Lord of Shadows

Also by Cassandra Clare

THE MORTAL INSTRUMENTS

City of Bones

City of Ashes

City of Glass

City of Fallen Angels

City of Lost Souls

City of Heavenly Fire

THE INFERNAL DEVICES

Clockwork Angel

Clockwork Prince

Clockwork Princess

THE DARK ARTIFICES

Lady Midnight

The Shadowhunter’s Codex

With Joshua Lewis

The Bane Chronicles

With Sarah Rees Brennan

and Maureen Johnson

Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy

With Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson,

and Robin Wasserman

Lord of Shadows

CASSANDRA CLARE

T H E D A R K A R T I F I C E S

B O O K T W O

Margaret K. McElderry Books

NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY NEW DELHI

MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

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or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events

are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual

events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2017 by Cassandra Claire, LLC

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The text for this book was set in Dolly.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition

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ISBN 978-1-4424-6840-5

ISBN 978-1-4424-6842-9 (eBook)

For Jim Hill

I said: Pain and sorrow.

He said: Stay with it. The wound is the

place where the Light enters you.

—Rumi

PART ONE

Dreamland

Dream-Land

By Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of Space—out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the dews that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters—lone and dead,—

Their still waters—still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,—

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—

By the gray woods,—by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp,—

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,—

By each spot the most unholy—

In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past—

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by—

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion

’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—

For the spirit that walks in shadow

’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,

May not—dare not openly view it;

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak human eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringed lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

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Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

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STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

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Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

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Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

63

Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

77

Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

82

5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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Lord of Shadows

“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

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1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

52

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

61

Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

62

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

63

Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

68

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

70

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

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Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

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5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

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1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

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STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

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STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

52

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

56

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

58

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

60

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

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Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

63

Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

67

Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

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Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

82

5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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Lord of Shadows

“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

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1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

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tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

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STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

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Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

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Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

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Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

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“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

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the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

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Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

76

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

77

Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

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5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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Lord of Shadows

“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

92

1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

52

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

58

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

61

Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

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Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

68

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

70

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

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Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

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5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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Lord of Shadows

“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

92

1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

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Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

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Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

77

Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

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1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

52

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

59

Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

60

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

61

Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

62

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

63

Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

64

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

67

Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

68

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

69

Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

70

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

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Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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Lord of Shadows

more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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EARTH AND HEAVEN

sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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Lord of Shadows

“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

92

PART ONE

Dreamland

Dream-Land

By Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly

From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

Out of Space—out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,

With forms that no man can discover

For the dews that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of fire;

Lakes that endlessly outspread

Their lone waters—lone and dead,—

Their still waters—still and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,—

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—

By the gray woods,—by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp,—

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,—

By each spot the most unholy—

In each nook most melancholy,—

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the Past—

Shrouded forms that start and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by—

White-robed forms of friends long given,

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion

’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—

For the spirit that walks in shadow

’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,

May not—dare not openly view it;

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak human eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringed lid;

And thus the sad Soul that here passes

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have wandered home but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently found out what a flail was, and now

there was a rack of them hanging over his head, shiny and sharp

and deadly.

He had never seen anything like the weapons room at the Los

Angeles Institute before. The walls and floors were white-silver

granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room,

making the whole place look like the arms and armor exhibit at a

museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking

sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat

blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible

spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of

gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-like sub-

stance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they

alone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more

interest to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn’t that he had any particular desire to learn how to use a

dagger—nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teen-

agers had in deadly weapons, but even then, he’d rather be issued

a machine gun or a flamethrower. But the daggers were works of

Lord of Shadows

art, their hilts inlaid with gold and silver and precious gems—blue

sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched

in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market

who’d buy them off him for good money, no questions asked.

Maybe four.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing—he didn’t

know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he’d

woken up the morning after he’d come to the Institute to find

a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—and

shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in

the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the last

of fading bruises on his pale skin. He unzipped the inside pocket

of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking

the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open. Kit dropped the

dagger he was holding back onto the shelf and turned around hast-

ily. He thought he’d slipped out of his bedroom without being

noticed, but if there was one thing he’d come to realize during his

short time at the Institute, it was that Julian Blackthorn noticed

everything, and his siblings weren’t far behind.

But it wasn’t Julian. It was a young man Kit hadn’t ever seen

before, though something about him was familiar. He was tall,

with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter’s build—broad

shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they

protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs

of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual dark gold color. He wore a heavy silver

ring on one finger, as many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an

eyebrow at Kit.

“Like weapons, do you?” he said.

“They’re all right.” Kit backed up a little toward one of the

6

STILL WATERS

tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn’t rattle.

The man went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and

picked up the dagger he’d dropped. “You picked a good one here,”

he said. “See the inscription on the handle?”

Kit didn’t.

“It was made by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith,

who made Durendal and Cortana.” The man spun the dagger

between his fingers before setting it back on its shelf. “Nothing as

extraordinary as Cortana, but daggers like that will always return to

your hand after you throw them. Convenient.”

Kit cleared his throat. “It must be worth a lot,” he said.

“I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell,” said the man dryly.

“I’m Jace, by the way. Jace Herondale.”

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit

was determined not to give him. He knew the name Herondale, all

right. It felt like it was the only word anyone had said to him in the

past two weeks. But that didn’t mean he wanted to give the man—

Jace—the satisfaction he was clearly looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit’s silence. “And you’re Christopher

Herondale.”

“How do you know that?” Kit said, keeping his voice flat and

unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

“Family resemblance,” said Jace. “We look alike. In fact, you

look like drawings of a lot of Herondales I’ve seen.” He paused.

“Also, Emma sent me a cell phone picture of you.”

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit’s life. They hadn’t spoken

much since, though—in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade,

the High Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in chaos. He

hadn’t been anyone’s first priority, and besides, he had a feeling she

thought of him as a little kid. “Fine. I’m Kit Herondale. People keep

telling me that, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Kit set his jaw.

“I’m a Rook. Kit Rook.”

7

Lord of Shadows

“I know what your father told you. But you’re a Herondale. And

that does mean something.”

“What? What does it mean?” Kit demanded.

Jace leaned back against the wall of the weapons room, just

under a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped one would fall on his

head. “I know you’re aware of Shadowhunters,” he said. “A lot of

people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight.

Which is what you thought you were, correct?”

“I never thought I was a mundane,” said Kit. Didn’t Shadow-

hunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. “Shadowhunter society and history—

those aren’t things most people who aren’t Nephilim know about.

The Shadowhunter world is made up of families, each of which has a

name that they cherish. Each family has a history we pass on to each

successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our

names, the good and the bad our ancestors have done, through all

our lives. We try to live up to our names, so that those who come after

us will bear lighter burdens.” He crossed his arms over his chest. His

wrists were covered in Marks; there was one that looked like an open

eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters

seemed to have that one. “Among Shadowhunters, your last name

is deeply meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have

shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren’t

many of us left—in fact, everyone thought I was the last. Only Jem

and Tessa had faith you existed. They looked for you for a long time.”

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape

the demons who had murdered his father. And they had told him

a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and

fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and

a new family line.

“I heard about Tobias Herondale,” he said. “So I’m the descen-

dant of a big coward.”

8

STILL WATERS

“People are flawed,” said Jace. “Not every member of your fam-

ily is going to be awesome. But when you see Tessa again, and you

will, she can tell you about Will Herondale. And James Herondale.

And me, of course,” he added, modestly. “As far as Shadowhunters

go, I’m a pretty big deal. Not to intimidate you.”

“I don’t feel intimidated,” said Kit, wondering if this guy was

for real. There was a gleam in Jace’s eye as he spoke that indicated

that he might not take what he was saying all that seriously, but it

was hard to be sure. “I feel like I want to be left alone.”

“I know it’s a lot to digest,” Jace said. He reached out to clap Kit

on the back. “But Clary and I will be here for as long as you need us

to—”

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit’s

pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from

the granite floor like an accusing eye.

“Right,” Jace said into the ensuing silence. “So you’re stealing

weapons.”

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said

nothing.

“Okay, look, I know your dad was a crook, but you’re a Shadow-

hunter now and—wait, what else is in that jacket?” Jace demanded.

He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the

dagger up into the air. He caught it neatly, the rubies in the hilt

scattering light. “Take it off.”

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it down on the

table. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both

gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

“So,” Jace said. “You were planning on running away, I take it?”

“Why should I stay?” Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn’t, but he

couldn’t help it—it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred

of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that

he accept a last name he didn’t care about and didn’t want to care

9

Lord of Shadows

about. “I don’t belong here. You can tell me all this stuff about my

name, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m Johnny Rook’s son.

I’ve been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you.

I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you. All I need is some start-up

money, and I can set up my own booth at the Shadow Market.”

Jace’s gold eyes narrowed, and for the first time Kit saw, under

the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a sharp intelligence. “And

sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot

of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your

soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Down-

world? And what about what killed your dad? You saw him die,

didn’t you?”

“Demons—”

“Yeah, but somebody sent them. The Guardian might be dead,

but that doesn’t mean no one’s looking for you. You’re fifteen years

old. You might think you want to die, but trust me—you don’t.”

Kit swallowed. He tried to picture himself standing behind the

counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the way he had for the

past few days. But the truth was he’d always been safe at the Mar-

ket because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook.

What would happen to him there without his dad’s protection?

“But I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said. He glanced around the

room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and

body armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t a ninja.

“I wouldn’t even know how to start to be one.”

“Give it another week,” Jace said. “Another week here at the

Institute. Give yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought

off those demons who killed your dad. Only a Shadowhunter could

have done that.”

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father’s

house, but he knew he’d done it. His body had taken over, and he’d

fought, and he’d even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

10

STILL WATERS

“This is what you are,” said Jace. “You’re a Shadowhunter.

You’re part angel. You have the blood of angels in your veins. You’re

a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not only are you part

of a stunningly good-looking family, but you’re also part of a fam-

ily that owns a lot of valuable property, including a London town

house and a manor in Idris, which you’re probably entitled to part

of. You know, if you were interested.”

Kit looked at the ring on Jace’s left hand. It was silver, heavy,

and looked old. And valuable. “I’m listening.”

“All I am saying is give it a week. After all”—Jace grinned—

“Herondales can’t resist a challenge.”

“A Teuthida demon?” Julian said into the phone, his eyebrows crin-

kling. “That’s basically a squid, right?”

The reply was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty’s voice, but

not the words.

“Yeah, we’re at the pier,” Julian went on. “We haven’t seen any-

thing yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don’t have designated

parking spots for Shadowhunters here. . . .”

Her mind only half on Julian’s voice, Emma glanced around.

The sun had just gone down. She’d always loved the Santa Monica

Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there

to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round.

She loved the junk food—burgers and milk shakes, fried clams

and giant swirled lollipops—and Pacific Park, the run-down

amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping

the pier into a tourist attraction over the years. Pacific Park was full

of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced by arti-

sanal ice cream and lobster platters. But the boards under Emma’s

feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and salt. The

11

Lord of Shadows

air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still

spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were still coin-toss

games where you could win a giant stuffed panda. And there were

still dark spaces under the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered

and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma

thought, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated

with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on

stretched down the pier; past the railings, she could glimpse the

dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadow-

hunters saw the beauty in the things mundanes created—the

lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the ocean so brightly that

it looked as if someone were setting off fireworks underwater:

red, blue, green, purple, and gold—but they saw the darkness,

too, the danger and the rot.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asked. He’d slid his phone into the

pocket of his gear jacket. The wind—there was always wind on the

pier, the wind that blew ceaselessly off the ocean, smelling of salt

and faraway places—lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, made

them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn’t, though. Once

Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was

the one person she couldn’t tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. “Where are Mark and Cristina?”

“Over there.” He pointed. “By the ring toss.”

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand where people

competed to see who could toss a plastic ring and land it around the

neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior

that this was apparently something mundanes found difficult.

Julian’s half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand.

Cristina, her dark hair caught up in a neat bun, stood beside him,

eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at

12

STILL WATERS

once. Each spiraled out in a different direction and landed around

the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. “So much for being inconspicuous.”

A mixture of cheers and noises of disbelief went up from the

mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, there weren’t many of

them, and Mark was able to collect his prize—something in a plas-

tic bag—and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips

of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his light hair, but

he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn’t see them. Mark was

half-faerie, and his Downworlder blood showed itself in the deli-

cacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his

eyes and cheekbones.

“So it’s a squid demon?” Emma said, mostly just to have some-

thing to say to fill the silence between her and Julian. There were a

lot of silences between her and Julian these days. It had only been

two weeks since everything had changed, but she felt the difference

profoundly, in her bones. She felt his distance, though he had never

been anything but scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had

told him about her and Mark.

“Apparently,” Julian said. Mark and Cristina had come into ear-

shot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into

the bag as if hoping more would appear. Emma could relate. Mark,

meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. “It climbs up the side of

the pier and snatches people—mostly kids, anyone leaning over

the side taking a picture at night. It’s been getting braver, though.

Apparently someone spotted it inside the game area near the table

hockey—is that a goldfish?”

Mark held up his plastic bag. Inside it, a small orange fish swam

around in a circle. “This is the best patrol we’ve ever done,” he said.

“I have never been awarded a fish before.”

Emma sighed inwardly. Mark had spent the past few years of

13

Lord of Shadows

his life with the Wild Hunt, the most anarchic and feral of all faer-

ies. They rode across the sky on all manner of enchanted beings—

motorcycles, horses, deer, massive snarling dogs—and scavenged

battlefields, taking valuables from the bodies of the dead and giv-

ing them in tribute to the Faerie Courts.

He was adjusting well to being back among his Shadowhunter

family, but there were still times when ordinary life seemed to take

him by surprise. He noticed now that everyone was looking at him

with raised eyebrows. He looked alarmed and placed a tentative arm

around Emma’s shoulders, holding out the bag in the other hand.

“I have won for you a fish, my fair one,” he said, and kissed her

on the cheek.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, and Mark smelled like he

always did: like cold outside air and green growing things. And

it made absolute sense, Emma thought, for Mark to assume that

everyone was startled because they were waiting for him to give her

his prize. She was, after all, his girlfriend.

She exchanged a worried glance with Cristina, whose dark eyes

had gotten very large. Julian looked as if he were about to throw up

blood. It was only a brief look before he schooled his features back

into indifference, but Emma drew away from Mark, smiling at him

apologetically.

“I couldn’t keep a fish alive,” she said. “I kill plants just by look-

ing at them.”

“I suspect I would have the same problem,” Mark said, eyeing

the fish. “It is too bad—I was going to name it Magnus, because it

has sparkly scales.”

At that, Cristina giggled. Magnus Bane was the High Warlock

of Brooklyn, and he had a penchant for glitter.

“I suppose I had better let him go free,” Mark said. Before any-

one could say anything, he made his way to the railing of the pier

and emptied the bag, fish and all, into the sea.

