowthat he had been shownsome small accidentalmercy.Allhismemorieshadbeenstrippedawayatonce.

While Mark’s memorieswerebeingtornatandwornaway, sliding from him oneby one, in the cold darkunderthehillwherenothinggoldlasted.

“I wish I couldremember,” Simon said,“whenwefirstmet.”

“You weren’t humanthen,” said Mark bitterly.

“But you’re human now.Andyou look likemoreofaShadowhunterthanIdo.”

Simonopenedhismouthand found all wordswanting. He did not knowwhat to say: It was true, aseverything Mark said wastrue. When he’d first seenMark, he’d thought faerie,andfeltinstinctivelyuneasy.

Shadowhunter Academymusthavebeen rubbingoffonhimevenmorethanhe’dthought.

And the environmentMark was in had changedhim, too, changed himalready almost pastreclaiming. There was aneerie quality to him thatwent beyond the fine bones

and delicately pointed earsof faerie. Helen hadpossessed those too, butultimately she had movedlikeafighter,stoodtalllikeaShadowhunter, spoken asthe Clave and the people ofthe Institutes spoke. Markspoke like a poem andwalked like a dance. Simonwondered, even if Mark

foundhiswayback, ifMarkcould possibly fit into theShadowhunterworldnow.

HewonderedifMarkhadforgottenhowtolie.

“WhatdoyouthinkIam,apprentice Shadowhunter?”Mark asked. “What do youthinkIshoulddo?”

“Show them what MarkBlackthornismadeof,”said

Simon.“Showthemall.”“Helen, Julian, Livia,

Tiberius,Drusilla,Octavian.And Emma,” Markwhispered,hisvoicelowandreverent, one Simonrecognized from thesynagogue,fromthevoiceofmothers calling theirchildren, from all the timesand places he had heard

people call on what theyheld most sacred. “Mybrothers and sisters areShadowhunters,andintheirnameIwillhelpyou.Iwill.”

He turned and shouted:“Hefeydd!”

Hefeydd of the purpleears sidled back into view,backfromamongthetrees.

“This Shadowhunter ismy kinsman,” said Mark,with some difficulty. “Doyoudaretoinsistyouhaveaclaim on a kinsman of theWildHunt?”

That was ridiculous.Simon was not even aShadowhunter yet, Hefeyddwasnevergoingtobelieve—Only herewasMark, Simon

realized. A faerie, to allappearances, and a faeriesomewhattobefeared.EvenSimon had not known if hecouldlie.

“Of course I would notinsist,” Hefeydd said,bowing.“Thatis—”

Simon was watching thesky. He had not evenrealized he was doing so,

that he had been scanningtheskiessincesomeonehaddropped from them, untilnow.

Now that Simon waswatching,hecouldseewhatwashappeningmoreclearly:not someone falling fromthe sky, but a wild sky-bound horse charging forthe earth and letting fall its

rider. This horse was whiteas a cloud or mist givenproud and shining shape,and the rider who hurtledtoward the ground was indazzling white as well. Hehad cobalt hair, the darkblue of evening before itbecame the black of night,and one gleaming-jet andonegleaming-silvereye.

“The prince,” whisperedHefeydd.

“Mark of theHunt,” saidthe new faerie. “Gwyn sentyou to find out why theHunthadbeensodisturbed.Hedidnotsuggestyoudelaythe Hunt yourself bytarrying a year and a day.Areyourunningaway?”

The question was askedwith emotion behind it,thoughSimoncouldnottellif it was suspicion orsomethingelse.Hecouldtellthat the question wasmoreserious, perhaps, than theaskerhadmeantittobe.

Markgesturedtohimself.“No, Kieran. As you see.Hefeyddhas caughthimself

aShadowhunter,andIwasalittlecurious.”

“Why?” asked Kieran.“The Nephilim are behindyou, and looking behindcauses nothing but brokenspellsandwastedpain.Lookforward, to the wild windandtotheHunt.Andtomyback,becauseIamliketobebeforeyouinanyhunt.”

Mark smiled, in the wayyou did with a friend youwere used to teasing. “I canrecallseveralhuntsinwhichthat has not been the case.ButIseeyouhopeforbetterluck in the future, while Irelyonskill.”

Kieran laughed. Simonfelt a leap of hope—if thisfaerie was Mark’s friend,

thentherescuemissionwasstill on. He had movedunconsciously closer toMark, his hand closing onone of the bars of his cage.Kieran’s eye was drawn tothe movement, and for aninstant he glared at Simonwith eyes gone perfectlycold: shark-black, mirror-shardeyes.

Simon knew, withabsolute bone-deepcertainty and with no ideawhy,thatKierandidnotlikeShadowhunters and did notwishSimonanygood.

“Leave Hefeydd with histoy,” said Kieran. “Comeaway.”

“He told me somethinginteresting,”Mark informed

Kieraninabrittlevoice.“Hesaid theClave voted againstcoming for me. My people,the people I was raisedamong and taught by andtrusted, agreed to leave mehere.Canyoubelievethat?”

“Can you be surprised?His kind has always likedcruelty full as much asjustice. His kind have

nothing to dowith you anylonger,” Kieran said, voicecaressing and persuasive,laying a hand on Mark’sneck. “You are Mark of theWildHunt. You ride on theair, a hundred dizzywheeling miles above themall.Theywillneverhurtyouagain, save that you let

them.Donotletthem.Comeaway.”

Mark hesitated, andSimon found himselfdoubting. Kieran was right,after all. Mark Blackthornowed the Shadowhuntersnothing.

“Mark,” Kieran said, athread of steel in his voice.“Youknowtherearethosein

the Hunt who would seizeanyreasontopunishyou.”

Simon could not tell ifKieran’s words were awarningorathreat.

A smile crossed Mark’sface, dark as a shadow.“Better than you,” he said.“But I thank you for yourcare. Iwill gowith you andexplainmyselftoGwyn.”He

turnedtolookatSimon,hisbicolored eyes unreadable,sea glass andbronze. “Iwillcome back. Do not harmhim,”hetoldHefeydd.“Givehimwater.”

