Also by Cassandra Clare

long-distance truckers and campers from the sites down the road, huddling over coffee and plates of
fried oysters.
Cristina insisted on going inside to order them some food and drinks; after a moment’s argument,
they let her. Julian threw his jacket on a table, claiming it. “There’s an outdoor shower around the
back,” he said. “And some privacy. Come on.”
“How do you know that?” Emma asked, joining him as he stalked around the building. He didn’t
answer. She could feel his anger, not just in the way he looked at her, but in a tight knot under her rib
cage.
The dirt path that circled the shack opened out into an area ringed by Dumpsters. There was a
massive steel double sink, and—as Jules had promised—a large open shower with surfing equipment
stacked next to it.
Mark crossed the sand to the shower and flipped the spigot.
“Wait,” Julian began. “You’ll get—”
Water poured down, soaking Mark instantly. He lifted his face up to it as calmly as if he were
bathing in tropical rainfall and not unheated shower water on a chilly night.
“—Wet.” Julian raked his fingers through his tangled hair. Chocolate-colored hair, Emma had
thought when she was younger. People thought brown hair was boring, but it wasn’t: Julian’s had bits
of gold in it and hints of russet and coffee.
Emma went to the sink and ran water over the cut on her arm, then splashed it up over her face and
neck, rinsing off the ichor. Demon blood was toxic: It could burn your skin, and it was a bad idea to
get it into your mouth and eyes.
Mark flipped the shower off and stepped away, water streaming off him. She wondered if he was
uncomfortable—his jeans stuck to him, as did his shirt. His hair was plastered to his neck.
His eyes met hers. Cold burning blue and colder gold. In them Emma saw the wildness of the Hunt:
the emptiness and freedom of the skies. It made her shiver.
She saw Julian look at her sharply. He said something to Mark, who nodded and vanished around
the side of the building.
Emma reached to turn the sink water off, wincing: There was a burn on her palm. She reached for
her stele.
“Don’t,” said Jules’s voice, and there was a warm presence behind her suddenly. She gripped the
edge of the sink and closed her eyes, feeling momentarily dizzy. The heat of Jules’s body was
palpable up and down her back. “Let me.”
Healing runes—any runes—given to you by your parabatai worked better, amplified by the magic
of the bonding spell. Emma turned around, her back against the sink. Julian was so close to her that
she had to turn carefully so as not to bump into him. He smelled of fire and cloves and paint. Goose
bumps exploded across her skin as he took her arm, cupping her wrist, drawing his stele with his free
hand.
She could feel the path each of his fingers traced on the sensitive skin of her forearm. His skin was
hard with calluses, roughened with turpentine.
“Jules,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Going to the convergence without you,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Why did you?” he asked, and the stele began its journey over her skin, forming the lines of the
healing rune. “Why go off with just Mark?”
“The motorcycle,” Emma said. “It could only take two. The motorcycle,” she said again, at Julian’s