Also by Cassandra Clare

“I think Ty’s doubled up on his detective reading,” Julian said with a smile. He had his window
cranked down, and the air blowing into the car lifted his curling hair off his forehead. “He asked me
if I thought the killings were an inside job.”
“Inside what?” Emma smiled.
She was leaning back in the passenger seat of the car, her booted feet up on the dashboard. The
windows were open to the night, and Emma could hear the sounds of the city rising all around them as
they idled at a red light.
They had turned up Sunset off the Coast Highway. At first as they wound through the canyons and
into Beverly Hills and Bel Air, the suburbs were quiet, but they had moved into the heart of
Hollywood now, the Sunset Strip, lined with expensive restaurants and massive, hundred-foot-high
billboards plastered with ads for movies and TV shows. The streets were crowded and noisy:
tourists posing for photos with celebrity imitators, street musicians collecting change, pedestrians
hurrying back and forth from work.
Julian seemed more at ease than he had in the past few days, leaning back in his seat, his hands
casual on the wheel. Emma knew exactly how he felt. Here, in gear jacket and jeans, with Julian
beside her and Cortana in the trunk, she felt like she belonged.
Emma had tried to bring up Mark, briefly, when they had first settled into the car. Julian had only
shaken his head and said, “He’s getting adjusted,” and that was all. She sensed he didn’t want to talk
about Mark, and that was fine: She didn’t know that she had any solutions to offer. And it was easy, so
easy, to slip back into their normal joking banter.
“I think he was asking if I thought the killer was a Shadowhunter.” Traffic was gathering as they
reached the intersection of Sunset and Vine, and the car rolled slowly under the palm trees and neon.
“I said no—it was obviously someone who knew magic, and I didn’t think a Shadowhunter would
hire a warlock to murder for them. Mostly we do our own murdering.”
Emma giggled. “You told him Shadowhunters are DIY about their killing?”
“We’re DIY about everything.”
The traffic started up again; Emma glanced down, watching the play of muscle and tendon in
Jules’s hand as he shifted gears. The car slid forward, and Emma glanced out the window at the
people in line at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. She wondered idly what they would think if they knew