14

STILL WATERS

“Does anyone want to tell him that goldfish are freshwater fish

and can’t survive in the ocean?” said Julian quietly.

“Not really,” said Cristina.

“Did he just kill Magnus?” Emma asked, but before Julian could

answer, Mark whirled around.

All humor had gone from his expression. “I just saw something

scuttle up one of the pilings below the pier. Something very much

not human.”

Emma felt a faint shiver pass over her skin. The demons who

made the ocean their habitation were rarely seen on land. Some-

times she had nightmares where the ocean turned itself inside out

and vomited its contents onto the beach: spiny, tentacled, slimy,

blackened things half-crushed by the weight of water.

Within seconds, each of the Shadowhunters had a weapon in

hand—Emma was clutching her sword, Cortana, a golden blade

given to her by her parents. Julian held a seraph blade, and Cristina

her butterfly knife.

“Which way did it go?” Julian asked.

“Toward the end of the pier,” said Mark; he alone had not

reached for a weapon, but Emma knew how fast he was. His nick-

name in the Wild Hunt had been elf-shot, for he was swift and

accurate with a bow and arrow or a thrown blade. “Toward the

amusement park.”

“I’ll go that way,” Emma said. “Try to drive it off the edge of the

pier—Mark, Cristina, you go down under, catch it if it tries to crawl

back into the water.”

They barely had time to nod, and Emma was off and running.

The wind tugged at her braided hair as she wove through the crowd

toward the lighted park at the pier’s end. Cortana felt warm and

solid in her hand, and her feet flew over the sea-warped wooden

slats. She felt free, her worries cast aside, everything in her mind

and body focused on the task at hand.

15

Lord of Shadows

She could hear footsteps beside her. She didn’t need to look

to know it was Jules. His footsteps had been beside hers for all the

years she had been a fighting Shadowhunter. His blood had been

spilled when hers was. He had saved her life and she had saved his.

He was part of her warrior self.

“There,” she heard him say, but she’d already seen it: a dark,

humped shape clambering up the support structure of the Ferris

wheel. The carriages continued to rotate around it, the passengers

shrieking in delight, unaware.

Emma hit the line for the wheel and started shoving her way

through it. She and Julian had put glamour runes on before they’d

gotten to the pier, and they were invisible to mundane eyes. That

didn’t mean they couldn’t make their presence felt, though. Mun-

danes in line swore and yelled as she stomped on feet and elbowed

her way to the front.

A carriage was just swinging down, a couple—a girl eating purple

cotton candy and her black-clad, lanky boyfriend—about to climb in.

Glancing up, Emma saw a flicker as the Teuthida demon slithered

around the top of the wheel support. Swearing, Emma pushed past

the couple, nearly knocking them aside, and leaped into the carriage.

It was octagonal, a bench running around the inside, with plenty of

room to stand. She heard yells of surprise as the carriage rose, lifting

her away from the scene of chaos she’d created below, the couple

who’d been about to board the wheel yelling at the ticket taker, and

the people in line behind them yelling at each other.

The carriage rocked under her feet as Julian landed beside her,

setting it to swinging. He craned his head up. “Do you see it?”

Emma squinted. She had seen the demon, she was sure of that,

but it seemed to have vanished. From this angle, the Ferris wheel

was a mess of bright lights, spinning spokes, and white-painted

iron bars. The two carriages below her and Julian were empty of

people; the line must still be sorting itself out.

16

STILL WATERS

Good, Emma thought. The fewer people who got on the wheel,

the better.

“Stop.” She felt Julian’s hand on her arm, turning her around.

Her whole body tensed. “Runes,” he said shortly, and she realized

he was holding his stele in his free hand.

Their carriage was still rising. Emma could see the beach below,

the dark water spilling up onto the sand, the hills of Palisades Park

rising vertically above the highway, crowned with a fringe of trees

and greenery.

The stars were dim but visible beyond the bright lights of the

pier. Julian held her arm neither roughly nor gently, but with a sort

of clinical distance. He turned it over, his stele describing quick

motions over her wrist, inking runes of protection there, runes of

speed and agility and enhanced hearing.

This was the closest Emma had been to Jules in two weeks. She

felt dizzy from it, a little drunk. His head was bent, his eyes fixed on

the task at hand, and she took the opportunity to absorb the sight

of him.

The lights of the wheel had turned amber and yellow; they pow-

dered his tanned skin with gold. His hair fell in loose, fine waves

over his forehead. She knew the way the skin by the corners of his

mouth was soft, and the way his shoulders felt under her hands,

strong and hard and vibrant. His lashes were long and thick, so

dark that they seemed to have been charcoaled; she half expected

them to leave a dusting of black powder on the tops of his cheek-

bones when he blinked.

He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful, but she had

noticed it too late. And now she stood with her hands at her sides

and her body aching because she couldn’t touch him. She could

never touch him again.

He finished what he was doing and spun the stele around so the

handle was toward her. She took it without a word as he pulled aside

17

Lord of Shadows

the collar of his shirt, under his gear jacket. The skin there was a

shade paler than the tanned skin on his face and hands, scored over

and over with the faint white Marks of runes that had been used up

and faded away.

She had to move a step nearer to Mark him. The runes bloomed

under the tip of the stele: agility, night vision. Her head reached

just to the level of his chin. She was staring directly at his throat,

and saw him swallow.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Just tell me that he makes you happy.

That Mark makes you happy.”

She jerked her head up. She had finished the runes; he reached

to take the stele from her motionless hand. For the first time in

what felt like forever, he was looking directly at her, his eyes turned

dark blue by the colors of the night sky and the sea, spreading out

all around them as they neared the top of the wheel.

“I’m happy, Jules,” she said. What was one lie among so many

others? She had never been someone who lied easily, but she was

finding her way. When the safety of people she loved depended

on it, she’d found, she could lie. “This is—this is smarter, safer

for both of us.”

The line of his gentle mouth hardened. “That’s not—”

She gasped. A writhing shape rose up behind him—it was the

color of an oil slick, its fringed tentacles clinging to a spoke of

the wheel. Its mouth was wide open, a perfect circle ringed with

teeth.

“Jules!” she shouted, and flung herself from the carriage, catch-

ing onto one of the thin iron bars that ran between the spokes.

Dangling by one hand, she slashed out with Cortana, catching the

Teuthida as it reared back. It yowled, and ichor sprayed; Emma

cried out as it splashed her neck, burning her skin.

A knife punched into the demon’s round, ribbed body. Pulling

herself up onto a spoke, Emma glanced down to see Julian poised on

18

STILL WATERS

the edge of the carriage, another knife already in hand. He sighted

down along his arm, let the second knife fly—

It clanged off the bottom of an empty carriage. The Teuthida,

incredibly fast, had whipped its way out of sight. Emma could hear

it scrabbling downward, along the tangle of metal bars that made

up the inside of the wheel.

Emma sheathed Cortana and began to crawl along the length

of her spoke, heading toward the bottom of the wheel. LED lights

exploded around her in purple and gold.

There was ichor and blood on her hands, making the descent

slippery. Incongruously, the view from the wheel was beautiful, the

sea and the sand opening in front of her in all directions, as if she

were dangling off the edge of the world.

She could taste blood in her mouth, and salt. Below her, she

could see Julian, out of the carriage, clambering along a lower

spoke. He glanced up at her and pointed; she followed the line of

his hand and saw the Teuthida nearly at the wheel’s center.

Its tentacles were whipping around its body, slamming at the

heart of the wheel. Emma could feel the reverberations through

her bones. She craned her neck to see what it was doing and went

cold—the center of the ride was a massive bolt, holding the wheel

onto its structural supports. The Teuthida was yanking at the bolt,

trying to rip it free. If the demon succeeded in disengaging it, the

whole structure would pull away from its moorings and roll off the

pier, like a disconnected bicycle wheel.

Emma had no illusions that anyone on the wheel, or near it,

would survive. The wheel would crumple in on itself, crushing any-

one underneath. Demons thrived on destruction, on the energy of

death. It would feast.

The Ferris wheel rocked. The Teuthida had its tentacles fas-

tened firmly to the iron bolt at the wheel’s heart and was twist-

ing it. Emma redoubled her crawling speed, but she was too far

19

Lord of Shadows

above the wheel’s middle. Julian was closer, but she knew the

weapons he was carrying: two knives, which he’d already thrown,

and seraph blades, which weren’t long enough for him to reach

the demon.

He looked up at her as he stretched his body out along the iron

bar, wrapped his left arm around it to anchor himself, and held the

other arm out, his hand outstretched.

She knew, immediately, without having to wonder, what he

was thinking. She breathed in deep and let go of the spoke.

She fell, down toward Julian, stretching out her own hand to

reach for his. They caught and clasped, and she heard him gasp as

he took her weight. She swung forward and down, her left hand

locked around his right, and with her other hand she whipped Cor-

tana from its sheath. The weight of her fall carried her forward,

swinging her toward the middle of the wheel.

The Teuthida demon raised its head as she sailed toward it,

and for the first time, she saw its eyes—they were oval, glossed

with a protective mirrorlike coating. They almost seemed to widen

like human eyes as she whipped Cortana forward, driving it down

through the top of the demon’s head and into its brain.

Its tentacles flailed—a last, dying spasm as its body pulled

free of the blade and skittered, rolling along one of the downward-

slanted spokes of the wheel. It reached the end and tumbled off.

In the distance, Emma thought she heard a splash. But there

was no time to wonder. Julian’s hand had tightened on hers, and he

was pulling her up. She slammed Cortana back into its sheath as he

hauled her up, up, onto the spoke where he was lying so that she

collapsed awkwardly, half on top of him.

He was still clasping her hand, breathing hard. His eyes met

hers, just for a second. Around them, the wheel spun, lowering

them back down toward the ground. Emma could see crowds

of mundanes on the beach, the shimmer of water along the

20

STILL WATERS

shoreline, even a dark head and a light one that could be Mark

and Cristina. . . .

“Good teamwork,” Julian said finally.

“I know,” Emma said, and she did. That was the worst thing:

that he was right, that they still worked so perfectly together as

parabatai. As warrior partners. As a matched pair of soldiers who

could never, ever be parted.

Mark and Cristina were waiting for them under the pier. Mark had

kicked off his shoes and was partway into the ocean water. Cristina

was folding away her butterfly knife. At her feet was a patch of

slimy, drying sand.

“Did you see the squid thingie fall off the Ferris wheel?” Emma

asked as she and Julian drew near.

Cristina nodded. “It fell into the shallows. It wasn’t quite dead,

so Mark dragged it up onto the beach and we finished it off.” She

kicked at the sand in front of her. “It was very disgusting, and Mark

got slime on him.”

“I’ve got ichor on me,” Emma said, looking down at her stained

gear. “That was one messy demon.”

“You are still very beautiful,” Mark said with a gallant smile.

Emma smiled back at him, as much as she could. She was unbe-

lievably grateful to Mark, who was playing his part in all this with-

out a word of complaint, though he must have found it strange.

In Cristina’s opinion, Mark was getting something out of the pre-

tense, but Emma couldn’t imagine what. It wasn’t as if Mark liked

lying—he’d spent so many years among faeries, who were inca-

pable of untruths, that he found it unnatural.

Julian had stepped away from them and was on the phone

again, speaking in a low voice. Mark splashed up out of the water

and jammed his wet feet into his boots. Neither he nor Cristina

was fully glamoured, and Emma noticed the stares of mundane

21

Lord of Shadows

passersby as he came toward her—because he was tall, and beau-

tiful, and because he had eyes that shone brighter than the lights

of the Ferris wheel. And because one of his eyes was blue, and the

other one was gold.

And because there was something about him, something inde-

finably strange, a trace of the wildness of Faerie that never failed to

make Emma think of untrammeled, wide-open spaces, of freedom

and lawlessness. I am a lost boy, his eyes seemed to say. Find me.

Reaching Emma, he lifted his hand to push back a lock of her

hair. A wave of feeling went through her—sadness and exhilara-

tion, a longing for something, though she didn’t know what.

“That was Diana,” Julian said, and even without looking at him,

Emma could picture his face as he spoke—gravity, thoughtfulness,

a careful consideration of whatever the situation was. “Jace and

Clary have arrived with a message from the Consul. They’re holding

a meeting at the Institute, and they want us there now.”

22

2

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

The four of them went straight through the Institute to the

library, without pausing to change their gear. Only when they’d

burst into the room and Emma realized she, Mark, Cristina, and

Julian had all tracked in sticky demon ichor did she pause to won-

der if perhaps they should have stopped to shower.

The roof of the library had been damaged two weeks before

and hastily repaired, the stained-glass skylight replaced with plain,

warded glass, the intricately decorated ceiling now covered over

with a layer of rune-carved rowan wood.

The wood of rowan trees was protective: It kept out dark magic.

It also had an effect on faeries—Emma saw Mark wince and look up

sideways as they entered the room. He’d told her proximity to too

much rowan made him feel as if his skin were powdered with tiny

sparks of fire. She wondered what effect it would have on a full-

blood faerie.

“Glad to see you made it,” said Diana. She was sitting at the

head of one of the long library tables, her hair pulled back into a

sleek bun. A thick gold chain necklace glittered against her dark

skin. Her black-and-white dress was, as always, pristinely spotless

and wrinkle free.

Lord of Shadows

Beside her was Diego Rocio Rosales, notable to the Clave for being

a highly trained Centurion and to the Blackthorns for having the

nickname Perfect Diego. He was irritatingly perfect—ridiculously

handsome, a spectacular fighter, smart, and unfailingly polite. He’d

also broken Cristina’s heart before she had left Mexico, which meant

that normally Emma would be plotting his death, but she couldn’t

because he and Cristina had gotten back together two weeks ago.

He cast a smile at Cristina now, his even white teeth flashing.

His Centurion pin glittered at his shoulder, the words Primi Ordines

visible against the silver. He wasn’t just a Centurion; he was one of

the First Company, the very best of the graduating class from the

Scholomance. Because, of course, he was perfect.

Across from Diana and Diego sat two figures who were very

familiar to Emma: Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild, the heads

of the New York Institute, though when Emma had met them,

they’d been teenagers the age she was now. Jace was all tousled gold

handsome ness, looks he’d grown into gracefully over the years.

Clary was red hair, stubborn green eyes, and a deceptively delicate

face. She had a will like iron, as Emma had good cause to know.

Clary jumped to her feet now, her face lighting up, as Jace

leaned back in his chair with a smile. “You’re back!” she cried, rush-

ing toward Emma. She wore jeans and a threadbare MADE IN BROOK-

LYN T-shirt that had probably once belonged to her best friend,

Simon. It looked worn and soft, exactly like the sort of shirt Emma

had often filched from Julian and refused to give back. “How did it

go with the squid demon?”

Emma was prevented from answering by Clary’s enveloping hug.

“Great,” said Mark. “Really great. They’re so full of liquid, squids.”

