Also by Cassandra Clare

“Like Faerie,” said Ty. He had stopped rocking and was leaning back against the wall, dark hair
damp and in his face.
“Right,” Julian said. “So we’re going to have to give him time. Maybe leave him alone a little.” He
looked over at Emma.
She pasted a smile onto her face—God, she was so much worse at this than Jules—and said,
“Malcolm’s working on the investigation. The murders. I thought we could head to the library and
look into ley lines.”
“Me too?” Drusilla piped up.
Emma said, “You can help us plot a map. Okay?”
Dru nodded. “Okay.” She rose to her feet and the others followed. As Emma led them away down
the hall, a quietly subdued group, she looked back only once. Julian was standing by the door to
Mark’s room, watching them go. His eyes met hers for a split second before he looked away, as if he
hadn’t seen her glance at all.
If only Emma was with him, Julian thought as he pushed open the door, this would be easier. It would
have to be easier. When Emma was with him it was like he was breathing twice as much oxygen, had
twice as much blood, had two hearts to drive the motion of his body. He put it down to the doubling
magic of parabatai: She made him twice what he would be otherwise.
But he’d had to send her away with the kids; he didn’t trust anyone else with them, and definitely
not Arthur. Arthur, he thought bitterly, who was hiding in his attic while one of his nephews
desperately tried to hold his family together and another one—
“Mark?” Julian said.
The bedroom was dim, the curtains closed. He could just see that Cristina was sitting on the floor,
her back to the wall. She had one hand pressed to the pendant at her throat, and the other at her hip,
where something gleamed between her fingers.
Mark was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed, his hair hanging in his face. You could see
how painfully thin he was; there was sinewy muscle on him, but it was the kind you got from starving
sometimes and driving yourself anyway. His head jerked up when Julian said his name.
Their eyes met and for a brief moment Julian saw a flicker of recognition in his brother’s eyes.
“Mark,” he said again, and moved forward, his hand out. “It’s me. It’s Jules.”
“Don’t—” Cristina started up, but it was too late. Mark had bared his teeth in an angry hiss.
“Lies,” he snarled. “Hallucinations—I know you—Gwyn sent you to trick me—”
“I’m your brother,” Julian said again. The look on Mark’s face was wild.
“You know the wishes of my heart,” said Mark. “And you turn them against me, like knives.”
Julian looked across the room at Cristina. She was rising to her feet slowly, as if preparing to
throw herself between the two brothers if needed.
Mark whirled on Jules. His eyes were blind, unseeing. “You bring the twins in front of me and you
kill them over and over. My Ty, he doesn’t understand why I can’t save him. You bring me Dru and
when she laughs and asks to see the fairy-tale castle, all ringed round with hedges, you throw her
against the thorns until they pierce her small body. And you bid me wash in Octavian’s blood, for the
blood of an innocent child is magic under the hill.”
Julian came no closer. He was remembering what Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild had told him
and his sister, their meeting with Mark years ago under the faerie hills, his broken eyes and the whip
marks on his body.
Mark was strong, he had told himself in the dead darkness of the thousand nights afterward. He