Also by Cassandra Clare

“You would have me believe there is a difference?”
Emma looked up at the moon, and then back at Mark. “What are you suggesting?”
“It occurred to me, as I looked out at the ocean,” he said, “I may be able to find the place where the
ley lines converge. I have seen such places before, with the Hunt. They give off a certain energy that
fey folk can feel.”
“What? But how—”
“I’ll show you. Come with me to look for the place. Why wait? The investigation is urgent, isn’t it?
We must find the killer?”
Excitement rose up in Emma, and sharp desire; she tried to keep it off her face, how badly she
wanted, needed to know, to take the next step, to throw herself into searching, fighting, finding.
“Jules,” she said, rising to her feet. “We have to get Jules and bring him.”
Mark looked grim. “I do not wish to see him.”
Emma stood her ground. “Then we don’t go,” she said. “He’s my parabatai—where I go, he goes.”
Something flashed in Mark’s eyes. “If you won’t go without him, we will not go at all,” he said.
“You cannot force me to give up the information.”
“Force you? Mark—” Emma broke off, exasperated. “Fine. Fine. We can go. Just us.”
“Just us,” he repeated. He stood up. His movements were impossibly light and fast. “But first you
must prove yourself.”
He stepped off the roof.
Emma skidded to the edge of the shingle and leaned out. There was Mark, clinging to the wall of
the Institute, an arm’s length below her. He looked up with a fierce grin. A grin that spoke of empty air
and cold wind, the torn surface of the ocean, the ragged edge of clouds. A grin that beckoned to the
wild, unbound side of Emma, the side that dreamed of fire and battle and blood and vengeance.
“Climb down with me,” he said, and now there was an edge of mockery in his voice.
“You’re crazy,” she hissed, but he had already begun to move down the wall, using handholds and
footholds that Emma couldn’t even see. The ground swung under her. Real heights: If she fell from the
roof of the Institute, she might well die; there was no assurance an iratze could save her.
She got down on her knees and turned her back to the ocean. She slid down, her nails scraping
shingle, and then she was clinging to the gutter with her hands, her legs dangling out into the air.
She scrabbled at the wall with her bare feet. Thank the Angel she wasn’t wearing boots. Her feet
were calloused from walking and fighting; they slipped along the wall until they found a crack in the
surface. She jammed her toes into it, relieving the weight on her arms.
Don’t look down.
For as long as Emma could remember, the voice in her head that calmed her panic had been Jules’s.
She heard it now, bringing her hands down, her fingers jamming into the space between two stones.
She lowered herself down, an inch at first, then farther as she found another foothold. She heard
Jules: You’re climbing over the rocks at Leo Carrillo. It’s only a few feet down to soft sand.
Everything’s safe.
The wind blew her hair across her face. She turned her head to shake it out of her eyes and realized
she was passing a window. Pale light burned behind the curtains. Cristina’s room, maybe?
Have you always been this careless?
More since the Dark War . . .
She was halfway down now, she guessed from looking up, the roof receding. She had started to
speed up, her fingertips and toes swiftly discovering new handholds and footholds. The plaster in
between the stones helped, kept her sweaty hands from slipping as she gripped and released, gripped