He actually seemed pleased about it.

Clary let Emma go and frowned down at the ichor, seawater,

and unidentifiable slime that had transferred themselves to her

shirt. “I see what you mean.”

24

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“I’m just going to welcome you all from over here,” said Jace,

waving. “There’s a disturbing smell of calamari wafting from your

general direction.”

There was a giggle, quickly stifled. Emma glanced up and saw

legs dangling between the railings of the upstairs gallery. With

amusement, she recognized Ty’s long limbs and Livvy’s patterned

stockings. There were nooks up on the gallery level that were per-

fect for eavesdropping—she couldn’t count how many of Andrew

Blackthorn’s meetings she and Julian had spied on as kids, drinking

up the knowledge and sense of importance that being present at a

Conclave meeting brought.

She glanced sideways at Julian, seeing him note Ty and Livvy’s

presence, knowing the moment he decided, as she had, not to say

anything about it. His whole thought process was visible to her in

the quirk of his smile—odd how transparent he was to her in his

unguarded moments, and how little she could tell what he was

thinking when he chose to hide it.

Cristina went over to Diego, bumping her hand gently against

his shoulder. He kissed her wrist. Emma saw Mark glance at them,

his expression unreadable. Mark had talked to her about many

things in the past two weeks, but not Cristina. Not ever Cristina.

“So how many sea demons does that make it?” asked Diana. “In

total?” She gestured for everyone to take seats around the table.

They sat down, squelching slightly, Emma next to Mark but across

from Julian. He answered Diana as calmly as if he wasn’t dripping

ichor onto the polished floor.

“A few smaller ones this past week,” said Julian, “but that’s nor-

mal when it storms. They wash up on the beach. We ran some patrols;

the Ashdowns ran some farther south. I think we got them all.”

“This was the first really big one,” said Emma. “I mean, I’ve only

seen a few that big before. They don’t usually come up out of the

ocean.”

25

Lord of Shadows

Jace and Clary exchanged a look.

“Is there something we should know about?” Emma said. “Are

you collecting really big sea demons to decorate the Institute or

something?”

Jace leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He had a calm,

catlike face and unreadable amber eyes. Clary had once said that

the first time she’d ever seen him, she’d thought he looked like a

lion. Emma could see it: Lions seemed so calm and almost lazy until

they exploded into action. “Maybe we should talk about why we’re

here,” he said.

“I thought you were here about Kit,” Julian said. “What with

him being a Herondale and all.”

There was a rustle from upstairs and a faint muttering. Ty

had been sleeping in front of Kit’s door for the past nights, an odd

behavior no one had remarked on. Emma assumed Ty found Kit

unusual and interesting in the manner that he sometimes found

bees and lizards unusual and interesting.

“Partly,” said Jace. “We just returned from a Council meeting

in Idris. That’s why it took us so long to get here, though I wanted

to come as fast as possible when I heard about Kit.” He sat back and

threw an arm over the back of his chair. “You won’t be surprised

to know there was a great deal of discussion about the Malcolm

situation.”

“You mean the situation where the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les turned out to be a spree killer and a necromancer?” Julian said.

There were layers of implication clear in his voice: The Clave hadn’t

suspected Malcolm, had approved of his appointment to the post of

High Warlock, had done nothing to stop the murders he commit-

ted. It had been the Blackthorns who had done that.

There was another giggle from above. Diana coughed to hide a

smile. “Sorry,” she said to Jace and Clary. “I think we have mice.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Jace said.

26

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

“We’re just surprised the Council meeting ended so quickly,”

Emma said. “We thought we might have to give testimony. About

Malcolm, and everything that happened.”

Emma and the Blackthorns had given testimony in front of the

Council before. Years before, after the Dark War. It wasn’t an experi-

ence Emma was excited to repeat, but it would have been a chance to

tell their side of what had happened. To explain why they had worked

in cooperation with faeries, in direct contradiction of the Laws of the

Cold Peace. Why they had investigated the High Warlock of Los Ange-

les, Malcolm Fade, without telling the Clave they were doing it; what

they had done when they had found him guilty of heinous crimes.

Why Emma had killed him.

“You already told Robert—the Inquisitor,” said Clary. “He

believed you. He testified on your behalf.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. Robert Lightwood, the Inquisitor of

the Clave, was not a warm and friendly sort of man. They’d told him

what had happened because they’d been forced to, but he wasn’t the

kind of person you could imagine doing you favors.

“Robert’s not so bad,” Jace said. “Really. He’s mellowed since

becoming a grandfather. And the fact is, the Clave was actually less

interested in you than they were in the Black Volume.”

“Apparently nobody realized it was ever in the library here,”

said Clary. “The Cornwall Institute is famous for having a consider-

ably large selection of books on dark magic—the original Malleus

Maleficarum, the Daemonatia. Everyone thought it was there, prop-

erly locked up.”

“The Blackthorns used to run the Cornwall Institute,” said

Julian. “Maybe my father brought it with him when he got the

appointment to run the Institute here.” He looked troubled.

“Though I don’t know why he would have wanted it.”

“Maybe Arthur brought it,” suggested Cristina. “He’s always

been fascinated with ancient books.”

27

Lord of Shadows

Emma shook her head. “Can’t have. The book had to have

been here when Sebastian attacked the Institute—before Arthur

came.”

“How much of the fact that they didn’t want us there to testify

had to do with them discussing whether I ought to be allowed to

stay?” said Mark.

“Some,” Clary said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But, Mark, we

never would have let them make you return to the Hunt. Everyone

would have risen up.”

Diego nodded. “The Clave has deliberated, and they’re fine with

Mark remaining here with his family. The original order only for-

bid Shadowhunters from looking for him, but he came to you, so

the order hasn’t been contravened.”

Mark nodded stiffly. He had never seemed to like Perfect Diego.

“And believe me,” Clary added, “they were very happy to use

that loophole. I think even the most faerie-hating of them feel for

what Mark went through.”

“But not for what Helen has gone through?” said Julian. “Any

word on her return?”

“Nothing,” said Jace. “I’m sorry. They wouldn’t hear of it.”

Mark’s expression tensed. In that moment, Emma could see the

warrior in him, the dark shadow of the battlefields the Wild Hunt

stalked, the walker among the bodies of the dead.

“We’ll keep at them,” said Diana. “Having you back is a victory,

Mark, and we’ll press that victory. But right now—”

“What’s happening right now?” Mark demanded. “Isn’t the cri-

sis over?”

“We’re Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “You’ll find that the crisis is

never over.”

“Right now,” Diana went on, “the Council just finished discuss-

ing the fact that large sea demons have been spotted all up and

down the coast of California. In record numbers. There have been

28

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

more seen in the past week than in the past decade. That Teuthida

you fought wasn’t an outlier.”

“We think it’s because Malcolm’s body and the Black Volume

are still out there in the ocean,” said Clary. “And we think it may be

because of the spells Malcolm cast during his life.”

“But a warlock’s spells disappear when they die,” protested

Emma. She thought of Kit. The wards Malcolm had placed around

the Rooks’ house had vanished when he died. Demons had attacked

within hours. “We went up to his house after he died, to look for

evidence of what he’d been doing. The whole thing had disinte-

grated into a slag heap.”

Jace had disappeared under the table. He appeared a moment

later, holding Church, the Institute’s part-time cat. Church had his

paws stuck straight out and a look of satisfaction on his face. “We

thought the same thing,” said Jace, settling the cat on his lap. “But

apparently, according to Magnus, there are spells that can be con-

structed to be activated by a warlock’s death.”

Emma glared at Church. She knew the cat had once lived in

the New York Institute, but it seemed rude to show preference so

blatantly. The cat was lying on his back on Jace’s lap, purring and

ignoring her.

“Like an alarm,” Julian said, “that goes off when you open a door?”

“Yes, but in this case, death is the open door,” said Diana.

“So what’s the solution?” asked Emma.

“We probably need his body to turn the spell off, so to speak,”

said Jace. “And a clue as to how he did it would be nice.”

“The ruins of the convergence have been picked over pretty

thoroughly,” Clary said. “But we’ll check out Malcolm’s house

tomorrow, just to be sure.”

“It’s rubble,” Julian warned.

“Rubble that will have to be cleared away soon, before mundanes

notice it,” said Diana. “There’s a glamour on it, but it’s temporary.

29

Lord of Shadows

That means the site will only be undisturbed for another few days.”

“And there’s no harm taking a last look,” said Jace. “Especially

as Magnus has given us some idea what to look for.” He rubbed

Church’s ear but didn’t elaborate.

“The Black Volume is a powerful necromantic object,” said Per-

fect Diego. “It could be causing disturbances we cannot even imag-

ine. Driving the deepest-dwelling of sea demons to crawl up onto

our shores means mundanes are in danger—a few have already

disappeared from the Pier.”

“So,” said Jace. “A team of Centurions is going to arrive here

tomorrow—”

“Centurions?” Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes, a look of fear and

vulnerability that Emma guessed was visible only to her. It was

gone almost instantly. “Why?”

Centurions. Elite Shadowhunters, they trained at the Scholo-

mance, a school carved into the rock walls of the Carpathian Moun-

tains, surrounded by an icy lake. They studied esoteric lore and

were experts in faeries and the Cold Peace.

And also, apparently, sea demons.

“This is excellent news,” said Perfect Diego. He would say that,

Emma thought. Smugly, he touched the pin at his shoulder. “They

will be able to find the body and the book.”

“Hopefully,” Clary said.

“But you’re already here, Clary,” said Julian, his voice decep-

tively mild. “You and Jace—if you brought in Simon and Isabelle

and Alec and Magnus, I bet you could find the body right away.”

He doesn’t want strangers here, Emma thought. People who

would pry into the Institute’s business, demand to talk to Uncle

Arthur. He had managed to preserve the Institute’s secrets even

through everything that had happened with Malcolm. And now

they were threatened again by random Centurions.

“Clary and I are only stopping by,” Jace said. “We can’t stay

30

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

and search, though we’d like to. We’re on assignment from the

Council.”

“What kind of assignment?” Emma said. What mission could

be more important than retrieving the Black Volume, clearing up

the mess Malcolm had made once and for all?

But she could tell from the look that Jace and Clary exchanged

that there was a world of more important things out there, ones she

couldn’t imagine. Emma couldn’t help a small explosion of bitter-

ness inside, the wish that she were just a bit older, that she could be

equal to Jace and Clary, know their secrets and the Council’s secrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Clary said. “We can’t say.”

“So you’re not even going to be here?” Emma demanded. “While

all this is going on, and our Institute is invaded—”

“Emma,” Jace said. “We know that you’re used to being alone

and untroubled here. To having only Arthur to answer to.”

If only he knew. But that was impossible.

He went on, “But the purpose of an Institute is not just to cen-

tralize Clave activity, but to house Shadowhunters who must be

accommodated in a city they don’t live in. There are fifty rooms

here that no one is using. So unless there’s a pressing reason they

can’t come . . .”

The words hung in the air. Diego looked down at his hands. He

didn’t know the full truth about Arthur, but Emma guessed that he

suspected.

“You can tell us,” Clary said. “We’ll keep it in the strictest

confidence.”

But it wasn’t Emma’s secret to tell. She held herself back from

looking at Mark or Cristina, Diana or Julian, the only others at the

table who knew the truth about who really ran the Institute. A truth

that would need to be hidden from the Centurions, who would be

duty-bound to report it to the Council.

“Uncle Arthur hasn’t been well, as I assume you know,” Julian

31

Lord of Shadows

said, gesturing toward the empty chair where the Institute’s head

would normally have sat. “I was concerned the Centurions might

worsen his condition, but considering the importance of their mis-

sion, we’ll make them as comfortable as possible.”

“Since the Dark War, Arthur has been prone to flare-ups of

headaches and pain in his old wounds,” added Diana. “I’ll run

interference between him and the Centurions until he’s feeling

better.”

“There’s really nothing to worry about,” said Diego. “They’re

Centurions—disciplined, orderly soldiers. They won’t be throw-

ing wild parties or making unreasonable demands.” He put an arm

around Cristina. “I’ll be glad to have you meet some of my friends.”

Cristina smiled back at him. Emma couldn’t help but glance

toward Mark to see if he was looking at Cristina and Diego the way

he often did—a way that made her wonder how Julian could miss

it. One day he would notice, and there would be awkward questions

to answer.

But that day wouldn’t be today, because sometime in the past

few minutes Mark had slipped soundlessly out of the library. He

was gone.

Mark associated different rooms in the Institute with different

feelings, most of them new since his return. The rowaned library

made him tense. The entryway, where he had faced down Sebastian

Morgenstern so many years ago, made his skin prickle, his blood heat.

In his own room he felt lonely. In the twins’ rooms, and Dru’s

or Tavvy’s, he could lose himself in being their older brother. In

Emma’s room he felt safe. Cristina’s room was barred to him. In

Julian’s room, he felt guilty. And in the training room, he felt like

a Shadowhunter.

He had made unconsciously for the training room the moment

he’d left the library. It was still too much for Mark, the way that

32

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Shadowhunters hid their emotions. How could they bear a world

where Helen was exiled? He could hardly bear it; he yearned for

his sister every day. And yet they all would have looked at him in

surprise if he had cried out in grief or fallen to his knees. Jules, he

knew, didn’t want the Centurions there—but his expression had

hardly changed. Faeries could riddle and cheat and scheme, but

they did not hide their honest pain.

It was enough to send him to the weapons rack, his hands feel-

ing for whatever would let him lose himself in practice. Diana

had owned a weapons shop in Idris once, and there was always an

impeccable array of beautiful weapons laid out for them to train

with: Greek machaera, with their single cutting edges. There were

Viking spatha, two-handed claymores and zweihänder, and Japanese

wooden bokken, used only for training.

He thought of the weapons of faerie. The sword he had carried in

the Wild Hunt. The fey used nothing made of iron, for weapons and

tools of iron made them sick. The sword he had borne in the Hunt

had been made of horn, and it had been light in his hand. Light like

the elf-bolts he had shot from his bow. Light like the wind under the

feet of his horse, like the air around him when he rode.

He lifted a claymore from the rack and turned it experimentally

in his hand. He could feel that it was made of steel—not quite iron,

but an iron alloy—though he didn’t have the reaction to iron that

full-blooded faeries did.

It did feel heavy in his hand. But so much had been feeling heavy

since he had returned home. The weight of expectation was heavy.

The weight of how much he loved his family was heavy.

Even the weight of what he was involved in with Emma was

heavy. He trusted Emma. He didn’t question that she was doing the

right thing; if she believed it, he believed in her.

But lies didn’t come to him easily, and he hated lying to his fam-

ily most of all.

33

Lord of Shadows

“Mark?” It was Clary, followed by Jace. The meeting in the

library must be over. They had both changed into gear; Clary’s red

hair was very bright, like a splash of blood against her dark clothes.