He nodded towardHefeydd, slight emphasis inthe gesture, and noddedtoward Simon. Simonnoddedinreturn.

Kieran, whom Hefeyddhadcalledaprince,kepthisgrip on Mark and turnedhim so that he was facingaway from Simon. Hewhispered something toMark that Simon could nothear, and Simon could nottell if the tight grasp ofKieran’shandwasaffection,anxiety, or a wish to

imprison.Simonhadnodoubtthat

ifKieranhadhisway,Markwouldnotcomeback.

Mark whistled, andKieran made the samesound. On the wind, as ashadowandacloud,cameadark and a light horseswooping down for theirriders.Mark leaped into the

airandwasgoneinaflickerofdarkness,withacryofjoyandchallenge.

Hefeydd chuckled, thelowsoundcreepingthroughtheundergrowth.

“Oh,Iwillgiveyouwaterwithpleasure,”he said, andcame over with a cupfashionedoutofbark, filled

to the brimwithwater thatseemedtoshinewithlight.

Simon reached outthrough the bars andaccepted the drink, butfumbled it and spilled halfthe water. Hefeydd cursedandcaughtthecup,holdingit to Simon’s lips andsmiling a darklyencouragingsmile.

“There is still some left,”he whispered. “You candrink.Drink.”

Except Simon wasAcademytrained.Hehadnointention of accepting foodordrinkfromfaeries,andhewas sure Mark had notmeant him to. Mark hadbeen nodding at the keydangling from one of the

long sleeves of Hefeydd’scloak.

Simonpretendedtodrinkas Hefeydd smiled. Heslippedthekeyintohisgear,and when Hefeydd trottedawayhewaited,andcountedthe minutes until hethought thecoastwasclear.Heslidhishandthroughthebars,slippedthekeyintothe

lock, and swung the cagedoorslowlyopen.

Then he heard a sound,andfroze.

Stepping out of thewhispering green trees,wearing a red velvet jacketand a long black lace dressthatturnedintotransparentcobwebs around the knees,in winter boots and red

gloves that Simon thoughthe might remember,graceful as a gazelle andintentasatiger,wasIsabelleLightwood.

***

“Simon!” she exclaimed.“What do you think you’redoing?”

Simon drank her in withhis eyes, better than waterfromanyland.Shehadcomefor him. The others musthave fled back to theAcademy and said thatSimon was lost in Faerie,and Isabelle had gonecharging into Faerieland tofind him. First out ofanybody, when she was

meanttobegettingreadytoattend a wedding. But shewasIsabelle,andthatmeantshewasalwaysreadytofightanddefend.

Simon recalled feelingconflicted when she hadrescuedhimfromavampirelastyear.Rightnowhecouldnotimaginewhy.

He knew her better now,he thought, knew her allover again, and knew whyshewouldalwayscome.

“Er, I was escaping myterrible captivity,” saidSimon. Then he took a stepback from the cage door,met Isabelle’s eyes, andgrinned.“But,youknow...notifyoudon’twantmeto.”

Isabelle’seyes,whichhadbeen hard with worry andpurpose, were suddenlyglitteringlikejet.

“What are you saying,Simon?”

Simon spread his hands.“I’mjustsaying,ifyoucameall the way here to rescueme, I don’t wish to appearungrateful.”

“Ohno?”“No, I’m the grateful

type,” Simon said firmly.“So here I am, humblyawaiting rescue. I hope youcan see your way clear tosavingme.”

“I think I could possiblybepersuaded,” Isabellesaid.“Givenanincentive.”

“Oh,please,”Simonsaid.“I languished in prison,praying that someonebraveand strong and babeliciouswould swoop in and saveme.Saveme!”

“Brave and strong andbabelicious? You don’t askformuch,Lewis.”

“That’s what I need,”Simon said, with growing

conviction. “I need a hero.I’mholdingoutforahero,infact,untilthemorninglight.Andshe’sgottabesure,andit’sgottabesoon—becauseIhavebeenkidnappedbyevilfaeries—and she’s gotta belargerthanlife.”

Isabelle did look largerthan life, likeagirlonabigscreen with her lip gloss

glittering like starlight andmusicplayingtoaccompanyeveryswishofherhair.

Sheopenedthecagedoorand stepped inside, twigscrackling under her boots,and crossed the floor of thecage to slide her armsaroundSimon’sneck.Simondrew her face to his andkissed her lips. He felt the

luxurious give of her rubymouth, the slide of her tallstrong beautiful bodyagainst his. Isabelle’s kisswas like rich wine laid outfor him alone, like achallenge offered and apromisekept.

He felt, curving againsthismouth,hersmile.

“Why, LordMontgomery,” Isabellemurmured.“It’sbeensuchalong time. Iwasworried I’dneverseeyouagain.”

Simon wished he hadbraved the showers in theAcademy this morning.What did dead rats matter,inthefaceoftruelove?

Therewasarushofbloodinhisears,andthesoundofa tiny creak: the cage doorswingingshutagain.

SimonandIsabellepulledabruptly apart. Isabellelookedreadytospring,likeatiger in lace. Hefeydd didnot look particularlyworried.

“Two Shadowhunters forthe price of one, and a newbird for my cage,” Hefeyddsaid. “And such a prettybird.”

“Youthinkyourcagecanhold this bird?” Isabelledemanded. “You’redreaming.Igotin,andIcangetout.”

“Not without your steleand your bag of tricks,”Hefeydd said. “Throw themall through the bars of thecage, or I shoot your loverwith elfshot and you watchhimdiebeforeyoureyes.”

Isabelle looked at Simonand, stone-faced, began tostrip off her weapons andshove them through the

cage bars. Simon was now,perhaps unsettlingly, awareoftheplacementofmanyofIsabelle’s weapons, and henoted that she had skippedtheknifeontheinsideofherleft boot. Oh, and the longknife in the sheath at herback.

Isabelle hadmany,manyknives.

