Also by Cassandra Clare

eing pitied.
“He was coming for Ty,” said Julian. “I did what I had to do.”
“It wasn’t him,” Mark said swiftly.
“That’s what everyone says.” Julian was still facing the door. He felt a light tap on his shoulder and
turned to see Mark looking at him.
“But everyone didn’t see it happen, Julian, our father being Turned. I did,” Mark said, and suddenly
in his voice there was the sound of the older brother he had been, the one who knew more, had lived
more. “The light in his eyes went out like a candle guttering in the dark. He was already dead inside.
All you did was bury the body.”
There was sadness in Mark’s eyes, and knowledge, the knowledge of dark things. Mark had blood
on his hands too, Julian thought, and for a moment the idea was such a relief that he felt the weight on
his shoulders lift incrementally.
“Thank you for the assistance,” Mark said formally. “With my manner of dress. I will not trust the
twins again with important matters of human tradition.”
Julian felt his lip twitch up at the corner. “Yeah, I wouldn’t.”
Mark looked down at himself. “I am presentable?”
“You look like James Bond.”
Mark smiled and Julian felt a small swell of absurd gladness rise up in his chest, that his brother
had gotten the reference, that he was pleased.
They made their way back toward the entryway in silence, a silence pierced as they reached the
landing by the sound of someone shouting. Together, they were brought up short at the top of the stairs.
“Does your vision match mine, brother?” Mark asked.
“If you mean am I seeing what you’re seeing . . . ?” Julian hazarded. “Then yes, if you mean that the
foyer is full of Chihuahuas.”
“It’s not just Chihuahuas,” said Ty, who was sitting on the top step, enjoying the spectacle. “It’s a
number of different small dogs of various breeds.”
Julian snorted. The foyer was, indeed, full of small dogs. They yipped and barked and surged.
“Don’t worry about the dogs,” he said. “Nightshade likes to stash them in the entryway when he meets
with Uncle Arthur.”
“Nightshade?” Mark’s eyebrows went up. “Anselm Nightshade? The head of the Los Angeles
vampire clan?”
“Yep,” Julian said. “He comes around sometimes. He and Arthur get along surprisingly well.”
“And the dogs . . . ?”
“He likes dogs,” said Ty. One of the Chihuahuas had fallen asleep by the front door, all four paws
in the air. “That dog looks dead.”
“It isn’t dead. It’s relaxing.” Ty seemed amused; Julian ruffled his brother’s hair. Ty leaned into it,
catlike. “Where are Emma and Cristina?”
“They went to bring the car around,” said Ty. “And Livvy went back to her room. Why can’t I come
with you?”
“Too many of us will look suspicious,” Julian said. “You’ll have to stay here—guard the Institute.”
Ty looked unconvinced. He frowned after them as Mark and Julian hurried out the front doors. The
car was pulled up in front of the Institute, the engine idling.
Emma pushed the passenger-side door open and whistled. “Mark. You look amazing.”
Mark glanced down at himself, surprised. A surge of prickly heat ran up the insides of Julian’s
wrists. Cristina was in the backseat, also looking at Mark. Julian couldn’t read her expression.