“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding

back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered

through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the

sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with

hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remem-

ber Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after

the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near

the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his

heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding

through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost;

they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of

fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he

had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that

you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world

at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed

him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had

been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader

shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie

Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie

gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own exis-

tence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie

Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

34

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary.

“Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark

sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his

own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said.

“We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and

the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem

to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the

Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like

we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfort-

able in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d

avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the clay-

more. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and

some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what

happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her ban-

dages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he

felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that

kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,”

she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about

information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The

name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He

had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to

the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he

35

Lord of Shadows

were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “wor-

ried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be wor-

ried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The

King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired

of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repay-

ment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered

to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave

danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that.

Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him

that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove ame-

nable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were

endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and mur-

mured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace

watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp

stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with some-

one: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and

Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched

with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things

been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said

Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a

little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave

would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern

36

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon

that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we

know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can

give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be

friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not

think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I

hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they

will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s.

His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one

of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you

have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names. . . .”

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room

where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he

and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual,

rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur

was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burn-

ing in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and

Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over

Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally.

“What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but

rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and

Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had

always both known but never spoken about.

37

Lord of Shadows

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone

the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered

during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of

lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but

they never lasted long.

If the Clave knew the truth, they would have ripped Arthur

away from his position as Institute head in moments. It was quite

likely he would end up locked in the Basilias, forbidden from

leaving or having visitors. In his absence, with no Blackthorn

adult to run the Institute, the children would be split up, sent to

the Academy in Idris, scattered around the world. Julian’s deter-

mination to never let that happen had led to five years of secret

keeping, five years of hiding Arthur from the world and the world

from Arthur.

Sometimes he wondered if he was doing the right thing for his

uncle. But did it matter? Either way, he would protect his brothers

and sisters. He would sacrifice Arthur for them if he had to, and if

the moral consequences woke him up in the middle of the night

sometimes, panicked and gasping, then he’d live with that.

He remembered Kieran’s sharp faerie eyes on him: You have a

ruthless heart.

Maybe it was true. Right now Julian’s heart felt dead in his chest,

a swollen, beatless lump. Everything seemed to be happening at

a slight distance—he even felt as if he were moving more slowly

through the world, as if he were pushing his way through water.

Still, it was a relief to have Diana with him. Arthur often

mistook Julian for his dead father or grandfather, but Diana

was no part of his past, and he seemed to have no choice but to

recognize her.

“The medication that Malcolm made for you,” said Diana. “Did

he ever speak to you about it? What was in it?”

Arthur shook his head slightly. “The boy doesn’t know?”

38

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

Julian knew that meant him. “No,” he said. “Malcolm never

spoke of it to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be

analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had

drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine

the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Insti-

tute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be any-

thing but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s

condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them

to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Light-

wood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when

Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword

because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden

some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked

old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes

washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under

his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder

bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would

turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor.

“Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is,

we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk draw-

ers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what

they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always

the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion

could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually

protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

39

Lord of Shadows

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions

and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he

suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means

we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to

be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he

murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more

medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it

didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of

mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s

hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out

mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re

desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We

have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The

faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could under-

stand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are

several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and

discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent

again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As

Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder

what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and

heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your

ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could

keep you from madness.

40

BOUNDLESS FLOODS

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly.

“You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits

to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to

underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that

Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones

who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face.

And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural

state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent

a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the

Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Down-

worlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the

Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces

in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana,

her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

41

3

WHERE DWELL

THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from

Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had

a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely

said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with

feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the

east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe

in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine

off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him.

When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old

house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his

clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit

had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that

someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a

special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting

sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer

that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t

much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down

his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to

conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked

out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a

cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me.

They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held

out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that

would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance

to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he

remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the after-

math of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business

away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your

plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to

the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend

I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said

Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development,

I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit.

He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end

of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed

Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.

They emerged on the other side into the heart of the Market.

43

Lord of Shadows

Light flared all around them, blotting out the stars overhead. Even

the moon seemed a pale shell.

Julian was still gripping Kit’s arm, but Kit was making no move

to run. He was looking around with a wistfulness that made him

look young—sometimes it was hard for Julian to remember that

Kit was the same age as Ty. His blue eyes—clear and sky-colored,

without the green tinge that characterized the Blackthorns’ eyes—

moved around the Market, taking it in.

Rows of booths were lit with torches whose fires blazed gold,

blue, and poison green. Trellises of flowers richer and sweeter-

smelling than white oleander or jacaranda blossoms cascaded

down the sides of stalls. Beautiful faerie girls and boys danced to

the music of reeds and pipes. Everywhere were voices clamoring for

them to come buy, come buy. Weapons were on display, and jewelry,

and vials of potions and powders.

“This way,” said Kit, pulling his arm out of Julian’s grip.

Julian followed. He could feel eyes on them, wondered if it

was because Kit had been right: He looked like a cop, or the super-

natural version, anyway. He was a Shadowhunter, had always been

a Shadowhunter. You couldn’t shed your nature.

They had reached one of the Market’s edges, where the light

was dimmer, and it was possible to see the white lines painted on

the asphalt under them that revealed this place’s daytime job as a

parking lot.

Kit moved toward the closest booth, where a faerie woman sat

in front of a sign that advertised fortune-telling and love potions.

She looked up with a beaming smile as he approached.

“Kit!” she exclaimed. She wore a scrap of a white dress that set

off her pale blue skin, and her pointed ears poked through lavender

hair. Thin chains of gold and silver dangled around her neck and

dripped from her wrists. She glared at Julian. “What is he doing

here?”

44

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“The Nephilim is all right, Hyacinth,” Kit said. “I’ll vouch for

him. He just wants to buy something.”

“Doesn’t everyone,” she murmured. She cast Julian a sly look.

“You’re a pretty one,” she said. “Your eyes are almost the same color

as me.”

Julian moved closer to the booth. It was at times like this he

wished he was any good at flirting. He wasn’t. He had never in his

life felt a flicker of desire for any girl who wasn’t Emma, so it was

something he’d never learned to do.

“I’m seeking a potion to cure madness in a Shadowhunter,” he

said. “Or at least to stop the symptoms for a while.”

“What kind of madness?”

“He was tormented in the Courts,” Julian said bluntly. “His

mind was broken by the hallucinations and potions they forced

on him.”

“A Shadowhunter with faerie-caused madness? Oh my,” she

said, and there was skepticism in her tone. Julian began to explain

about Uncle Arthur, without using his name: his situation and his

condition. The fact that his lucid periods came and went. The fact

that sometimes his moods made him bleak and cruel. That he rec-

ognized his family only part of the time. He described the potion

Malcolm had made for Arthur, back when they trusted Malcolm

and thought he was their friend.

Not that he mentioned Malcolm by name.

The faerie woman shook her head when he was done. “You should

ask a warlock,” she said. “They will deal with Shadowhunters. I will

not. I have no desire to run afoul of the Courts or the Clave.”

“No one needs to know about it,” said Julian. “I’ll pay you well.”

“Child.” There was an edge of pity in her voice. “You think you

can keep secrets from all of Downworld? You think the Market

hasn’t been buzzing with the news of the fall of the Guardian and

the death of Johnny Rook? The fact that we now no longer have a

45

Lord of Shadows

High Warlock? The disappearance of Anselm Nightshade—though

he was a terrible man—” She shook her head. “You should never

have come here,” she said. “It’s not safe for either of you.”

Kit looked bewildered. “You mean him,” he said, indicating

Julian with a tilt of his head. “It’s not safe for him.”

“Not for you, either, baby boy,” said a gravelly voice behind them.

They both turned. A short man stood in front of them. He was

pale, with a flat, sickly cast to his skin. He wore a three-piece gray

wool suit, which must have been boiling in the warm weather. His

hair and beard were dark and neatly clipped.

“Barnabas,” said Kit, blinking. Julian noticed Hyacinth shrink-

ing slightly in her booth. A small crowd had gathered behind

Barnabas.

The short man stepped forward. “Barnabas Hale,” he said, hold-

ing out a hand. The moment his fingers closed around Julian’s,

Julian felt his muscles tighten. Only Ty’s affinity for lizards and

snakes, and the fact that Julian had had to carry them out of the

Institute and dump them back in the grass more than once, kept

him from pulling his hand away.

Barnabas’s skin wasn’t pale: It was a mesh of overlapping whit-

ish scales. His eyes were yellow, and they looked with amusement

on Julian, as if expecting him to jerk his hand away. The scales

against Julian’s skin were like smooth, cold pebbles; they weren’t

slimy, but they felt as if they ought to be. Julian held the grip for

several long moments before lowering his arm.

“You’re a warlock,” he said.

“Never claimed anything different,” said Barnabas. “And you’re

a Shadowhunter.”

Julian sighed and pulled his sleeve back into place. “I suppose

there wasn’t much point in trying to disguise it.”

“None at all,” said Barnabas. “Most of us can recognize a

Nephilim on sight, and besides, young Mr. Rook has been the talk

46

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

of the town.” He turned his slit-pupilled eyes on Kit. “Sorry to hear

about your father.”

Kit acknowledged this with a slight nod. “Barnabas owns the

Shadow Market. At least, he owns the land the Market’s on, and he

collects the rent for the stalls.”

“That’s true,” said Barnabas. “So you’ll understand I’m serious

when I ask you both to leave.”

“We’re not causing any trouble,” said Julian. “We came here to

do business.”

“Nephilim don’t ‘do business’ at Shadow Markets,” said

Barnabas.

“I think you’ll find they do,” said Julian. “A friend of mine

bought some arrows here not that long ago. They turned out to be

poisoned. Any ideas about that?”

Barnabas jabbed a squat finger at him. “That’s what I mean,” he

said. “You can’t turn it off, even if you want to, this thinking you

get to ask the questions and make the rules.”

“They do make the rules,” said Kit.

“Kit,” said Julian out of the side of his mouth. “Not helping.”

“A friend of mine disappeared the other day,” said Barnabas.

“Malcolm Fade. Any ideas about that?”

There was a low buzz in the crowd behind him. Julian opened

and closed his hands at his sides. If he’d been here alone, he wouldn’t

have been worried—he could have gotten himself out of the crowd

easily enough, and back to the car. But with Kit to protect, it would

be harder.

“See?” Barnabas demanded. “For every secret you think you

know, we know another. I know what happened to Malcolm.”

“Do you know what he did?” Julian asked, carefully controlling

his voice. Malcolm had been a murderer, a mass murderer. He’d

killed Downworlders as well as mundanes. Surely the Blackthorns

couldn’t be blamed for his death. “Do you know why it happened?”

47

Lord of Shadows

“I see only another Downworlder, dead at the hands of Nephilim.

And Anselm Nightshade, too, imprisoned for a bit of simple magic.

What next?” He spat on the ground at his feet. “There might have

been a time I tolerated Shadowhunters in the Market. Was willing to

take their money. But that time is over.” The warlock’s gaze skittered

to Kit. “Go,” he said. “And take your Nephilim friend with you.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Kit. “And I’m not like them, I’m

like you—”

Barnabas was shaking his head. Hyacinth watched, her blue

hands steepled under her chin, her eyes wide.

“A dark time is coming for Shadowhunters,” said Barnabas.

“A terrible time. Their power will be crushed, their might thrown

down into the dirt, and their blood will run like water through the

riverbeds of the world.”

“That’s enough,” Julian said sharply. “Stop trying to frighten him.”

“You will pay for the Cold Peace,” said the warlock. “The

darkness is coming, and you would be well advised, Christopher

Heron dale, to stay far away from Institutes and Shadowhunters.

Hide as your father did, and his father before him. Only then can

you be safe.”

“How do you know who I am?” Kit demanded. “How do you

know my real name?”

It was the first time Julian had heard him admit that Herondale

was his real name.

“Everyone knows,” said Barnabas. “It’s all the Market has been

buzzing about for days. Didn’t you see everyone staring at you

when you came in?”

So they hadn’t been looking at Julian. Or at least not just at

Julian. It wasn’t much comfort, though, Jules thought, not when

Kit had that expression on his face.

“I thought I could come back here,” Kit said. “Take over my

father’s stall. Work in the Market.”

48

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

A forked tongue flickered out between Barnabas’s lips. “Born

a Shadowhunter, always a Shadowhunter,” he said. “You cannot

wash the taint from your blood. I’m telling you for the last time,

boy—leave the Market. And don’t come back.”

Kit backed up, looking around him—seeing, as if for the first

time, the faces turned toward him, most blank and unfriendly,

many avidly curious.

“Kit—” Julian began, reaching out a hand.

But Kit had bolted.

It took Julian only a few moments to catch up with Kit—the

boy hadn’t really been trying to run; he’d just been pushing blindly

through the crowds, with no destination. He’d fetched up in front of

a massive stall that seemed to be in the middle of being torn apart.

It was just a bare latticework of boards now. It looked as if some-

one had ripped it to pieces with their hands. Jagged bits of wood lay

scattered around on the blacktop. A sign dangled crookedly from

the top of the stall, printed with the words PART SUPERNATURAL?

YOU’RE NOT ALONE. THE FOLLOWERS OF THE GUARDIAN WANT YOU TO

SIGN UP FOR THE LOTTERY OF FAVOR! LET LUCK INTO YOUR LIFE!

“The Guardian,” Kit said. “That was Malcolm Fade?”

Julian nodded.

“He was the one who got my father involved in all that stuff

with the Followers and the Midnight Theater,” said Kit, his tone

almost thoughtful. “It’s Malcolm’s fault he died.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Johnny Rook hadn’t been much of

a prize, but he was Kit’s father. You only got one father. And Kit

wasn’t wrong.

Kit moved then, slamming his fist as hard as he could into the

sign. It clattered to the ground. In the moment before Kit pulled his

hand back, wincing, Julian saw a flash of the Shadowhunter in him.

If the warlock wasn’t already dead, Julian believed sincerely that Kit

would have killed Malcolm.

49

Lord of Shadows

A small crowd had followed from Hyacinth’s stall, staring. Julian

put a hand on Kit’s back, and Kit didn’t move to shake him off.

“Let’s go,” Julian said.

Emma showered carefully—the downside of having your hair long

when you were a Shadowhunter was never knowing after a fight if

there was ichor in it. Once the back of her neck had been green for

a week.

When she came out into her bedroom, wearing sweatpants

and a tank top and rubbing her hair dry with a green towel, she

found Mark curled up at the foot of her bed, reading a copy of Alice’s

Adventures in Wonderland.

He was wearing a pair of cotton pajama bottoms that Emma had

bought for three dollars from a vendor on the side of the PCH. He was

partial to them as being oddly close in their loose, light material to

the sort of trousers he’d worn in Faerie. If it bothered him that they

also had a pattern of green shamrocks embroidered with the words

GET LUCKY on them, he didn’t show it. He sat up when Emma came

in, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and smiled at her.

