Also by Cassandra Clare

anyone ever tried to hurt Cristina she would grind them to a pulp and make amusing sand castles out
of the remains.
Livvy had moved to stand next to Ty and was holding his hand, murmuring to him that the blood
was just blood, Julian wasn’t hurt, everything was fine. Ty was breathing quickly, his hand opening
and closing over Livvy’s.
“Here.” Mark shrugged out of his blue T-shirt. He was wearing another T-shirt under it, this one
gray. Julian blinked at him. “Proper vestments.” He offered it to his brother.
“Why are you wearing a T-shirt under your other T-shirt?” Livvy asked, temporarily diverted.
“In case one of them is stolen,” Mark said, as if this were entirely normal. Everyone paused to
stare at him, even Julian, who had stripped off the rags of his shirt and covered himself with Mark’s.
“Thanks,” Julian said, pulling Mark’s shirt down over his belt. He tossed the scraps of his old shirt
on top of a Dumpster. Mark seemed pleased—and, Emma realized belatedly, looked different. His
hair was no longer hanging past his shoulders, but was cut short—or shorter, curling around his ears.
It made him look both younger and more modern, less incongruous in his jeans and boots.
More like a Shadowhunter.
Mark looked back. She could still see the wind in his eyes, and the stars, and vast fields of empty
clouds. Wildness and freedom. She wondered how deep his transformation back into a Shadowhunter
ran. How deep it would ever run.
She put a hand to her head. “I feel dizzy.”
“You need food.” It was Livvy, grabbing her hand. “We all do. Nobody’s eaten tonight, and Jules,
you’re forbidden from cooking. Let’s go to Canter’s, grab some dinner, and figure out what to do
next.”
Everything inside Canter’s was yellow. The walls were yellow, the booths were yellow, and most of
the food was a shade of yellow. Not that Emma minded; she’d been coming to Canter’s since she was
four years old with her parents to eat their chocolate-chip pancakes and challah French toast.
They piled into a corner booth and for a few minutes everything was absolutely ordinary: The
waitress, a tall woman with gray hair, came by to dump a pile of laminated menus on their table;
Livvy and Ty shared one, and Cristina asked Emma in a whisper what matzo brei was. They were
scrunched together in the booth, and Emma found herself pressed up against Julian’s side. He still felt
hot against her, as if the iratze hadn’t worked its way out of his system yet.
Her skin still felt supersensitized too, as if she would jump or scream the moment someone touched
her. She nearly did scream when the waitress returned to get their orders. She just stared until Julian
ordered waffles and hot chocolate for her and handed the menu back hastily, looking at her worriedly.
A-R-E Y-O-U A-L-L R-I-G-H-T? he scribbled on her back.
She nodded, reaching for her plastic glass of ice water, just as Mark smiled at the waitress and
ordered a plate of strawberries.
The waitress, whose name tag said JEAN, blinked. “We don’t have that on the menu.”
“But you do have strawberries on the menu,” said Mark. “And I have seen plates being carried to
and fro. So it stands to reason that the strawberries could be placed upon a plate and brought to me.”
Jean stared.
“He has a point,” said Ty. “Strawberries are offered as a topping on several dishes. Surely you
could separate them out.”
“A plate of strawberries,” Jean repeated.
“I would take them in a bowl,” said Mark with a winning gaze. “It has been many years since I