“It will not be so longuntilyouneedwaterto live,prettybird,”saidHefeydd.“Icanwait.”

He shimmered away.Isabelle collapsed at thebottomof the cage as if herstringshadbeencut.

Simon stared at her inhorror.“Isabelle—”

“Iamsohumiliated,”saidIsabelle, her face in herhands. “I didn’t even hearhimcoming.Ihavebroughtshame upon the Lightwoodname. Utter shame. Total,totalhumiliation.”

“I’m really flattered, ifthathelps.”

“I got distracted makingout with a boy, and then

locked up by a goblin,”Isabellemoaned. “Youdon’tunderstand! You don’tremember, but I was neverlike this before you.Noboyevermeantanythingtome.Ihad poise. I had purpose. Ididn’t get dumb crushes,becauseIwasneverdumb.Iwas pure battle skill in abustier. Nobody could

shatter my sheer demon-huntingsangfroid. IwascoolbeforeImetyou!AndnowIspendmytimechasingaftera guy with demon amnesiaand losing my head inenemy territory! Now I’m achump.”

Simon reached out forone of Isabelle’s hands, andafter a moment Isabelle let

him peel the hand off herface and link her fingerswith his. “We can be twochumpsinacagetogether.”

“You’re definitely achump,” Isabelle snapped.“Remember, you’re still amundane.”

“HowcouldIforget?”“Diditneveroccurtoyou

that I might be a faerie

wearing a strong glamour,senttodeceiveyou?”

Doyou remember thenameofyourheart?

“No,” said Simon. “I’m achump, but I’m not thatmuch of a chump. I don’tremember everything aboutour past, but I rememberenough. I haven’t learnedeverything about you now

that we have anotherchance, but I have learnedenough. I know you when Iseeyou,Isabelle.”

Isabellelookedathimfora long moment, and thensmiled her lovely defiantsmile.

“We’retwochumpsgoingto a wedding,” she said. “Ihope you noticed that I let

him think I bustedmy wayinto this cage myself. Ofcourse, I secured the keybefore I ever stepped intothecage.”Shepulledthekeyoutof the frontofherdressand held it up, glittering inthelightofFaerie.“Imaybea chump, but I’m not anidiot.”

Sheleapedtoherfeet,herlace skirts swaying aroundher like a bell, and let themout of the cage. She pickedup her weapons and stelefromwhere theywere lyingin the dirt, and once herweapons were secured, shetookSimon’shand.

They were only a fewsteps into the faerie forest

when a shadow swoopeddown and upon them.Isabellewent forherknives,butitwasonlyMark.

“You have not escapedyet?” Mark demanded,looking harried. “And youstopped to acquire aparamour?”

Isabelle stopped dead.She, unlike Simon,

recognized him right away.“Mark Blackthorn?” sheasked.

“Isabelle Lightwood,”Mark noted,mimicking hertoneofvoice.

“We met earlier,” saidSimon. “He helped me getthatkey.”

“Oh now,” said Mark,tiltinghishead inabirdlike

movement. “It was nouneven bargain. You gaveme some very interestinginformation about theShadowhunters, and thegreat loyalty they haveshownoneoftheirown.”

Isabelle’s backstraightenedas itdidatanychallenge, black hair flyinglikeaflagasshetookastep

towardhim.“Youhavebeendone a terrible wrong,” shesaid. “I knowyou are a trueShadowhunter.”

Mark took a step back.“Doyou?”heaskedsoftly.

“For what it’s worth, Idisagree with the Clave’sdecision.”

“That’stheClave,isn’tit?Imean, I like Jia Penhallow

okay,and it’snot that I . . .dislike your dad,” Simon,who did not actually likeRobert Lightwood, saidawkwardly. “But the Clave,basically assholes, am Iright?Weallknowthat.”

Isabelle held her handout,palmdown,androckeditbackandforthinagesturethat said You’ve got a point

butIrefusetoagreewithitoutloud.

Marklaughed.“Yeah,”hesaid,andhesoundeda littlemore sane, a little morehuman, as if the laugh hadgrounded him somehow.There was an accent to hiswords that made Simonthinknot faeriebut:LAboy.“Basicallyassholes.”

Therewas a rustle in thetrees, a rising of the wind.Simon thought he couldhear laughter and callingvoices, hoofbeats upon thecloudandthecurrentsoftheair, the baying of hounds.The sounds of a hunt, theHunt, themost remorselesshunt in this or any world.Faint, but not far enough

away,andcomingcloser.“Come with us,” said

Isabelle suddenly.“Whatever price there is tobepaid,Iwillpayit.”

Markgaveheralookthatwas equal parts admiringanddisdainful.Heshookhisfair head, leaves quiveringand light lancing throughthebrightlocks.

“What do you thinkwould happen if I did? Iwould go home . . . home . . . and the Wild Huntwould follow me there. Doyou imagine I have notdreamedofrunninghomeathousandtimes?Everytime,I see gentle Julian piercedwith the spears of theWildHunt. I see little Dru and

baby Tavvy ridden down. Isee my Ty, ripped apart bytheir hounds. I cannot gountilthereissomewaytogoto them without bringingdestructiondownonthem.Iwill not go. You go, and gofast.”

Simon pulled Isabellebackward, toward the trees.Sheresisted,hereyesstillon

Mark, but she let him drawher away into concealingleaves asmore faerie horseshurtled down, lightningamid the trees, shadowsagainstthesun.

“What trouble are youcausing now,Shadowhunter?” asked afaerie on a roan horse,laughing as the steed

whirled. “What is thiswordofmoreofyourkind?”

“Noword,”saidMark.There were more horses

joining the roan, more andmore of the Wild Hunt.Simon saw Kieran, a whitesilent presence. The faerieontheroanturnedhishorsetoward the place whereSimon and Isabelle stood,

and Simon saw the roansnifftheairlikeadog.

The rider pointed. “Whydo I spy Shadowhunters,then, in our land andanswerable to us? Should Iask them what they areabout?”