Mark had a smile that could break your heart. It seemed to take

up his whole face and brighten his eyes, firing the blue and gold

from inside.

“A strange evening, forsooth,” he said.

“Don’t you forsooth me.” She flopped down on the bed next

to him. He wouldn’t sleep on the bed, but he didn’t seem to mind

using the mattress as a sort of giant sofa. He set his book down

and leaned back against the footboard. “You know my rules about

forsoothing in my room. Also the use of the words ‘howbeit,’ ‘wella-

day,’ and ‘alack.’”

“What about ‘zounds’?”

“The punishment for ‘zounds’ is severe,” she told him. “You’ll

have to run naked into the ocean in front of the Centurions.”

50

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Mark looked puzzled. “And then?”

She sighed. “Sorry, I forgot. Most of us mind being naked in

front of strangers. Take my word for it.”

“Really? You’ve never swum naked in the ocean?”

“That’s kind of a different question, but no, I never have.” She

leaned back beside him.

“We should one day,” he said. “All of us.”

“I can’t imagine Perfect Diego ripping off all his clothes and

leaping into the water in front of us. Maybe just in front of Cristina.

Maybe.”

Mark clambered off the bed and onto the pile of blankets she’d

put on the floor for him. “I doubt it. I bet he swims with all his

clothes on. Otherwise he’d have to take off his Centurion pin.”

She laughed and he gave her an answering smile, though he

looked tired. She sympathized. It wasn’t the normal activities of

Shadowhunting that were tiring her out. It was the pretense. Per-

haps it made sense that she and Mark could only unwind at night

around each other, since there was no one, then, to pretend for.

They were the only times she had relaxed since the day Jem had

told her about the parabatai curse, how parabatai who fell in love

would go insane and destroy themselves and everyone they loved.

She’d known immediately: She couldn’t let that happen. Not

to Julian. Not to his family, who she loved too. She couldn’t have

stopped herself loving Julian. It was impossible. So she had to make

Julian not love her.

Julian had given her the key himself, only days before. Words,

whispered against her skin in a rare moment of vulnerability: He

was jealous of Mark. Jealous that Mark could talk to her, flirt with

her, easily, while Julian always had to hide what he felt.

Mark was leaning against the footboard beside her now, his

eyes half-closed. Crescents of color under his lids, his eyelashes a

shade darker than his hair. She remembered asking him to come

51

Lord of Shadows

to her room. I need you to pretend with me that we’re dating. That we’re

falling in love.

He’d held out his hand to her, and she’d seen the storm in his

eyes. The fierceness that reminded her that Faerie was more than

green grass and revels. That it was callous wild cruelty, tears and

blood, lightning that slashed the night sky like a knife.

Why lie? he’d asked.

She’d thought for a moment he’d been asking her, Why do you

want to tell this lie? But he hadn’t been. He’d been asking, Why lie

when we can make it the truth, this thing between us?

She’d stood before him, aching all the way down to the floor of

her soul, in all the places where she’d ripped Julian away from her

as if she’d torn off a limb.

They said that men joined the Wild Hunt sometimes when they

had sustained a great loss, preferring to howl out their grief to

the skies than to suffer in silence in their ordinary gray lives. She

remembered soaring through the sky with Mark, his arms around

her waist: She had let the wind take her screams of excitement,

thrilling to the freedom of the sky where there was no pain, no

worry, only forgetfulness.

And here was Mark, beautiful in that way that the night sky

was beautiful, offering her that same freedom with an outstretched

hand. What if I could love Mark? she thought. What if I could make this

lie true?

Then it would be no lie. If she could love Mark, it would end all

the danger. Julian would be safe.

She had nodded. Reached her hand out to Mark’s.

She let herself remember that night in her room, the look

in his eyes when he’d asked her, Why lie? She remembered his

warm clasp, his fingers circling her wrist. How they had nearly

stumbled in their haste to get nearer to each other, colliding

almost awkwardly, as if they’d been dancing and had missed a

52

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

step. She had clasped Mark by the shoulders and stretched up to

kiss him.

He was wiry from the Hunt, not as muscled as Julian, the

bones of his clavicle and shoulders sharp under her hands. But

his skin was smooth where she pushed her hands down the neck

of his shirt, stroking the top of his spine. And his mouth was

warm on hers.

He tasted bittersweet and felt hot, as if he had a fever. She

instinctively moved closer to him; she hadn’t realized she was

shivering, but she was. His mouth opened over hers; he explored

her lips with his, sending slow waves of heat through her body.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, brushed his lips against her

jaw, her cheek.

He drew back. “Em,” he said, looking puzzled. “You taste of salt.”

She drew her right hand back from its clasp around his neck.

Touched her face. It was wet. She’d been crying.

He frowned. “I don’t understand. You want the world to believe

we are a couple, and yet you are weeping as if I have hurt you. Have

I hurt you? Julian will never forgive me.”

The mention of Julian’s name almost undid her. She sank down

at the foot of her bed, gripping her knees. “Julian has so much to

cope with,” she said. “I can’t have him worrying about me. About

my relationship with Cameron.”

Silently, she apologized to Cameron Ashdown, who really

hadn’t done anything wrong.

“It’s not a good relationship,” she said. “Not healthy. But every

time it ends, I fall back into it again. I need to break that pattern.

And I need Julian not to be anxious about it. There’s already too

much—the Clave will be investigating the fallout from Malcolm’s

death, our involvement with the Court—”

“Hush,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I understand.”

He reached up and pulled the blanket down from her bed.

53

Lord of Shadows

Emma watched him in surprise as he wrapped it around the two of

them, tucking it around both their shoulders.

She thought of the Wild Hunt then, the way he must have been

with Kieran, huddling in shelters, wrapping themselves in their

cloaks to block the cold.

He traced the line of her cheekbone with his fingers, but it was a

friendly gesture. The heat that had been in their kiss was gone. And

Emma was glad. It had seemed wrong to feel that, even the shadow

of it, with anyone but Julian. “Those who are not faeries find com-

fort in lies,” he said. “I cannot judge that. I will do this with you,

Emma. I will not abandon you.”

She leaned against his shoulder. Relief made her feel light.

“You must tell Cristina, though,” he added. “She is your best

friend; you cannot hide so much from her.”

Emma nodded. She had always planned to tell Cristina. Cristina

was the only one who knew about her feelings for Julian, and she

would never for a moment believe that Emma had suddenly fallen

in love with Mark instead. She would have to be told for practical-

ity’s sake, and Emma was glad.

“I can trust her completely,” she said. “Now—tell me about the

Wild Hunt.”

He began to speak, weaving a story of a life lived in the clouds

and in the deserted and lost places of the world. Hollow cities at the

bottom of copper canyons. The shell of Oradour-sur-Glane, where

he and Kieran had slept in a half-burned hayloft. Sand and the smell

of the ocean in Cyprus, in an empty resort town where trees grew

through the floors of abandoned grand hotels.

Slowly Emma drifted off to sleep, with Mark holding her and

whispering stories. Somewhat to her surprise, he’d come back the

next night—it would help make their relationship seem convinc-

ing, he’d said, but she’d seen in his eyes that he’d liked the com-

pany, just as she had.

54

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

And so they’d spent every night since then together, sprawled

in the covers piled on the floor, trading stories; Emma spoke of

the Dark War, of how she felt lost sometimes now that she was no

longer searching for the person who’d killed her parents, and Mark

talked about his brothers and sisters, about how he and Ty had

argued and he worried he’d made his younger brother feel as if he

wasn’t there to be relied on, as if he might leave at any minute.

“Just tell him you might leave, but you’ll always come back to

him,” Emma said. “Tell him you’re sorry if you ever made him feel

any different.”

He only nodded. He never told her if he’d taken her advice, but

she’d taken his and told Cristina everything. It had been a huge

relief, and she’d cried in Cristina’s arms for several hours. She’d

even gotten Julian’s permission to tell Cristina an abbreviated ver-

sion of the situation with Arthur—enough to make it clear how

badly Julian was needed here at the Institute, with his family. She’d

asked Julian’s permission to share that information; an extremely

awkward conversation, but he’d almost seemed relieved that some-

one else would know.

She’d wanted to ask him if he’d tell the rest of the family the

truth about Arthur soon. But she couldn’t. Walls had gone up

around Julian that seemed as impenetrable as the thorns around

Sleeping Beauty’s castle. She wondered if Mark had noticed, if any

of the others had noticed, or if only she could see it.

She turned to look at Mark now. He was asleep on the floor, his

cheek pillowed on his hand. She slid off the bed, settling among the

blankets and pillows, and curled up next to him.

Mark slept better when he was with her—he’d said so, and she

believed it. He’d been eating better too, putting on muscle fast, his

scars fading, color back in his cheeks. She was glad. She might feel

like she was dying inside every day, but that was her problem—

she’d handle it. No one owed her help, and in a way she welcomed

55

Lord of Shadows

the pain. It meant Julian wasn’t suffering alone, even if he believed

he was.

And if she could help Mark at all, then that was something. She

loved him, the way she should love Julian: Uncle Arthur would have

called it philia, friendship love. And though she could never tell Julian

about the way she and Mark were helping each other, it was at least

something she felt she could do for him: make his brother happier.

Even if he’d never know.

A knock on the door yanked her out of her reverie. She started

up; the room was dim, but she could make out bright red hair,

Clary’s curious face peering around the door’s edge. “Emma? Are

you awake? Are you on the floor?”

Emma peered down at Mark. He was definitely asleep, huddled

in blankets, out of Clary’s view. She held up two fingers to Clary,

who nodded and shut the door; two minutes later Emma was out in

the hallway, zipping up a hoodie.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Clary said. She was still so

small, Emma thought, it was sometimes hard to remember that she

was in her twenties. Her hair was caught back in braids, making her

seem even younger.

“On the roof,” Emma decided. “I’ll show you.”

She led Clary up the stairs, to the ladder and trapdoor, and then

out to the dark expanse of roof. She hadn’t been there herself since

the night she’d come up with Mark. It seemed like years ago, though

she knew it was only weeks.

The day’s heat had left the black, shingled roof sticky and hot.

But the night was a cool one—desert nights always were, the tem-

perature dropping like a rock as soon as the sun set—and the breeze

off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair.

She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot:

a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill

below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting

the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her

scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm.

She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for

her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana

into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as

if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft

push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat

in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.”

She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their

regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem

was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked

twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was

his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered

the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to

be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even

tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth

first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was

around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could

always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after

Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept hav-

ing to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cor-

tana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt,

the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a sur-

prising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt

nonetheless.

57

Lord of Shadows

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible

person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.”

She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning

Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand

about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in

him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for

a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream

about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it

haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse

than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you

hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything

like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the

dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I

might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And

you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When

people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if

ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years,

all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my

parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Mal-

colm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent

so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things

were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even

if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill.

It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take

time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the

past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told

her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose,

sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t

give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the

worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you

guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was

tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t

been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks

sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to

be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubt-

ing, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the

boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked

about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ash-

down guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed

lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of

defensive ness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked

legitimately stunned.

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Lord of Shadows

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested

her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean,

who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met

Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was

nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark

water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the

other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—

together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out

toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed

more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind,

or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense

with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer.

Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight

shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me.

There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear,

too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at

the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white

bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things

that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start

again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a

knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and

blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out

everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much

an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder,

but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d com-

forted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone

into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern.

Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”

“That I’m going to die,” Clary said. “Not a long time from now.

Soon.”

“Is this about your mission? Do you think something’s going to

happen to you?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Clary said. “It’s hard to explain.

It’s a knowledge that it will happen, but not exactly when, or how.”

“Everyone’s afraid of dying,” Emma said.

“Everyone isn’t,” said Clary, “and I’m not, but I am afraid of

leaving Jace. I’m afraid of what it would do to him. And I think

being married would make it worse. It alters things, being married.

It’s a promise to stay with someone else. But I couldn’t promise to

stay for very long—” She looked down. “I realize it sounds ridicu-

lous. But I know what I know.”

There was a long silence. The sound of the ocean rushed under

the quiet between them, and the sound of the wind in the desert.

“Have you told him?” Emma asked.

“I haven’t told anyone but you.” Clary turned and looked at

Emma anxiously. “I’m asking you for a favor. A huge one.” She

took a deep breath. “If I do die, I want you to tell them—Jace and

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Lord of Shadows

the others—that I knew. I knew I was going to die and I wasn’t

scared. And tell Jace this is why I said no.”

“I—but why me?”

“There isn’t anyone else I know I could tell this to without them

freaking out or thinking I was having a breakdown and needed a

therapist—well, in Simon’s case, that’s what he’d say.” Clary’s eyes

were suspiciously bright as she said her parabatai’s name. “And I

trust you, Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Emma said. “And of course you can trust me, I won’t

tell anyone, but—”

“I didn’t mean I trusted you to keep it a secret,” Clary said.

“Though I do. In my dreams, I see you with Cortana in your hand.”

She stretched upward, nearly on her tiptoes, and kissed Emma

on the forehead. It was almost a motherly gesture. “I trust you to

always keep fighting, Emma. I trust you not to ever give up.”

It wasn’t until they got back into the car that Kit noticed that his

knuckles were bleeding. He hadn’t felt the pain when he punched

the sign, but he felt it now.

Julian, about to start the car, hesitated. “I could heal you,” he

said. “With an iratze.”

“A what now?”

“A healing rune,” said Julian. “It’s one of the gentlest. So it

would make sense if it was your first.”

A thousand snide remarks ran through Kit’s head, but he was

too tired to make them. “Don’t poke me with any of your weird little

magic wands,” he said. “I just want to go”—he almost said home,

but stopped himself—“back.”

As they drove, Kit was silent, looking out the window. The

freeway was nearly empty, and stretched ahead of them, gray and

deserted. Signs for Crenshaw and Fairfax flashed by. This wasn’t

the beautiful Los Angeles of mountains and beaches, green lawns

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

and mansions. This was the L.A. of cracked pavement and strug-

gling trees and skies leaden with smog.

It had always been Kit’s home, but he felt detached as he looked

at it now. As if already the Shadowhunters were pulling him away

from everything he knew, into their weird orbit. “So what happens

to me?” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Julian frowned at the traffic in the rearview mirror. Kit

could see his eyes, the blue-green of them. It was almost a shocking

color, and all the Blackthorns seemed to have it—well, Mark had

one—except for Ty.

“So Jace is my actual family,” Kit said. “But I can’t go live with

him, because him and his hot girlfriend are going off on some sort

of secret mission.”

“Guess you Herondales have a type,” Julian muttered.

“What?”

“Her name’s Clary. But basically, yes. He can’t take you in

right now, so we’ll do it. It’s not a problem. Shadowhunters take in

Shadow hunters. It’s what we do.”

