Also by Cassandra Clare

They were all quiet for a moment. The cold wind off the ocean ruffled Emma’s damp hair. “The
Mantids were guards,” she said finally. “Whoever the necromancer is doesn’t want anyone finding the
secret ceremonial chamber.”
“Because he needs it,” said Jules.
“It could be a she,” said Emma. “It isn’t just men who get to be psycho magic serial killers.”
“Granted,” said Julian. “Either way, there’s nowhere else near the city with a ley line convergence
like this. Necromancy that was done at a ley line extension would probably show up on Magnus’s
map—but what if it was done at a convergence?”
“Then it might well be hidden from the Nephilim,” said Mark. “The killer could be doing the
ceremonial killings at the convergence point—”
“And then dumping the bodies at the ley line extensions?” finished Cristina. “But why? Why not
leave them in the cave?”
“Perhaps they want the bodies to be found,” said Mark. “After all, the marks on them are writing. It
could be a message. A message they want to communicate.”
“Then they should have written the message in a language we know,” Emma muttered.
“Maybe the message isn’t for us,” said Mark.
“The convergence will have to be watched,” said Cristina. “Someone will have to monitor it.
There is no other convergence point; the murderer will have to come back at some point.”
“Agreed,” Julian said. “We’ll need to set up something at the convergence. Something that’ll warn
us.”
“Tomorrow, during the day,” Emma said. “The Mantid demons ought to be inactive—”
Julian laughed. “You know what we have tomorrow? Testing,” he said. Twice a year Diana was
required to test them on certain basics, from rune drawing to training to languages, and report back to
the Clave on their progress.
There was a chorus of protest. Julian held his hands up. “I’ll text Diana about it,” he said. “But if
we don’t do it, the Clave will get suspicious.”
Mark said something unprintable about what the Clave could do with its suspicions.
“I don’t think I know that word,” Cristina said, looking amused.
“I’m not sure I do either,” Emma said. “And I know a lot of bad words.”
Mark leaned back with the beginning of a smile, then sucked in his breath. He pulled his bloody
shirt collar away from his neck and glanced down gingerly at his injured chest.
Julian set his bottle down. “Let me see.”
Mark let go of his collar. “There is nothing you can do. It will heal.”
“It’s a demon injury,” said Julian. “Let me see it.”
Mark looked at him, startled. The waves made a soft soughing sound around them. There was no
one left outside the restaurant except them; the other tables had emptied. Mark hadn’t heard that voice
of Julian’s before, Emma thought, the one that brooked no argument, the one that sounded like a grown
man’s. The kind of man you listened to.
Mark lifted the front of his shirt. The cut ran jaggedly across his chest. It was no longer bleeding,
but the sight of the ragged pale flesh made Emma grit her teeth.
“Let me—” Julian began.
Mark sprang off the table. “I am fine,” he said. “I do not need your healing magic. I do not need
your runes of safety.” He touched his shoulder, where a black Mark bloomed like a butterfly: a
permanent rune of protection. “I have had this since I was ten,” he said. “I had this when they took me,
and this when they broke me and made me one of them. Never has it helped me. The runes of the