He rode forward, but hedid notmake it far.Hewaswearingacloakembroidered

with silver, showing theconstellations, the silverenchanted to move asthough time were sped upand planets spun fastenough for the eye to see.His horse stopped short, itsrider almost falling, whenhis beautiful silvery cloakwas suddenly pinned to atreebyawell-placedarrow.

Mark loweredhisbow. “Isee nothing,” he said,pronouncing the lie with acertain satisfaction. “Andnothingshouldgo—now.”

“Oh,boy,youwillpayforthis,”hissedtheriderontheroan.

Thehorsesandtheridersshrieked like pterodactyls,circling him, but Mark

Blackthorn of the LosAngeles Institute stood hisground.

“Run!” he shouted. “Gethome safe! Tell the Clavethat I have saved moreShadowhunter lives, that IwillbeaShadowhunterandbe damned to them, that Iwill be a faerie and cursethem! And tell my family

thatIlovethem,Ilovethem,and I will never forget. OnedayIwillgohome.”

SimonandIsabelleran.

***

George threw himself onSimon the instant he andIsabelle appeared in thegroundsoftheAcademy,hisarms strangling-tight.

Beatriz and, to Simon’samazement, even Julie flewathimonlyasecondbehindGeorge, and both of themmercilessly pummeled hisarms.

“Ow,”saidSimon.“We’re so glad you’re

alive!” said Beatriz,punchinghimagain.

“Why must you hurt mewith your love?” askedSimon.“Ow.”

He disentangled himselffromtheirgrip,touchedbutalso mildly bruised, thenlooked around for anotherfamiliar face. He felt a coldtouchoffear.

“Is Marisol all right?” hedemanded.

Beatriz snorted. “Oh,she’s better than all right.She’s in the infirmary withJonwaitingonherhandandfoot.Becauseyoumundanescan’t be healed with runesand she is milking that forall it’s worth. I’m not surewhich has Jon moreterrified,thethoughtofhowfragilemundanesare,orthe

fact that she keepsthreateningtoexplainX-raymachinestohim.”

Simon was veryimpressed that even elfshotcouldnotslowdownMarisolandallherevil.

“We thought you mightbe dead,” said Julie. “TheFairFolkwilldoanythingtovent their spite against

Shadowhunters, those evil,treacherous snakes. Theycouldhavedoneanythingtoyou.”

“And it would have beenmyfault,”Georgesaid,pale-faced. “You were trying tostopme.”

“It would have been thefaeries’ fault,” said Julie.“But you were careless. You

havetorememberwhattheyare, less human thansharks.”

George was noddinghumbly.Beatriz lookedas ifshewasinfullagreement.

“You know what?” saidSimon.“I’vehadenough.”

They all stared at him inblank incredulity. ButIsabelle glanced at him and

smiled. He thought hefinally understood the firethat burned in Magnus,whatmadehimkeeptalkingwhen the Clave would notlisten.

“I knowyouall think I’malways criticizing theNephilim,” Simon went on.“I know you believe I don’tthinkenoughof—thesacred

traditions of theAngel, andthefactthatyouarereadytolaydownyourlives,anyday,to protect humans. I knowyou think it doesn’t mattertome,but itdoesmatter. Itmeansalot.ButIdon’thavethe luxury of only seeingthingsfromoneperspective.You all notice when I putdown Shadowhunters, but

none of you checkyourselves when you talkaboutDownworlders.IwasaDownworlder. Today I wassavedby someone theClavedecided to condemn as aDownworlder, even thoughhe was brave as anyShadowhunter,eventhoughhe was loyal. It seems likeyou want me to just accept

that the Nephilim are greatand nothing needs tochange, but I won’t acceptanything.”

Hetookadeepbreath.Hefelt as if all the comfort ofthe morning had beenstripped away. But maybethatwasforthebest.Maybehe’d been getting toocomfortable.

“I wouldn’t want to be aShadowhunterif IthoughtIwas going to be aShadowhunter like yourfatheroryourfather’sfatherbefore him. And I wouldn’tlikeanyofyouasmuchas Ido if I thought you weregoing to be Shadowhunterslike all the Shadowhuntersbeforeyou.Iwantallofusto

be better. I haven’t figuredout how to changeeverything yet, but I wanteverything to change. AndI’msorryifitupsetsyou,butI’m going to keepcomplaining.”

“Later,” said Isabelle.“He’s going to keepcomplaining later, because

we’re going to a weddingrightnow.”

Everyone looked mildlystunned that theiremotional reunion hadturned into a speech onDownworlder rights. Simonthought Julie might beathimabouttheheadandface,but instead she patted himontheback.

“All right,” she said.“We’ll listen toyour tediouswhining later. Please try tokeepitbrief.”

She walked off withBeatriz. Simon squintedafter her, and noticed thatIsabelle was squinting afteras well, a look of faintsuspiciononherface.

Simon had a moment ofdoubt. George had meantBeatrizwhenhewas talkingabout a girl liking Simon,right?

Surely not Julie. Itcouldn’tbeJulie.

No, surely not. Simonwas pretty certain he wasjust getting a pass on

account of the narrowescapeinFaerie.

George hung back. “Ireally am so sorry, Si,” hetoldSimon.“I lostmyhead.I—I maybe wasn’t quitereadytoleadateam.ButI’mgoing to be ready one day.I’m going to do what yousaid. I’m going to become abetter Shadowhunter than

any Shadowhunters beforeus.Youwon’thavetopayformymistakesagain.”

“George,” Simon said.“It’sfine.”

None of them wasperfect.Noneof themcouldbe.

George’s sunny face stilllooked under a cloud,unhappyashealmostnever

did. “I’m not going to failagain.”

“I believe in you,” saidSimon, andgrinned athim,until finallyGeorge grinnedback. “Because that’s whatbrosdo.”

***

Once he arrived in Idris,Simon found himself

plunged into a state ofwedding chaos. Weddingchaos seemed to be verydifferentfromnormalkindsofchaos.Therewere,infact,many flowers. Simon had asheaf of lilies shoved uponhimandhestoodholdingit,afraid to move in case theflowers spilled and he was

responsible for ruining thewholewedding.