“You really think that’s such a good idea?” Kit said. “I mean,

your house is pretty screwed up, what with your agoraphobic uncle

and your weird brother.”

Julian’s hands tightened on the wheel, but the only thing he

said was, “Ty isn’t weird.”

“I meant Mark,” said Kit. There was an odd pause. “Ty isn’t

weird,” Kit added. “He’s just autistic.”

The pause stretched out longer. Kit wondered if he’d offended

Julian somehow. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally. “Back when I

went to mundane school, I knew some kids who were on the spec-

trum. Ty has some things in common with them.”

“What spectrum?” Julian said.

Kit looked at him in surprise. “You really don’t know what I

mean?”

63

Lord of Shadows

Julian shook his head. “You may not have noticed this, but we

don’t involve ourselves much with mundane culture.”

“It’s not mundane culture. It’s—” Neurobiology. Science. Medi-

cine. “Don’t you have X-rays? Antibiotics?”

“No,” Julian said. “For minor stuff, like headaches, healing

runes work. For major things, the Silent Brothers are our doctors.

Mundane medicine is strictly forbidden. But if there’s something

you think I should know about Ty . . .”

Kit wanted to hate Julian sometimes. He really did. Julian

seemed to love rules; he was unbending, annoyingly calm, and as

emotionless as everyone had always said Shadowhunters were.

Except he wasn’t, really. The love that was audible in his voice when

he said his brother’s name put the lie to that.

Kit felt a sudden tightness through his body. Talking to Jace

earlier had eased some of the anxiety he’d felt ever since his father

had died. Jace had made everything seem like maybe it would be

easy. That they were still in a world where you could give things

chances and see how they worked out.

Now, staring at the gray freeway ahead of him, he wondered

how he could possibly have thought he could live in a world where

everything he knew was considered wrong knowledge to have,

where every one of his values—such as they were, having grown

up with a father who was nicknamed Rook the Crook—was turned

upside down.

Where associating with the people his blood said he belonged

to meant that the people he’d grown up with would hate him.

“Never mind,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything about Ty. Just

meaningless mundane stuff.”

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Julian said. They’d made it to the coast high-

way now. The water stretched away in the distance, the moon high

and round, casting a perfect white path down the center of the sea.

“About what happened at the Market.”

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WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

“They hate me now,” Kit said. “Everyone I used to know.”

“No,” said Julian. “They’re afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Maybe there was, Kit thought. But right now, he wasn’t sure if

it mattered.

65

4

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

Cristina stood atop the hill where Malcolm Fade’s house had

once been, and gazed around at the ruins.

Malcolm Fade. She hadn’t known him the way the Blackthorns

had. He’d been their friend, or so they’d thought, for five years, liv-

ing only a few miles away in his formidable glass-and-steel home in

the dry Malibu hills. Cristina had visited it once before, with Diana,

and had been charmed by Malcolm’s easy manner and humor. She’d

found herself wishing the High Warlock of Mexico City was like

Malcolm—young-seeming and charming, rather than a grouchy

old woman with bat ears who lived in the Parque Lincoln.

Then Malcolm had turned out to be a murderer, and it had all

come apart. The lies revealed, their faith in him broken, even Tavvy’s

safety at risk until they’d managed to get him back and Emma had

dispatched Malcolm with a sword to the gut.

Cristina could hear cars whizzing by on the highway below.

They’d climbed up the side of the hill to get here, and she felt

sweaty and itchy. Clary Fairchild was standing atop the rubble of

Malcolm’s house, wielding an odd-looking object that looked like a

cross between a seraph blade and one of those machines mundanes

used to find metal hidden under sand. Mark, Julian, and Emma

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

were ranged around different parts of the collapsed house, picking

through the metal and glass.

Jace had opted to spend the day with Kit in the training room

at the Institute. Cristina admired that. She’d been raised to believe

nothing was more important than family, and Kit and Jace were the

only Shadowhunters of the Herondale bloodline alive in the world.

Plus, the boy needed friends—he was an odd little thing, too young

to be handsome but with big blue eyes that made you want to trust

him even as he was picking your pocket. He had a gleam of mischief

about him, a little like Jaime, her childhood best friend, had once

had—the sort that could tip over easily into criminality.

“¿En que piensas?” asked Diego, coming up behind her. He wore

jeans and work boots. Cristina wished it didn’t annoy her that he

insisted on pinning his Centurion badge even to the sleeve of a

completely ordinary black T-shirt.

He was very handsome. Much handsomer than Mark, really, if

you were being completely objective. His features were more regu-

lar, his jaw squarer, his chest and shoulders broader.

Cristina shoved aside a few chunks of painted plaster. She and

Diego had been assigned the eastern segment of the house, which

she was fairly sure had been Malcolm’s bedroom and closet. She kept

turning up shreds of clothes. “I was thinking of Jaime, actually.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes were sympathetic. “It’s all right to miss

him. I miss him too.”

“Then you should talk to him.” Cristina knew she sounded

short. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t sure why Diego was driving

her crazy, and not in a good way. Maybe it was that she’d blamed

him for betraying her for so long that it was hard to let go of that

anger. Maybe it was that no longer blaming him meant more blame

laid on Jaime, which seemed unfair, as Jaime wasn’t around to

defend himself.

“I don’t know where he is,” Diego said.

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Lord of Shadows

“At all? You don’t know where he is in the world or how to

contact him?” Somehow Cristina had missed this part. Probably

because Diego hadn’t mentioned it.

“He doesn’t want to be bothered by me,” said Diego. “All my

fire-messages come back blocked. He hasn’t talked to our father.”

Their mother was dead. “Or any of our cousins.”

“How do you know he’s even alive?” Cristina asked, and instantly

regretted it. Diego’s eyes flashed.

“He is my little brother, still,” he said. “I would know if he was

dead.”

“Centurion!” It was Clary, gesturing from the top of the hill.

Diego began to jog up the ruins toward her without looking back.

Cristina was conscious that she’d upset him; guilt spilled through

her and she kicked at a heavy chunk of plaster with a bolt of rebar

stuck through it like a toothpick.

It rolled to the side. She blinked at the object revealed under it,

then bent to pick it up. A glove—a man’s glove, made of leather,

soft as silk but a thousand times tougher. The leather was printed

with the image of a golden crown snapped in half.

“Mark!” she called. “¡Necesito que veas algo!”

A moment later she realized she’d been so startled she’d actu-

ally called out in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mark had

come leaping nimbly down the stones toward her. He stood just

above her, the wind lifting his airy, pale-gold curls away from the

slight points of his ears. He looked alarmed. “What is it?”

She handed him the glove. “Isn’t that the emblem of one of the

Faerie Courts?”

Mark turned it over in his hands. “The broken crown is the

Unseelie King’s symbol,” he murmured. “He believes himself to

be true King of both the Seelie and the Unseelie Courts, and until

he rules both, the crown will remain snapped in half.” He tilted

his head to the side like a bird studying a cat from a safe distance.

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

“But these kind of gloves—Kieran had them when he arrived at the

Hunt. They are fine workmanship. Few but the gentry would wear

them. In fact, few but the King’s sons would wear them.”

“You don’t think this is Kieran’s?” Cristina said.

Mark shook his head. “His were . . . destroyed. In the Hunt. But

it does mean that whoever visited Malcolm here, and left this glove,

was either high in the Court, or the King himself.”

Cristina frowned. “It’s very odd that it’s here.”

Her hair had escaped from its braids and was blowing in long

curls around her face. Mark reached up to tuck one back behind her

ear. His fingers skimmed her cheek. His eyes were dreamy, distant.

She shivered a little at the intimacy of the gesture.

“Mark,” she said. “Don’t.”

He dropped his hand. He didn’t look angry, the way a lot of boys

tended to when asked not to touch a girl. He looked puzzled and a

little sad. “Because of Diego?”

“And Emma,” she said, her voice very low.

His puzzlement increased. “But you know that’s—”

“Mark! Cristina!” It was Emma, calling to them from where she

and Julian had joined Diego and Clary. Cristina was grateful not to

have to answer Mark; she raced up the pile of rocks and glass, glad

her Shadowhunter boots and gear protected her from stray sharp

edges.

“Did you find something?” she asked as she approached the

small group.

“Have you ever wanted a really up-close look at a gross ten-

tacle?” Emma asked.

“No,” said Cristina, drawing closer warily. Clary did appear

to have something unpleasantly floppy speared on the end of her

odd weapon. It wriggled a bit, showing pink suckers against green,

mottled skin.

“No one ever seems to say yes to that question,” said Emma sadly.

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Lord of Shadows

“Magnus introduced me to a warlock with tentacles like this

once,” Clary said. “His name was Marvin.”

“I assume these aren’t Marvin’s remains,” Julian said.

“I’m not sure they’re anyone’s remains,” said Clary. “To com-

mand sea demons, you’d need either the Mortal Cup or something

like this—a piece of a powerful demon you could enchant. I think

we have some definite evidence that Malcolm’s death is tied to the

recent Teuthida attacks.”

“Now what?” said Emma, side-eyeing the tentacle. She wasn’t a

huge fan of the ocean, or the monsters that lived in it, though she’d

fight anything or anyone on dry land.

“Now we go back to the Institute,” said Clary, “and decide what

our next step is. Who wants to carry the tentacle?”

There were no volunteers.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Kit said. “There’s no way I’m jumping

off that.”

“Just consider it.” Jace leaned down from a rafter. “It’s surpris-

ingly easy.”

“Give it a try,” Emma called. She had come to the training room

when they’d gotten back from Malcolm’s, curious to see how it was

going. She had found Ty and Livvy sitting on the floor, watching as

Jace tried to convince Kit to throw a few knives (which he was will-

ing to do) and then to learn jumping and falling (which he wasn’t).

“My father warned me you people would try to kill me,” Kit said.

Jace sighed. He was in training gear, balanced on one of the

intricate network of rafters that intersected the interior of the

training room’s pitched roof. They ranged from thirty to twenty

feet above the floor. Emma had taught herself to fall from those

exact rafters over the years, sometimes breaking bones.

A Shadowhunter had to know how to climb—demons were fast

and often multi-legged, scurrying up the sides of buildings like

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

spiders. But learning how to fall was just as important.

“You can do it,” Emma called now.

“Yeah? And what happens if I splatter myself all over the floor?”

asked Kit.

“You get a big state funeral,” Emma said. “We put your body in

a boat and shove you over a waterfall like a Viking.”

Kit glared at her. “That’s from a movie.”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

Jace, losing patience, launched himself from the highest rafter.

He somersaulted gracefully in the air before landing in a soundless

crouch. He straightened up and winked at Kit.

Emma hid a smile. She’d had a horrendous crush on Jace when she

was twelve. Later that had turned into wanting to be Jace—the best

there was: the best fighter, the best survivor, the best Shadowhunter.

She wasn’t there yet, but she wasn’t done trying, either.

Kit looked impressed despite himself, then scowled again. He

looked very slight next to Jace. He was close to the same height

as Ty, though less fit. The potential Shadowhunter strength was

there, though, in the shape of his arms and shoulders. Emma had

seen him fight, when in danger. She knew what he could do.

“You’ll be able to do that,” Jace said, pointing up at the rafter,

and then at Kit. “As soon as you want to.”

Emma could recognize the look in Kit’s eye. I might never want

to. “What’s the Nephilim motto again?”

“‘We are dust and shadows,’” said Ty, not looking up from his

book.

“Some of us are very handsome dust,” Jace added, as the door

flew open and Clary stuck her head in.

“Come to the library,” she announced. “The tentacle is starting

to dissolve.”

“You drive me wild with your sexy talk,” said Jace, pulling on

his gear jacket.

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Lord of Shadows

“Adults,” said Kit, with some disgust, and stalked out of the

room. To Emma’s amusement, Ty and Livvy were instantly on their

feet, following him. She wondered what exactly had sparked their

interest in Kit—was it just that he was their age? Jace, she imag-

ined, would have put it down to the famous Herondale charisma,

though from what she knew, the Herondales who had immediately

predated him had been pretty low on the stuff.

The library was in a certain amount of chaos. The tentacle was

starting to dissolve, into a sticky puddle of green-pink goo that

reminded Emma horribly of melted jelly beans. As Diana pointed

out, this meant that the time left to identify the demon was short-

ening quickly. Since Magnus wasn’t picking up his phone and no

one wanted to involve the Clave, this left good old-fashioned book

research. Everyone was handed a pile of fat tomes on sea creatures,

and they dispersed to various parts of the library to examine paint-

ings, sketches, drawings, and the occasional clipped-in photo.

At some point during the passing hours, Jace decided that they

required Chinese food. Apparently kung pao chicken and noodles

in black bean sauce were a requirement every time the New York

Institute team had to engage in research. He hauled Clary off to an

empty office to conjure up a Portal—something no other Shadow-

hunter besides Clary could do—promising them all the best Chi-

nese food Manhattan had to deliver.

“Got it!” Cristina announced, about twenty minutes after the

door had closed behind Jace and Clary. She held up a massive copy

of the Carta Marina.

The rest of them crowded around the main table as Diana con-

firmed that the tentacle belonged to the sea demon species Makara,

which—according to the sketches between the maps in the Carta

Marina—looked like a part-octopus, part-slug thing with an enor-

mous bee head.

“The disturbing thing isn’t that it’s a sea demon,” said Diana,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

frowning. “It’s that Makara demon remains only survive on land for

one to two days.”

Jace pushed the library door open. He and Clary were loaded

down with green-and-white take-out boxes marked JADE WOLF. “A

little help here?”

The research team disbanded briefly to lay out food on the long

library tables. There was lo mein, the promised kung pao chicken,

mapo tofu, zhajiangmian, egg fried rice, and delicious sesame balls

that tasted like hot candy.

Everyone had a paper plate, even Tavvy, who was arranging

toy soldiers behind a bookcase. Diego and Cristina occupied a

love seat, and Jace and Clary were on the floor, sharing noodles.

The Blackthorn kids were squabbling over the chicken, except

for Mark, who was trying to figure out how to use his chop-

sticks. Emma guessed they didn’t have them in Faerie. Julian

sat at the table across from Livvy and Ty, frowning at the nearly

dissolved tentacle. Amazingly, it didn’t seem to be putting him

off his food.

“You are friendly with the great Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

Diego said to Jace and Clary, after an affable few minutes of every-

one chewing.

“The great Magnus Bane?” Jace choked on his fried rice. Church

had taken up residence at his feet, alert for any evidence of dropped

chicken.

“We’re friendly with him, yes,” Clary said, her mouth twitching

at the corner. “Why?”

Jace was turning purple. Clary thumped him on the back.

Church fell asleep, his feet waving in the air.

“I would like to interview him,” Diego said. “I think he would

make a good subject for a paper for the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“He’s pretty busy right now, what with Max and Rafael,” said

Clary. “I mean, you could ask . . .”

