Also by Cassandra Clare

could endure it. Julian had thought about only torture of the body. He had not thought about torture of
the mind.
“And Julian,” Mark said. “He is too strong to break. You try to break him on the wheel, and tear
him with thorns and blades, but even then he won’t give up. So you bring to him Emma, for the wishes
of our hearts are knives to you.”
That was too much for Julian. He lurched forward, grabbing hold of one of the posts of the bed to
steady himself.
“Mark,” he said. “Mark Antony Blackthorn. Please. It’s not a dream. You’re really here. You’re
home.”
He reached for Mark’s hand. Mark whipped it back, away from him. “You are lying smoke.”
“I’m your brother.”
“I have no brothers and sisters, no family. I am alone. I ride with the Wild Hunt. I am loyal to Gwyn
the Hunter.” Mark recited the words as if by rote.
“I’m not Gwyn,” said Julian. “I’m a Blackthorn. I have Blackthorn blood in me, just like you.”
“You are a phantom and a shadow. You are the cruelty of hope.” Mark turned his face away. “Why
do you punish me? I have done nothing to displease the Hunt.”
“There’s no punishment here.” Julian took a step closer to Mark. Mark didn’t move, but his body
trembled. “This is home. I can prove it to you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. Cristina was standing very still against the wall, and he could
see that the gleam in her hand was a knife. Clearly she was waiting to see if Mark would attack him.
Julian wondered why she had been willing to stay in the room with Mark alone; hadn’t she been
afraid?
“There is no proof,” Mark whispered. “Not when you can weave any illusion before my eyes.”
“I’m your brother,” Julian repeated. “And to prove it to you, I’ll tell you something only your
brother would know.”
At that Mark raised his eyes. Something flickered in them, like a light shining on distant water.
“I remember the day you were taken,” Julian said.
Mark recoiled. “Any of the Folk would know about that—”
“We were up in the training room. We heard noises, and you went downstairs. But before you went
you said something to me. Do you remember?”
Mark stood very still.
“You said, ‘Stay with Emma,’” Julian said. “You said to stay with her, and I have. We’re parabatai
now. I’ve looked after her for years and I always will, because you asked me to, because it was the
last thing you ever said to me, because—”
He remembered, then, that Cristina was there, and cut himself off abruptly. Mark was staring at
him, silent. Julian felt despair well up inside him. Maybe this was a trick of the faeries; maybe they
had given Mark back, but so broken and hollowed out that he wasn’t Mark anymore. Maybe—
Mark nearly fell forward, and threw his arms around Julian.
Julian barely managed to catch himself before almost falling over. Mark was whipcord thin, but
strong, his hands fisting in Julian’s shirt. Julian could feel Mark’s heart hammering, feel the sharp
bones under his skin. He smelled like earth and mildew and grass and nighttime air.
“Julian,” Mark said, muffled, his body shaking. “Julian, my brother, my brother.”
Somewhere in the distance, Julian heard the click of the bedroom door as it shut; Cristina had left
them alone together.
Julian sighed. He wanted to relax into his older brother, let Mark hold him up the way he once had.