Many wedding guestswere running about, butthere was only one groupthat was all kids and noadults. Simon clutched hislilies and focused hisattention on theBlackthorns.

If he had not met MarkBlackthorn, he was prettysurehewould’ve thoughtofthemasariotofanonymouskids.

Now, though, he knewtheyweresomeone’s family:someone’sheart’sdesire.

Helen, Julian, Livia,Tiberius, Drusilla, Octavian.AndEmma.

Willow-slim, silver-fairHelen,Simonalreadyknew.Shewas inoneof themanyrooms he was forbidden togo into, having mysteriousbridalthingsdonetoher.

Julian was the nextoldest, andhewas the calmcenter of a bustlingBlackthorn crowd.He had akid in his arms, who was a

little big for Julian to carrybutwasclingingtenaciouslyto Julian’s neck like anoctopus in unfamiliarsurroundings.ThekidmustbeTavvy.

All the Blackthorns weredressedup for thewedding,but already a little grubbyaround the edges, in thatmysterious way kids got.

Simon wasn’t sure how.They were all, aside fromTavvy, a little too old to beplayinginthedirt.

“I’ll get Dru all cleanedup,” volunteered Emma,who was tall for almostfourteen, with a crown ofblond hair that made herstand out among the dark-

haired Blackthorns like adaffodilinabedofpansies.

“No, don’t bother,” saidJulian. “I know youwant tospend some quality timewithClary.You’veonlybeentalking about it for, oh,fifteen thousand years, giveortake.”

Emma shoved himplayfully.Shewastallerthan

he was: Simon rememberedbeing thirteen and shorterthanallthegirlstoo.

All the girls except one,he recalled slowly, the realpictureofhisthirteenthyearsliding over the false one,where the most importantperson in his life had beenclumsilyphotoshoppedout.Clary had always been tiny.

No matter how short orawkwardSimonhadfelt,hehadalwaystoweredoverherand felt it was his right toprotecther.

He wondered if Julianwished Emma were shorterthan he was. From the lookon Julian’s face as heregarded Emma, there wasnot one thing about her he

wouldchange.HisartandhisEmma, Mark had said, as ifthey were the two essentialfacts about Julian. His loveof beauty and his wish tocreateit,andhisbestfriendin all the world. They weregoingtobeparabatai,Simonwas pretty sure. That wasnice.

Emma sped away on aquesttofindClary,withonelastgrinforJulian.

Only, Mark had beenwrong. Art and Emmawereclearlynot all that occupiedJulian’s thoughts. Simonwatched as he held on toTavvy and stooped over asmall girl with a round

beseeching face and a cloudofbrownhair.

“I lost my flower crownand I can’t find it,”whisperedthegirl.

Julian smiled down ather. “That’s what happenswhenyoulosethings,Dru.”

“But if I’mnotwearing aflower crown like Livvy,HelenwillthinkI’mcareless

and I don’tmindmy thingsandIdon’t likeherasmuchasLivvydoes.Livvystillhasherflowercrown.”

The other girl in thegroup,tallerthanDruandinthat coltish stagewhere herarms and legs were thin assticks and too long for therestofherbody,wasindeedwearing a flower crown on

her light brown hair. Shewasstickingclosetothesideof a boy who hadheadphoneson in themidstofthechaosofthewedding,and winter-gray eyes fixedon some distant privatesight.

Livvywouldwalk over hotcoals and hissing serpents forTy, Mark had said. Simon

remembered the infinitetendernesswithwhichMarkhadsaid:myTy.

“Helen knows you betterthanthat,”Juliansaid.

“Yes, but . . .” Drusillatugged at his sleeve so hewould bend down and shecould say, in an agonizedwhisper: “She’s been gonesuchalongtime.Maybeshe

doesn’t remember . . .everythingaboutme.”

Julian turned his faceaway,sononeofhissiblingscould see his expression.OnlySimonsawtheflashofpain,andheknewhewasn’tmeant to. He knew hewouldn’t have seen it, if hehadn’t seen Mark

Blackthorn,ifhehadn’tbeenpayingattention.

“Dru, Helen has knownyousinceyouwereborn.Shedoesremembereverything.”

“But just in case,” saidDrusilla. “She’s going awayagainreallysoon.IwanthertothinkI’mgood.”

“Sheknowsyou’regood,”Julian told her. “The best.

But we’ll find your flowercrown,allright?”

TheyoungerkidsdidnotknowHeleninthesamewayJulian did, as a sibling whowas there all the time.Theycould not rely on someonewhowassofaraway.

Julian was their father,Simon thought with a

dawning of horror. Therewasnobodyelse.

Even though theBlackthornshad familywhowantedtobethereforthem,wanted it desperately. TheClave had ripped a familyapart, and Simon did notknow what effects thatwould have in the future or

how the wounds the Clavehadinflictedwouldheal.

He thought, again, as ifhewere still speaking tohisfriends at the Academy:Wehave to be better than this.Shadowhunters have to bebetter than this. We have tofigure out what kind ofShadowhunterswewanttobe,andshowthem.

Maybe Mark had notknown Julian as well as hethought. Or maybe Mark’slittle brother, with nochoice, had changed quietlyandprofoundly.

They all had to change.ButJulianwassoyoung.

“Hey,”saidSimon.“CanIhelp?”

The twobrothersdidnotlook much alike, but JulianflushedandliftedhischininthesamewayMarkhad:asifnomatter what, he was tooproud toadmithemightbehurting.

“No,” he said, and gaveSimon a bright warm smilethat was actually very

convincing.“I’mfine.Ihavethis.”

It seemed true, untilJulian Blackthorn had goneout of Simon’s reach, andthen Simon noticed againthat Julian was carrying akidwhowastoobigforhimto carry, with another kidholding on to his shirt.Simon could actually see

how much there was onthosethinyoungshoulders.

***

Simon did not fullyunderstandthetraditionsoftheShadowhunterpeople.

