Also by Cassandra Clare

“Come on, newbies!” the auburn-haired clarinetist shouted, and a sudden spotlight shone down on
the Shadowhunters. “Get into the swing of things!”
When Emma looked at him blankly, he wiggled his eyebrows, and she realized what was strange
about his eyes. They were like a goat’s, with square black pupils. “Dance!” he shouted, and the
others in the room whooped and clapped.
The glare of the moving spotlight rendered Julian’s face a white blur as he reached for Cristina and
pulled her into the crowd. Emma’s heart gave a slow, heavy thump.
She pushed the feeling down, turned to Mark, and held her hands out to him. “Dance?”
“I don’t know how.” There was something in his expression, half puzzlement and half anxiety, that
sent a twinge of sympathy through Emma’s heart. He took her hands uncertainly. “Faerie dances are—
not like this.”
Emma drew him toward the crowd. His fingers in hers were slim and cold, not like Jules’s warm
clasp. “It’s all right. I’ll lead.”
They moved in among the dancers. Emma led, trying to remember what she’d seen in movies where
there was dancing like this. Despite her promise to lead, she wondered if she’d be better off leaving
Mark in charge. He had incredible grace, while all her years of fight training made her want to lunge
and spin kick more than twirl and shuffle.
Emma glanced over at a girl with short, bright green hair. “Can you tell what everyone is?” she
asked Mark.
He blinked, his pale lashes scattering light. “She’s part dryad,” he said. “Wood faerie. Probably
not as much as half. Faerie blood can show up generations later. Most humans who have the Sight
have faerie blood years back.”
“What about the musicians?”
Mark swung Emma in a turn. He’d started to lead, instinctively. There was something forlorn about
the music, Emma thought, as if it were drifting down from a high, distant place. “The clarinetist is part
satyr. The bassist with the pale blue skin, some kind of merfolk. Kieran’s mother was a nixie, a water
faerie, and—”
He broke off. Emma could see Jules and Cristina, her hot pink dress startling against the black of
his suit. He twirled her. Emma bit the inside of her lip. “Kieran? That gentry prince who came with
you to the Institute?”
Mark was sharp-boned light and shadows in the moving illumination. The air smelled like incense
—like the cheap sweet stuff they burned on the Venice boardwalks. “We were friends in the Wild
Hunt.”
“Well, he could have been less of a jerk to you, then,” Emma muttered.
“I don’t think he could have, actually.” Mark smiled, and Emma could see where the human in him
mixed with the fey—faeries, in her experience, never smiled with such openness.
She made a face. “Was there anything about the Hunt that wasn’t awful? Was any of it, I don’t know,
fun?”
“Parts.” He laughed and spun her. There was that edge of fey again, the wildness of it. She paced
back, slowing the dance.
“What parts?”
He whirled her in a circle. “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It’s a geas.”
Emma exhaled. “Like if you told me, then you’d have to kill me?”
“Why would I kill you?” Mark sounded honestly bewildered.
She tipped her head back and smiled at him. Sometimes talking to him was like talking to Ty, she