Also by Cassandra Clare

lank look, and then remembered the Mantid demon crushing it in its jagged, razored arms.
“Right,” she said. “Mark’s steed? The one the faerie convoy was talking about in the Sanctuary? It
was a motorcycle. One of the Mantids crushed it, so I guess it’s an ex-motorcycle.”
The iratze was finished. Emma drew her hand back, watching as the cut began to heal itself,
closing up like a seam.
“You’re not even wearing gear,” Julian said. He sounded quiet, intent, but his fingers were
trembling as he put his stele away. “You’re still human, Emma.”
“I was fine—”
“You can’t do this to me.” The words sounded as if they had been dredged up from the bottom of
the ocean.
She froze. “Do what?”
“I’m your parabatai,” he said as if the words were final, and in a way, they were. “You were
facing down what, two dozen Mantid demons before we got there? If Cristina hadn’t called you—”
“I would have fought them off,” Emma said heatedly. “I’m glad you showed up, thank you, but I
would have gotten us out of there—”
“Maybe!” His voice rose. “Maybe you would have, maybe you could have done it, but what if you
didn’t? What if you died? It would kill me, Emma, it would kill me. You know what happens . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence. You know what happens to someone when their parabatai dies.
They stood, staring at each other, breathing hard. “When you were away, I felt it here,” Emma said
finally, touching her upper arm, where the parabatai rune was etched. “Did you feel it?” She splayed
her hand over the front of his T-shirt, warm from his body. Julian’s rune was at the outside edge of his
collarbone, about five inches above his heart.
“Yeah,” he said, eyelashes lowering as his gaze traced the movement of her fingers. “It hurt me
being away from you. It feels like there’s a hook dug in under my ribs, and there’s something pulling
at the other end. Like I’m tethered to you, no matter the distance.” Emma inhaled sharply. She was
remembering Julian, fourteen years old, in the overlapping circles of fire in the Silent City, where the
parabatai ritual was performed. The look on his face as they each stepped into the central circle and
the fire rose up around them, and he unbuttoned his shirt to let her touch the stele to his skin and carve
the rune that would bind them together for their whole lives. She knew if she just moved her hand
now, she could touch the rune cut into his chest, the rune she had put there. . . .
She reached out and touched his collarbone. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
He half-closed his eyes, as if her touch hurt. Please don’t be angry, Jules, she thought. Please.
“I’m not a Blackthorn,” she said, her voice ragged.
“What?”
“I’m not a Blackthorn,” she said again. The words hurt to say: They came from a deep place of
truth, one she hesitated to look at too closely. “I don’t belong in the Institute. I’m there because of you,
because I’m your parabatai, so they had to let me stay. The rest of you don’t have to prove you’re
giving back. I do. Everything I do is a—is a test.”
Julian’s face had changed; he was looking down at her in the moonlight, the cupid’s bow of his lips
parted. His hands came up and gently looped her upper arms. Sometimes, she thought, it was as if she
were a kite, and Julian the flier: She soared above the ground, and he kept her tethered to the earth.
Without him she would be lost among the clouds.
She lifted her head. She could feel his breath on her face. There was something in his eyes,
something breaking open, not like a crack in a wall but like a door swinging wide, and she could see
the light.