TherewasalotintheLawabout whom you could andcould not marry: If youmarriedamundanewhodid

not Ascend, you got yourMarksstrippedandwereouton your ear. You couldmarry a Downworlder in amundaneor aDownworlderceremony,andyouwouldn’tbe out on your ear buteveryone would beembarrassed, some peoplewouldactlikeyourmarriagedid not count, and your

terriblytraditionalNephilimGreat-Aunt Nerinda wouldstart referring to you as theshame of the family. Pluswith the Cold Peacefunctioning as it was, anyShadowhunter wanting tomarry a faeriewasprobablyoutofluck.

ButHelenBlackthornwasa Shadowhunter, by their

own Law, no matter howmany people might despiseordistrustherforherfaerieblood. And Shadowhuntershadnotactuallybuiltitintotheir precious Law thatShadowhunters could notmarry someone of the samesex. Possibly this was justbecauseithadn’toccurredto

anyone even as an optionwaybackwhen.

So Helen and Alineactuallycouldbemarried,ina full Shadowhunterceremony, in the eyes ofboththeirfamiliesandtheirworld. Even if they wereexiledagainrightafterward,theygotthismuch.

In a Shadowhunterwedding, Simon had beentold,youdressedingoldandplaced the wedding runeovereachother’sheartsandarms.Therewasatraditionalittle like giving away thebride, for both parties in amarriage. The bride andgroom (or in this case, thebrideandbride)wouldeach

choose themost significantperson to them from theirfamily—sometimesafather,but sometimesamother,ora parabatai or a sibling orchosen friend, or their ownchild or an elder whosymbolizedthewholefamily—and the chosen one, orsuggenes, would give thebride or groom to their

beloved, and welcome thebelovedtotheirownfamily.

This was not alwayspossible in Shadowhunterweddings, on account ofsometimes your wholefamily and all your friendshad been eaten by snakedemons. You never knewwith Shadowhunters. ButSimon thought it was kind

of beautiful that JiaPenhallow,Consulandmostimportant member of theClave, was standing assuggenestogiveherdaughterAline to the tainted,scandalousBlackthorns,andto receive Helen into thebosomofherfamily.

Aline’d had some nervesuggestingit.Jia’dhadsome

nerve agreeing to it. ButSimon supposed that theClavehadalreadyeffectivelyexiled Jia’s daughter: Whatmore could they do to her?And how better to politelyspit in theireyethantosay:Helen, the faerie girl youspat on and sent away, isnowasgoodas theConsul’sdaughter.

What is a Shadowhuntermade of, if they desert theirown, if they throw away achild’sheartlikerubbishleftonthesideoftheroad?

Julian was the onestandingtogiveHelenaway.He stood in his gold-inscribed clothes, his sisteron his arm, and his sea-in-the-sunlighteyesshoneasif

he was happy as any kidcould be.As thoughhe hadnotacareintheworld.

Helen and Aline wereboth dressed in goldengowns, golden threadglittering like starlight inAline’sblackhair.Theywereboth so happy, their facesoutshone their gowns. Theystood at the center of the

ceremony, twin suns, andfor a moment all the worldseemed to spin and turn onthem.

HelenandAlinedrewthemarriage runes over eachother’s hearts with steadyhands. When Aline drewHelen’sbrightheaddowntoherownforakiss,therewas

applause all throughout thehall.

“Thankyoufor lettinguscome,” whispered Helenaftertheceremonywasover,embracinghernewmother-in-law.

Jia Penhallow folded herdaughter-in-lawinherarmsand said, in a voiceconsiderably louder than a

whisper: “I am sorry Imustletyoubesentawayagain.”

Simon did not tell JulianBlackthorn about meetingMark,anymorethanhehadtold Mark that Helen wasnot there to care for theBlackthorn children. Itseemed hideous cruelty, toload another burden onshoulders already burdened

almost past bearing. Itseemed better to lie, asfaeriescouldnot.

But when he went toHelen and Aline tocongratulate them, hesteppedupandkissedHelenon the cheek, so he couldwhisper to her: “Yourbrother Mark sends you his

love, and his happiness foryourlove.”

Helen stared at him,suddentearsinhereyesbuthersmileevenmoreradiantthanbefore.

Everything is going tochangefortheShadowhunters,Simonthought.For all of us.Ithasto.

***

Simon had specialpermissiontostaythenightin Idris, so he would nothave to leave the weddingcelebrationsearly.

There was going to bedancing later, but for nowpeople were standing aboutingroupstalking.HelenandAline were sitting on the

floor, in the center of theBlackthorns,liketwogoldenflowers who had sprung upfrom the ground andbloomed. Tiberius wasdescribing to Helen, in aserious voice, how he andJulian had prepared for thewedding.

“We went through anypotential scenario that

might occur,” he told her.“As if we werereconstructing a crimescene, but in reverse. So Iknowexactlywhattodo,nomatterwhathappens.”

“That must have been alot of work,” Helen said.Tiberius nodded. “Thanks,Ty.Ireallyappreciateit.”

Ty looked pleased. Dru,wearing her flower crownand beaming ear to ear,tugged at Helen’s goldenskirts for her attention.Simonthoughthehadrarelyseen any group of peoplewhoallseemedsohappy.

He tried not to think ofwhatMarkwouldhavegiventobehere.

“You want to go for awalkdowntheriverwithmeand Izzy?” Clary asked,nudginghim.

“What,noJace?”“Ah, I see him all the

time,” said Clary, with thecomfort of familiar andtrusted love. “Not like mybestfriend.”

Jace—who was sittingtalkingwithAlec,Alecwhoonce again had notaddressed a single word toSimon—made an obscenegesture to Simon as he leftwith Isabelle and Clary oneither arm. Simon was notactuallyfooledthatJacewasangry. Jacehadhuggedhimwhenhesawhim,andmore

and more Simon wascoming to believe that heand Jace had not had arelationship in which theyhuggedbefore.

But apparently theywerehuggersnow.