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Lord of Shadows

“Who’s Rafael?” Livvy asked.

“Their second son,” said Jace. “They just adopted a little boy in

Argentina. A Shadowhunter who lost his parents in the Dark War.”

“In Buenos Aires!” Emma exclaimed, turning to Julian. “When

we saw Magnus at Malcolm’s, he said Alec was in Buenos Aires, and

that he was going to join him. That must have been what they were

doing.”

Julian just nodded, but didn’t look up at her to acknowledge

the shared memory. She shouldn’t expect him to, Emma reminded

herself. Julian wasn’t going to be the way she remembered again for

a long time, if ever.

She felt herself blush, though no one seemed to notice but Cris-

tina, who shot her a look of concern. Diego had his arm around

Cristina, but her hands were resting in her lap. She gave Emma a

slight wave, more of a finger wiggle.

“Maybe we should get back to discussing the matter at hand,”

Diana said. “If Makara remains only last a day or two on land . . .”

“Then that demon was at Malcolm’s house really recently,” said

Livvy. “Like, well after he died.”

“Which is odd,” Julian said, glancing at the book. “It’s a deep-

sea demon, pretty deadly and very big. You’d think someone would

have noticed it. Plus, it can’t possibly have wanted anything from a

collapsed house.”

“Who knows what desires a sea demon might possess?” said Mark.

“Assuming it wasn’t after Malcolm’s collection of elegant ten-

tacle warmers,” said Julian, “we have to imagine that it was most

likely summoned. Makara demons just don’t come up on land. They

lurk on the ocean’s bottom and sometimes pull ships down.”

“Another warlock, then?” Jace suggested. “Someone Malcolm

was working with?”

“Catarina doesn’t believe Malcolm worked with anyone else,”

said Diana. “He was friendly with Magnus, but he was otherwise

74

A WILD WEIRD CLIME

something of a loner—for obvious reasons, it now appears.”

“If he was working with another warlock, he wouldn’t be likely

to advertise the fact, though,” said Diego.

“It certainly appears Malcolm was determined to cause mischief

from beyond the grave if anything happened to him,” said Diana.

“Well, the tentacle wasn’t the only thing we found,” Cristina

said. “Mark, show them the glove.”

Emma had already seen it, on their way back from Malcolm’s,

but she leaned in along with everyone else as Mark drew it from his

jacket pocket and laid it on the table.

“The sigil of the Unseelie King,” said Mark. “A glove such as this

is rare. Kieran wore such when he came to the Hunt. I could identify

his brothers, sometimes, at revels, by their cloaks and gloves or

gauntlets such as these.”

“So it’s odd Malcolm would have one,” said Livvy. Emma didn’t

see Ty beside her; had he gone into the book stacks?

“No faerie prince would part with such a thing willingly,” said

Mark. “Save as a special mark of favor, or to bind a promise.”

Diana frowned. “We know Malcolm was working with Iarlath.”

“But he was not a prince. Not even gentry,” said Mark. “This

would indicate that Malcolm had sworn some kind of a bargain

with the Unseelie Court itself.”

“We know he went to the Unseelie King years ago,” said Emma.

“It was the Unseelie King who gave him the rhyme he was supposed

to use to raise Annabel. ‘First the flame and then the flood—’”

“‘In the end, it’s Blackthorn blood,’” Julian finished for her.

And it nearly had been. In order to raise Annabel, Malcolm had

required the sacrifice and blood of a Blackthorn. He had kidnapped

Tavvy and nearly killed him. Just the memory of it made Emma

shiver.

“But this was not the sigil of the King that long ago,” said Mark.

“This dates from the beginning of the Cold Peace. Time works

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Lord of Shadows

differently in Faerie, but—” He shook his head, as if to say not that

differently. “I am afraid.”

Jace and Clary exchanged a look. They were on their way to

Faerie, weren’t they, to look for a weapon? Emma leaned forward,

meaning to ask them what they knew, but before she could get the

words out, the Institute doorbell rang, echoing through the house.

They all looked at each other, surprised. But it was Tavvy who

spoke first, looking up from the corner where he was playing.

“Who’s here?”

If there was one thing Kit was good at, it was slipping out of rooms

unnoticed. He’d been doing it all his life, while his father held

meetings in the living room with impatient warlocks or jumpy

werewolves.

So it wasn’t too much of a challenge to creep out of the library

while everyone else was talking and eating Chinese food. Clary was

doing an imitation of someone called the Inquisitor, and everyone

was laughing. Kit wondered if it occurred to them that it was weird

to endorse a governmental position that sounded like it was all

about torture.

He’d been in the kitchen a few times before. It was one of the

rooms he liked best in the house—homey, with its blue walls and

farmhouse sink. The fridge wasn’t badly stocked either. He guessed

Shadowhunters were probably hungry pretty frequently, consider-

ing how often they worked out.

He wondered if he’d have to work out all the time too, if he

became a Shadowhunter. He wondered if he’d end up with muscles

and abs and all that stuff, like Julian and Jace. At the moment, he

was more on the skinny side, like Mark. He lifted his T-shirt and

gazed at his flat, undefined stomach for a moment. Definitely no

abs.

He let the shirt fall and grabbed a Tupperware container of

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

cookies out of the fridge. Maybe he could frustrate the Shadow-

hunters by refusing to work out and sitting around eating carbs.

I defy you, Shadowhunters, he thought, thumbing the top off the

container and popping a cookie in his mouth. I mock you with my

sugar cravings.

He let the door of the fridge fall shut, and nearly yelled out loud.

Reflexively, he swallowed his cookie and stared.

Ty Blackthorn stood in the middle of the kitchen, his head-

phones dangling around his neck, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Those are pretty good,” he said, “but I like the butterscotch

ones better.”

Thoughts of cookie-related rebellion floated out of Kit’s head.

Despite sleeping in front of his room, Ty had hardly ever spoken

to him before. The most he’d probably ever said at once was when

he was holding Kit at knifepoint in the Rooks’ house, and Kit didn’t

think that counted as social interaction.

Kit set the Tupperware down on the counter. He was once again

conscious of the sense that Ty was studying him, maybe count-

ing up his pluses and minuses or something like that. If Ty was

someone else, Kit would have tried to catch his eye, but he knew

Ty wouldn’t look at him directly. It was kind of restful not to worry

about it.

“You have blood on your hand,” Ty said. “I noticed it earlier.”

“Oh. Right.” Kit glanced down at his split knuckles. “I hurt my

hand at the Shadow Market.”

“How?” Ty asked, leaning against the edge of the counter.

“I punched a board,” Kit said. “I was angry.”

Ty’s eyebrows went up. He had interesting eyebrows, slightly

pointed at the tops, like inverted Vs, and very black. “Did it make

you feel better?”

“No,” Kit admitted.

“I can fix it,” Ty said, taking one of the Shadowhunters’ magic

77

Lord of Shadows

pencils out of his jeans pocket. Steles, they were called. He held out

his hand.

Kit supposed he could have refused to accept the offer, the way

he had when Julian had suggested healing him in the car. But he

didn’t. He held his forearm out trustingly, wrist turned upward

so the blue veins were exposed to the boy who’d held a knife to his

throat not that long ago.

Ty’s fingers were cool and careful as he took hold of Kit’s arm

to steady it. He had long fingers—all the Shadowhunters did,

Kit had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with the need to

handle a variety of weapons. Kit was caught up enough in wonder-

ing about it to only flinch slightly when the stele moved across his

forearm, leaving a feeling of heat as if his skin had passed over a

candle flame.

Ty’s head was down. His black hair slanted across his face. He

drew the stele back when he was finished, letting go of Kit.

“Look at your hand,” he said.

Kit turned his hand over and watched as the tears over his

knuckles sealed themselves together, the red patches turning back

to smooth skin. He stared down at the black mark that spread across

his forearm. He wondered when it would start fading. It weirded

him out, stark evidence that it really was all true. He really was a

Shadowhunter.

“That is pretty cool,” he admitted. “Can you heal literally any-

thing? Like what about diabetes and cancer?”

“Some diseases. Not always cancer. My mother died of that.” Ty

put his stele away. “What about your mother? Was she a Shadow-

hunter too?”

“I don’t think so,” Kit said. His father had sometimes told him

his mother was a Vegas showgirl who’d taken off after Kit was born,

but it had occurred to him in the past two weeks that his father

might not have been entirely truthful about that. He certainly hadn’t

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

been about anything else. “She’s dead,” he added, not because he

thought that was likely the case but because he realized he didn’t

want to talk about her.

“So we both have dead mothers,” Ty said. “Do you think you’ll

want to stay here? And become a Shadowhunter?”

Kit started to answer—and stopped, as a sound like a low, sweet

bell tolling echoed through the house. “What’s that?”

Ty raised his head. Kit got a quick flash of the color of his eyes:

true gray, that gray that was almost silver.

Before he could answer, the kitchen door swung open. It was

Livvy, a soda can in her left hand. She looked unsurprised to see

Kit and Ty; pushing between them, she jumped up onto the table,

crossing her long legs.

“The Centurions are here,” she said. “Everyone’s running

around like chickens with their heads cut off. Diana went to wel-

come them, Julian looks like he wants to kill someone. . . .”

“And you want to know if I’ll go and spy on them with you,”

said Ty. “Right?”

She nodded. “I’d suggest somewhere that we won’t be seen,

because if Diana catches us, we’ll be making up beds and folding

towels for Centurions for the next two hours.”

That seemed to decide things; Ty nodded and headed for the

kitchen door. Livvy jumped off the table and followed him.

She paused with a hand on the doorframe, looking back over

her shoulder at Kit. “You coming?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure you want me to?” It

hadn’t occurred to him to invite himself—the twins seemed like

such a perfect unit, as if they needed no one but each other.

She grinned. He smiled hesitantly back; he was plenty used to

girls, even pretty girls, but something about Livvy made him feel

nervous.

“Sure,” she said. “One warning—rude and catty comments

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Lord of Shadows

about the people we’re spying on are required. Members of our

family exempted, of course.”

“If you make Livvy laugh, you get double points,” Ty added,

from the hallway.

“Well, in that case . . .” Kit started after them. What was it Jace

had said, after all? Herondales couldn’t resist a challenge.

Cristina looked with dismay at the group of twenty or so Centurions

milling around the massive entryway of the Institute. She’d only

had a short time to prepare herself for the idea of meeting Diego’s

Scholomance friends, and she certainly hadn’t planned to do it

wearing dusty gear, with her hair in braids.

Oh well. She straightened her back. Shadowhunter work was

often dirty; surely they wouldn’t be expecting her to look pristine.

Though, she realized as she glanced around, they certainly did.

Their uniforms were like regular gear, but with military-style jack-

ets over them, bright with metal buttons and sashed crossways

with a pattern of vine staffs. The back of each jacket bore the sym-

bol of the Centurion’s family name: a sandy-haired boy had a wolf

on his back, a girl with deep brown skin had a circle of stars. The

boys had short hair; the girls wore their hair braided or tied back.

They looked clean, efficient, and a little alarming.

Diana was chatting with two Centurions by the door to the

Sanctuary: a dark-skinned boy with a Primi Ordines insignia, and

the boy with the wolf jacket. They turned to wave at Diego as he

came down the stairs, followed by Cristina and the others.

“I can’t believe they’re here already,” Emma muttered.

“Be gracious,” said Diana in a low voice, sweeping up to them.

Easy for her to say, thought Cristina. She wasn’t covered in dust.

She took hold of Emma by the wrist, seized Julian with her other

hand, and marched them off to mingle with the Centurions, thrust-

ing Julian toward a pretty Indian girl with a gold stud in her nose,

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A WILD WEIRD CLIME

and depositing Emma in front of a dark-haired girl and boy—very

clearly twins—who regarded her with arched eyebrows.

The sight of them made Cristina think of Livvy and Ty, though,

and she glanced around to see if they were peering down from the

second floor as they often did. If they were, she couldn’t see them;

they’d probably gone off to hide, and she didn’t blame them. Lug-

gage was strewn all around the floor: Someone was going to have

to show the Centurions to their rooms, welcome them, figure out

how to feed them. . . .

“I didn’t realize,” Mark said.

“Didn’t realize what?” Diego said; he had returned the greeting

of the two boys who had been talking to Diana earlier. The boys

started across the room toward them.

“How much like soldiers Centurions look,” said Mark. “I sup-

pose I was thinking of them as students.”

“We are students,” Diego said sharply. “Even after we graduate,

we remain scholars.” The other two Centurions arrived before Mark

could say anything else; Diego clapped them both on the back and

turned to introduce them. “Manuel, Rayan. This is Cristina and Mark.”

“Gracias,” said the boy with the sandy hair—it was a light

brown, streaked and bleached by the sun. He had an easy, sideways

grin. “Un placer conocerte.”

Cristina gave a little gasp. “You speak Spanish?”

“Es mi lengua materna.” Manuel laughed. “I was born in Madrid

and grew up in the Institute there.”

He did have what Cristina thought of as a Spanish accent—

the softening of the c sound, the way gracias sounded like grathiath

when he thanked her. It was charming.

Across the room, she saw Dru, holding Tavvy by the hand—

they’d asked her to stay in the library and watch him, but she’d

wanted to see the Centurions—come up to Emma and tug on her

sleeve, whispering something in her ear.

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Lord of Shadows

Cristina smiled at Manuel. “I almost did my study year in

Madrid.”

“But the beaches are better here.” He winked.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cristina saw Emma go up to Julian

and awkwardly tap his shoulder. She said something to him that

made him nod and follow her out of the room. Where were they

going? She itched to follow them, not to stay here and make con-

versation with Diego’s friends, even if they were nice.

“I wanted the challenge of speaking English all the time—”

Cristina began, and saw Manuel’s expression change—then Rayan

took her sleeve and drew her out of the way as someone hurtled up

to Diego and grabbed his arm. It was a white girl, pale and round-

cheeked, with thick brown hair pulled back in a tight bun.

She crashed into Diego’s chest, and he went a sort of watery

color, as if all the blood had drained from his face. “Zara?”

“Surprise!” The girl kissed his cheek.

Cristina was starting to feel a little dizzy. Maybe she’d gotten too

much sun out at Malcolm’s. But really, it hadn’t been that much sun.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” Diego said. He still seemed

starkly shocked. Rayan and Manuel were starting to look uncom-

fortable. “You said—you said you’d be in Hungary—”

“Oh, that.” Zara dismissed Hungary with a wave. “Turned out

to be completely ridiculous. A bunch of Nephilim claiming their

steles and seraph blades were malfunctioning; really it was just

incompetence. So much more important to be here!” She looped

her arm through Diego’s and turned to Cristina and Mark, smiling

brightly. She had her hand tucked into Diego’s elbow, but the smile

on her face turned stiff as Cristina and Mark stood in silence, star-

ing, and Diego looked increasingly as if he were going to throw up.

