Also by Cassandra Clare

thought. She found herself making jokes she thought were obvious and then realizing they weren’t
obvious at all unless you understood the subtle codes of social interaction. She didn’t know how
she’d learned them, just that she had, and Ty still struggled with them, and so, it seemed, did Mark.
Trying to look at the world through Ty’s eyes, Julian had said once, was like looking into a
kaleidoscope, shaking it up, and then looking again. You saw all the same glimmering crystals, just in
a different formation.
“The Wild Hunt was freedom,” Mark said. “And freedom is necessary.”
In Mark’s eyes Emma could see a wilderness of stars and treetops, the fierce shine of glaciers, all
the glittering detritus of the roof of the world.
It made her think of riding that motorcycle over the ocean. Of the freedom to be wild and
untrammeled. Of the ache she felt in her soul sometimes to be connected to nothing, answerable to
nothing, bound by nothing.
“Mark—” she began.
Mark’s expression changed; he was looking past her suddenly, his hand tightening on hers. Emma
glanced where he was looking but saw only the cloakroom. A bored-looking coat-check girl perched
on the counter, smoking a cigarette out of a silver holder.
“Mark?” Emma turned back to him, but he was already moving away from her, vaulting over the
counter of the coat-check station—much to the bored girl’s amusement—and vanishing. Emma was
about to follow him when Cristina and Julian swung into her line of sight, blocking her.
“Mark ran off,” Emma announced.
“Yeah, he’s not exactly a team player yet,” said Julian. He was ruffled from dancing, his cheeks
flushed. Cristina didn’t have a hair out of place. “Look, I’ll go after him, and you two dance—”
“If I might cut in?” A tall young man appeared in front of them. He looked like he was probably
about twenty-five, nattily dressed in a herringbone suit and matching fedora. His hair was bleached
blond and he wore expensive-looking shoes with red soles that flashed fire as he walked. A gaudy
pink cocktail ring glittered on his middle finger. His gaze was fixed on Cristina. “Would you like to
dance?”
“If you don’t mind,” Julian said, his voice easy, polite, reaching to put a hand on Cristina’s arm.
“My girlfriend and I, we’re . . .”
The man’s friendly expression changed—infinitesimally, but Emma could see it, a tautness behind
his eyes that made Julian’s words trail off. “And if you don’t mind,” he said, “I think you may have
failed to notice I’m a Blue.” He tapped his pocket, where an invitation that matched the one they’d
found in Ava’s purse was folded—matched it, except for being a pale shade of blue. He rolled his
eyes at their puzzled expressions. “Newbies,” he muttered, and there was an undercurrent of
something unpleasant—almost scornful—in his dark eyes.
“Of course.” Cristina shot a quick look at Julian and Emma, and then turned back to the stranger
with a smile. “We’re so sorry to have misunderstood.”
Julian’s face was grim as Cristina headed onto the dance floor with the man who’d called himself a
Blue. Emma sympathized. She comforted herself with the knowledge that if he tried anything on the
dance floor, Cristina would fillet him with her butterfly knife.
“We’d better dance too,” said Julian. “Looks like it’s the only way not to be noticed.”
We’ve already been noticed, Emma thought. It was true: Though no fuss had been made over their
arrival, plenty of people in the crowd were casting them sideways glances. There were quite a few of
the Followers who looked entirely human—and indeed, Emma wasn’t totally clear on their policy
regarding mundanes—but as newcomers, she imagined they were still objects of attention. Certainly