Simon, Isabelle, andClarywentwalkingdownbythe river.Thewaters lookedlike black crystal in the

moonlight, and in thedistance the demon towersgleamed like columns ofmoonlight itself. Alicantewas beautiful in thewinter,a filigree city where icecomplementedglass. Simonwalked a little more slowlythan the girls, not used astheyweretothestrangenessandmagicofthiscity,acity

most of the world did notknow existed, the shiningheartofa secretandhiddenland.

Simon was used to theAcademynow.HewouldnodoubtgetusedtoallofIdrisintime.

So much had changed,andSimonhadchangedtoo.But in the end, he had not

lostwhatwasmostpreciousto him. He had been givenbackthenameofhisheart.

Isabelle and Clary lookedback at him, walking soclosethatIsabelle’swaterfallof raven hair mingled withClary’s fiery sunset of curls.Simonsmiledandknewhowlucky he was, luckycompared to Mark

Blackthorn,whowas lockedaway from what he lovedbest, lucky compared to abillionotherpeoplewhodidnot know what it was theylovedbestofall.

“Are you coming,Simon?”Isabellecalledout.

“Yes,”Simoncalledback.“I’mcoming.”

He was lucky to knowthem, and lucky to knowwhattheyweretohim,whathe was to them: beloved,remembered,andnotlost.

Anewcoverwillberevealedeach

monthastheTalesfromthe

ShadowhunterAcademycontinue!

Continuetheadventuresofthe

ShadowhunterswithEmmaCarstairsandJulianBlackthornin

LadyMidnight

ThefirstbookinCassandraClare’s

newseries,TheDarkArtifices.

Emma took her witchlightoutofherpocketandlitit—and almost screamed outloud.Jules’sshirtwassoakedwith blood and worse, thehealing runes she’d drawnhadvanished fromhis skin.Theyweren’tworking.

“Jules,” she said. “I haveto call the Silent Brothers.Theycanhelpyou.Ihaveto.”

His eyes screwed shutwith pain. “You can’t,” hesaid.“Youknowwecan’tcallthe Silent Brothers. TheyreportdirectlytotheClave.”

“Sowe’ll lie to them. Sayit was a routine demonpatrol.I’mcalling,”shesaid,andreachedforherphone.

“No!” Julian said,forcefully enough to stop

her. “Silent Brothers knowwhenyou’relying!Theycanseeinsideyourhead,Emma.They’ll find out about theinvestigation. About Mark—”

“You’renotgoingtobleedtodeathinthebackseatofacarforMark!”

“No,” he said, looking ather. His eyes were eerily

blue-green, the only brightcolor in the dark interior ofthe car. “You’re going to fixme.”

Emma could feel itwhenJuleswashurt,likeasplinterlodged under her skin. Thephysical pain didn’t botherher; it was the terror, theonly terror worse than herfearoftheocean.Thefearof

Jules being hurt, of himdying. She would give upanything, sustain anywound, to prevent thosethingsfromhappening.

“Okay,” she said. Hervoice sounded dry and thintoherownears.“Okay.”Shetook a deep breath. “Hangon.”

She unzipped her jacket,threw it aside. Shoved theconsole between the seatsaside,putherwitchlightonthe floorboard. Then shereached for Jules. The nextfew seconds were a blur ofJules’s blood on her handsand his harsh breathing asshe pulled him partlyupright, wedging him

against the back door. Hedidn’t make a sound as shemoved him, but she couldsee him biting his lip, theblood on his mouth andchin, and she felt as if herbones were popping insideherskin.

“Your gear,” she saidthrough gritted teeth. “Ihavetocutitoff.”

He nodded, letting hishead fall back. She drew adaggerfromherbelt,butthegear was too tough for theblade. She said a silentprayer and reachedback forCortana.

Cortanawentthroughthegear like a knife throughmeltedbutter.ItfellawayinpiecesandEmmadrewthem

free, then sliced down thefront of his T-shirt andpulleditapartasifshewereopeningajacket.

Emma had seen bloodbefore, often, but this feltdifferent.ItwasJulian’s,andthereseemedtobealotofit.Itwassmearedupanddownhis chest and rib cage; shecould see where the arrow

had gone in and where theskin had torn where he’dyankeditout.

“Why did you pull thearrow out?” she demanded,pullinghersweateroverherhead.Shehada tank toponunder it. She patted hischest and side with thesweater, absorbing asmuchofthebloodasshecould.

Jules’sbreathwascomingin hard pants. “Becausewhen someone—shoots youwithanarrow—”hegasped,“yourimmediateresponseisnot—‘Thanks for the arrow,I think I’ll keep it for awhile.’”

“Goodtoknowyoursenseofhumorisintact.”

“Is it still bleeding?”Julian demanded. His eyeswereshut.

She dabbed at the cutwithher sweater.Thebloodhad slowed, but the cutlooked puffy and swollen.The rest ofhim, though—ithadbeenawhilesinceshe’dseen himwith his shirt off.Therewasmoremusclethan

she remembered. Leanmusclepulledtightoverhisribs, his stomach flat andlightlyridged.Cameronwasmuch more muscular, butJulian’s spare lines were aselegant as a greyhound’s.“You’re too skinny,” shesaid. “Toomuch coffee, notenoughpancakes.”

“I hope they put that onmy tombstone.” He gaspedas she shifted forward, andshe realized abruptly thatshe was squarely in Julian’slap, her knees around hiships. It was a bizarrelyintimateposition.

“I—am I hurting you?”sheasked.

He swallowed visibly.“It’s fine.Trywith the iratzeagain.”

“Fine,”shesaid.“Grabthepanicbar.”

“The what?” He openedhiseyesandpeeredather.

“The plastic handle! Upthere, above the window!”Shepointed.“It’sforholding

on towhen the car is goingaroundcurves.”

“Are you sure? I alwaysthought it was for hangingthings on. Like drycleaning.”