“I’m Zara Dearborn,” she said, finally, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure

you’ve heard about me. I’m Diego’s fiancée.”

82

5

EARTH AND HEAVEN

Emma led Julian through the building, through hallways

familiar to both of them even in the dark. They were silent. Emma’s

braids swung as she walked. Julian focused on them for a moment,

thinking about the thousands of times he’d walked beside Emma on

their way out of the Institute, carrying their weapons, laughing and

chatting and planning about whatever it was they were going to face.

The way his heart always lightened as they stepped out of the

Institute, ready to climb into the car, drive fast up the highway,

wind in their hair, salt taste on their skin. The memory was like a

weight against his chest now as they stepped into the flat, sandy

area behind the Institute.

Jace and Clary were waiting for them. Both were wearing gear

jackets and carrying duffel bags. They were speaking to each other

intently, their heads bent together. Their shadows, cast into razor-

edged precision by the late afternoon light, seemed to merge

together into one.

Emma cleared her throat, and the two of them broke apart.

“We’re sorry to go like this,” Clary said, a little awkwardly. “We

thought it would be better to avoid questions from the Centurions

about our mission.” She glanced around. “Where’s Kit?”

Lord of Shadows

“I think he’s with Livvy and Ty,” Emma said. “I sent Drusilla to

get him.”

“I’m here.” Kit, a blond shadow with his hands in his pockets,

shouldered open the Institute’s back door. Light-footed, Julian

thought. A natural characteristic of Shadowhunters. His father had

been a thief and a liar. They were light-footed too.

“We have something for you, Christopher,” Jace said, unusually

somber. “Clary does, at least.”

“Here.” Clary stepped forward and dropped an object that

flashed silver into Kit’s open hands. “This is a Herondale family

ring. This belonged to James Herondale before it was Jace’s. James

was close with several of the Blackthorns, when he was alive.”

Kit’s face was unreadable. He closed his fingers around the ring

and nodded. Clary put her hand against his cheek. It was a motherly

sort of gesture, and for a moment, Julian thought he saw vulner-

ability flash across Kit’s features.

If the boy had a mother, Julian realized, none of them knew

anything about her.

“Thanks,” Kit said. He slid the ring onto his finger, looking

surprised when it fit. Shadowhunter family rings always fit; it was

part of their magic.

“If you’re thinking about selling it,” Jace said, “I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Kit raised his face; blue eyes looked into gold. The

color of their eyes was different, but the framing was the same: the

shape of their eyelids, the sharp cheekbones and watchful angles of

their faces.

“I just wouldn’t,” said Jace, with heavy emphasis; Kit shrugged,

nodded, and vanished back into the Institute.

“Were you trying to scare him?” Emma demanded, the moment

the door shut behind him.

Jace just grinned sideways at her. “Thank Mark for his help,” he

said, pulling Emma into a hug and ruffling her hair. The next few

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moments were a flurry of hugs and good-byes, Clary promising to

send them a fire-message when she could, Jace making sure they

had Alec and Magnus’s phone number in case they ran into trouble.

No one mentioned that technically, they had the Clave if they

ran into trouble. But Clary and Jace had learned to be wary of the

Clave when they were young, and it appeared that getting older

hadn’t dimmed their suspicions.

“Remember what I told you on the roof,” Clary said to Emma

in a low voice, hands on the younger girl’s shoulders. “What you

promised.”

Emma nodded, looking uncharacteristically serious. Clary

turned away from her, raising her stele, preparing to make a Portal

into Faerie. Just as the shapes began to flow under her hands, the

doorway starting to shimmer against the dry air, the Institute door

banged open again.

This time it was Dru, her round face anxious. She was twisting

one of her braids around her finger.

“Emma, you’d better come,” she said. “Something’s happened

with Cristina.”

He wasn’t going to play their stupid spying game, Kit thought. No

matter how much fun the twins seemed to be having, wedged into a

corner of the second-floor gallery and looking down onto the main

entryway, securely hidden from sight by the railings.

Mostly the game involved trying to figure out what people

were saying to each other from their body language, or the way

they gestured. Livvy was endlessly creative, able to imagine dra-

matic scenarios between people who were probably just chatting

about the weather—she’d already decided the pretty South Asian

girl with the stars on her jacket was in love with Julian, and that

two of the other Centurions were secretly spies from the Clave.

Ty made rarer pronouncements, but Kit suspected they were

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more likely to be right. He was good at observing small things, like

what family symbol was on the back of someone’s jacket, and what

that meant about where they were from.

“What do you think of Perfect Diego?” Livvy asked Kit, when

he returned from saying good-bye to Clary and Jace. She had her

knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around her long legs. Her curl-

ing ponytail bounced on her shoulders.

“Smug bastard,” said Kit. “His hair’s too good. I don’t trust

people with hair that good.”

“I think that girl with her hair in a bun is angry with him,” said

Ty, leaning closer to the railing. His delicate face was all points

and angles. Kit followed his gaze downward and saw Diego, deep

in conversation with a pale-skinned girl whose hands were flying

around as she spoke.

“The ring.” Livvy caught Kit’s hand, turning it over. The Heron-

dale ring glinted on his finger. He’d already taken note of the deli-

cate carving of birds that winged their way around the band. “Did

Jace give you that?”

He shook his head. “Clary. Said it used to belong to James

Herondale.”

“James . . .” She looked as if she were making an effort to remem-

ber something. She gave a squeak then and dropped his hand as a

shadow loomed over them.

It was Emma. “All right, you little spies,” she said. “Where’s

Cristina? I already looked in her room.”

Livvy pointed upward. Kit frowned; he hadn’t thought there

was anything to the third floor but attic.

“Ah,” Emma said. “Thanks.” She shook out her hands at her

sides. “When I get hold of Diego . . .”

There was a loud exclamation from below. All four of them

craned forward to see the pale girl slap Diego sharply across the

face.

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“What . . . ?” Emma looked astonished, then furious again. She

whirled and headed for the stairs.

Ty smiled, looking with his curls and light eyes for all the world

like a painted cherub on a church wall.

“That girl was angry,” he said, sounding delighted to have got-

ten it right.

Kit laughed.

The sky above the Institute blazed with color: hot pink, blood red,

deep gold. The sun was going down, and the desert was bathed in

the glow. The Institute itself shimmered, and the water shimmered

too, far out where it waited for the sun’s fall.

Cristina was exactly where Emma had guessed she would be:

sitting as neatly as always, legs crossed, her gear jacket spread out

on the shingles beneath her.

“He didn’t come after me,” she said, as Emma drew closer to

her. Her black hair moved and lifted in the breeze, the pearls in

her ears glimmering. The pendant around her neck shone too, the

words on it picked out by the deep glow of the sun: Blessed be the

Angel my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight.

Emma collapsed onto the roof next to her friend, as close as she

could get. She reached out and took Cristina’s hand, squeezing it

tightly. “Do you mean Diego?”

Cristina nodded. There were no marks of tears on her face; she

seemed surprisingly composed, considering. “That girl came up and

said she was his fiancée,” Cristina said. “And I thought it must be

some sort of mistake. Even when I turned and ran out of the room, I

thought it must be a mistake and he would come after me and explain.

But he didn’t, which means he stayed because of her. Because she

really is his fiancée and she matters to him more than I do.”

“I don’t know how he could do it,” Emma said. “It’s bizarre. He

loves you so much—he came here because of you.”

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Cristina made a muffled noise. “You don’t even like him!”

“I like him—well, liked him—sometimes,” Emma said. “The

perfect thing was kind of annoying. But the way he looked at you.

You can’t fake that.”

“He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fian-

cée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get

married.”

“I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the

cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.”

Cristina snorted, then turned her face away. “I just feel so stu-

pid,” she said. “He lied to me and I forgave him, and then he lied to

me again—what kind of idiot am I? Why on earth did I think he was

trustworthy?”

“Because you wanted to,” Emma said. “You’ve known him a

long time, Tina, and that does make a difference. When someone’s

been part of your life for that long, cutting them out is like cutting

the roots out from under a plant.”

Cristina was silent for a long moment. “I know,” she said. “I

know you understand.”

Emma tasted the acid burn of bitterness at the back of her throat

and swallowed it back. She needed to be here for Cristina now, not

dwell on her own worries. “When I was little,” she said, “Jules and I

used to come up here together at sunset practically every night and

wait for the green flash.”

“The what?”

“The green flash. When the sun goes down, just as it disappears,

you’ll see a flash of green light.” They both looked out at the water.

The sun was disappearing below the horizon, the sky streaked red

and black. “If you make a wish on it, it’ll come true.”

“Will it?” Cristina spoke softly, her eyes on the horizon along

with Emma’s.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I’ve made a lot of wishes by now.” The

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sun sank another few millimeters. Emma tried to think what she could

wish for. Even when she’d been younger, she’d understood somehow

that there were some things you couldn’t wish for: world peace, your

dead parents back. The universe couldn’t turn itself inside out for you.

Wishing only bought you small blessings: a sleep without nightmares,

your best friend’s safety for another day, birthday sunshine.

“Do you remember,” Emma said, “before you saw Diego again,

you said we should go to Mexico together? Spend a travel year there?”

Cristina nodded.

“It’d be a while before I could go,” said Emma. “I don’t turn

eighteen until the winter. But when I do . . .”

Leaving Los Angeles. Spending the year with Cristina, learning

and training and traveling.

Without Jules. Emma swallowed against the pain the thought

caused. It was a pain she’d have to learn to live with.

“I’d like that,” Cristina said. The sun was just a rim of gold now.

“I’ll wish for that. And maybe to forget Diego, too.”

“But then you have to forget the good things as well as the bad

ones. And I know there were good things.” Emma wound her fin-

gers through Cristina’s. “He’s not the right person for you. He isn’t

strong enough. He keeps letting you down and disappointing you.

I know he loves you, but that’s not enough.”

“Apparently I’m not the only one he loves.”

“Maybe he started dating her to try to forget you,” Emma said.

“And then he got you back, even though he didn’t expect to, and he

didn’t know how to break it off with her.”

“What an idiot,” said Cristina. “I mean, if that were true, which

it isn’t.”

Emma laughed. “Okay, yeah, I don’t buy it either.” She leaned

forward. “Look, just let me beat him up for you. You’ll feel so

much better.”

“Emma, no. Don’t lay a hand on him. I mean it.”

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“I could beat him up with my feet,” Emma suggested. “They’re

registered as lethal weapons.” She wiggled them.

“You have to promise not to touch him.” Cristina glared so

severely that Emma raised her free hand in submission.

“All right, all right, I promise,” she said. “I will not touch Per-

fect Diego.”

“And you can’t yell at Zara, either,” Cristina said. “It’s not her

fault. I’m sure she has no idea I exist.”

“Then I feel sorry for her,” Emma said. “Because you’re one of

the greatest people I know.”

Cristina started to smile. The sun was almost completely down

now. A year with Cristina, Emma thought. A year away from every-

thing, from everyone that reminded her of Jules. A year to forget. If

she could bear it.

Cristina gave a little gasp. “Look, there it is!”

The sky flashed green. Emma closed her eyes and wished.

When Emma got back to her bedroom, she was surprised to find

Mark and Julian already there, each of them standing on opposite

sides of her bed, their arms crossed over their chests.

“How is she?” Mark said, as soon as the door closed behind

Emma. “Cristina, I mean.”

His gaze was anxious. Julian’s was stonier; he looked blank and

autocratic, which Emma knew meant he was angry. “Is she upset?”

“Of course she’s upset,” Emma said. “I think not so much

because he’s been her boyfriend for a few weeks again, but because

they’ve known each other for so long. Their lives are completely

entwined.”

“Where is she now?” Mark said.

“Helping Diana and the others fix up the rooms for the Centu-

rions,” said Emma. “You wouldn’t think carrying sheets and towels

around would cheer anyone up, but she promises it will.”

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“In Faerie, I would challenge Rosales to a duel for this,” said

Mark. “He broke his promise, and a love-promise at that. He would

meet me in combat if Cristina consented to let me be her champion.”

“Well, no luck there,” said Emma. “Cristina made me promise

not to lay a hand on him, and I bet that goes for you two, too.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do?” Mark scowled, a

scowl that matched Julian’s. There was something about the two of

them, Emma thought, light and dark though they were; they seemed

more like brothers in this moment than they had in a long time.

“We can go help set up the bedrooms so Cristina can go to sleep,”

said Emma. “Diego’s locked in one of the offices with Zara, so it’s not

like she’s going to run into him, but she could use the rest.”

“We’re going to get revenge on Diego by folding his towels?”

Julian said.

“They’re not technically his towels,” Emma pointed out.

“They’re his friends’ towels.”

She headed for the door, the two boys following reluctantly. It

was clear they would have preferred mortal combat on the green-

sward to making hospital corners for Centurions. Emma wasn’t

looking forward to it herself. Julian was a lot better at making beds

and doing laundry than she was.

“I could watch Tavvy,” she suggested. Mark had gone ahead of

her down the corridor; she found herself walking beside Julian.

“He’s asleep,” he said. He didn’t mention how he’d found time

to put Tavvy to bed in between everything else that had happened.

That was Julian. He found the time. “You know what strikes me

as odd?”

“What?” Emma said.

“Diego must have known his cover would be blown,” said

Julian. “Even if he wasn’t expecting Zara to come with the other

Centurions tonight, they all know about her. One of them would

have mentioned his fiancée or his engagement.”

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“Good point. Diego might be dishonest, but he’s not an idiot.”

“There are ways you could hurt him without touching him,”

Julian said. He said it very low, so that only Emma could hear him;

and there was something dark in his voice, something that made

her shiver. She turned to reply but saw Diana coming down the hall

toward them, her expression very much that of someone who has

caught people slacking off.

She dispatched them to different parts of the Institute: Julian to

the attic to check on Arthur, Mark to the kitchen, and Emma to the

library to help the twins clean up. Kit had disappeared.

“He hasn’t run away,” Ty informed her helpfully. “He just didn’t

want to make beds.”

It was late by the time they finished cleaning up, figured out

which bedroom to assign to which Centurion, and made arrange-

ments for food to be delivered the next day. They also set up a patrol

to circle the Institute in shifts during the night to watch for rogue

sea demons.

Heading down the corridor to her room, Emma noticed that a

light was shining out from under Julian’s door. In fact, the door was

cracked partway open; music drifted into the hallway.

Without conscious volition, she found herself in front of

his room, her hand raised to knock on the door. In fact, she had

knocked. She dropped her hand, half in shock, but he had already

flung the door open.

She blinked at him. He was in old pajama bottoms, with a towel

flung over his shoulder, a paintbrush in one hand. There was paint

on his bare chest and some in his hair.

Though he wasn’t touching her, she was aware of his body,

the warmth of him. The black spiraling Marks winding down his

torso, like vines wreathing a pillar. She had put some of them

there herself, back in the days when touching him didn’t make

her hands shake.

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