“Julian,nowisnotthetimetobepedantic.GrabthebarorIswear—”

“All right!” He reachedup, grabbed hold of it, and

winced.“I’mready.”She nodded and set

Cortana aside, reaching forher stele. Maybe herpreviousiratzeshadbeentoofast, too sloppy. She’dalways focused on thephysical aspects ofShadowhunting, not themore mental and artistic

ones: seeing throughglamours,drawingrunes.

Shesetthetipofittotheskin of his shoulder anddrew, carefully and slowly.Shehadtobraceherselfwithher left hand against hisshoulder. She tried to pressas lightly as she could, butshe could feel him tenseunder her fingers. The skin

onhisshoulderwassmoothand hot under her touch,andshewantedtogetclosertohim,toputherhandoverthe wound on his side andheal it with the sheer forceofherwill.Totouchherlipsto the lines of pain besidehiseyesand—

Stop.Shehadfinishedtheiratze.Shesatback,herhand

clamped around the stele.Julian sat up a littlestraighter, the raggedremnants of his shirthanging off his shoulders.He took a deep breath,glancing down at himself—and the iratze faded backinto his skin, like black icemelting, spreading, beingabsorbedbythesea.

He looked up at Emma.She could see her ownreflection in his eyes: shelooked wrecked, panicked,with blood on her neck andherwhitetanktop.“Ithurtsless,”hesaidinalowvoice.

The wound on his sidepulsed again; blood sliddown the side of his ribcage, staining his leather

beltandthewaistbandofhisjeans.Sheputherhandsonhis bare skin, panic risingup inside her. His skin felthot,toohot.Feverhot.

“I have to call,” shewhispered. “I don’t care ifthe whole world comesdown around us, Jules, themostimportantthingisthatyoulive.”

“Please,” he said,desperation clear in hisvoice. “Whatever ishappening, we’ll fix it,because we’re parabatai.We’re forever. I said that toyou once, do youremember?”

She nodded warily, handonthephone.

“And the strength of arune your parabatai givesyou is special. Emma, youcan do it. You can healme.We’re parabatai and thatmeans the thingswecandotogether are . . .extraordinary.”

There was blood on herjeans now, blood on herhandsandhertanktop,and

he was still bleeding, thewound still open, anincongruous tear in thesmoothskinallaroundit.

“Try,” Jules said in a drywhisper.“Forme,try?”

Hisvoicewentupon thequestionand in itsheheardthe voice of the boy he hadbeen once, and sheremembered him smaller,

skinnier, younger, backpressed against one of themarble columns in the HallofAccordsinAlicanteashisfatheradvancedonhimwithhisbladeunsheathed.

And she rememberedwhat Julian had done, then.Done to protect her, toprotect all of them, because

he always would doeverythingtoprotectthem.

Shetookherhandoffthephoneandgrippedthestele,sotightlyshefeltitdigintoher damp palm. “Look atme, Jules,”shesaid ina lowvoice, and he met her eyeswithhis.Sheplacedthesteleagainst his skin, and for amoment she held still, just

breathing, breathing andremembering.

Julian.A presence in herlife for as long as she couldremember, splashing waterat each other in the ocean,digging in the sandtogether, him putting hishand over hers and themmarveling at the differencein the shape and length of

theirfingers.Juliansinging,terribly and off-key, whilehe drove, his fingers in herhair carefully freeing atrapped leaf, his handscatchingher in the trainingroomwhenshefell,andfell,and fell.The first timeaftertheir parabatai ceremonywhen she’d smashed herhand into a wall in rage at

notbeingabletogetaswordmaneuver right, and he’dcome up to her, taken herstill-shaking body in hisarms and said, “Emma,Emma, don’t hurt yourself.Whenyoudo,Ifeelit,too.”

Something in her chestseemed to split and crack;she marveled that it wasn’taudible. Energy raced along

her veins, and the stelejerked in her hand before itseemed tomoveon itsown,tracing the graceful outlineof a healing rune acrossJulian’schest.Sheheardhimgasp, his eyes flying open.Hishandsliddownherbackand he pressed her againsthim,histeethgritted.

“Don’tstop,”hesaid.

Emma couldn’t havestopped if she’d wanted to.The stele seemed to bemoving of its own accord;she was blinded withmemories,akaleidoscopeofthem,allofthemJulian.SuninhereyesandJulianasleepon the beach in an old T-shirtandhernotwantingtowake him, but he’d woken

anyway when the sun wentdown and looked for herimmediately,notsmilingtillhis eyes found her and heknew she was there. Fallingasleep talking and wakingup with their handsinterlocked; they’d beenchildreninthedarktogetheronce but now they weresomething else, something

intimate and powerful,something Emma felt shewas touching only the veryedge of as she finished therune and the stele fell fromhernervelessfingers.

“Oh,”shesaidsoftly.Theruneseemedlitfromwithinbyasoftglow.

AbouttheAuthors

Cassandra Clare is theauthor of the #1 New YorkTimes, USA TODAY, WallStreet Journal, and PublishersWeekly bestselling MortalInstruments series and theInfernalDevicestrilogy,andcoauthor of the BaneChronicles with Sarah Rees

Brennan and MaureenJohnson. She alsowroteTheShadowhunter's Codex withher husband, Joshua Lewis.Herbookshavemorethan36million copies in printworldwide and have beentranslated into more thanthirty-five languages.Cassandra lives in westernMassachusetts. Visit her at

CassandraClare.com. LearnmoreabouttheworldoftheShadowhunters atShadowhunters.com.

SarahReesBrennan is theauthor of the criticallyacclaimed Unspoken. Thefirst book of her Demon’sLexiconseriesreceivedthreestarred reviews and was an

ALA Top Ten Best Book forYoungAdults.UnspokenandTeam Human, a novelcowritten with JustineLarbalestier, were YALSABest Fiction for YoungAdults picks and TAYSHASpicks. Visit her atSarahReesBrennan.com.

MEETTHEAUTHORS,WATCHVIDEOSANDMOREAT

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THEMORTALINSTRUMENTS

CityofBones

CityofAshes

CityofGlass

CityofFallenAngels

CityofLostSouls

CityofHeavenlyFire

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ClockworkPrince

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