Also by Cassandra Clare

the behavior of the clarinetist had indicated as much.
She took Julian’s hand and they moved into the outside of the crowd, toward the end of the room,
where the shadows were deeper. “Half faeries, ifrits, weres,” Emma murmured, taking Julian’s other
hand so that they faced each other. He looked more ruffled than he had before, his cheeks flushed. She
couldn’t blame him for being unsettled. In most crowds, their runes, if discovered, would mean
nothing. She had the feeling this crowd was different. “Why are they all here?”
“It isn’t easy, having the Sight, if you don’t know others who do,” Julian said in a low voice. “You
see things nobody else sees. You can’t talk about it because no one will understand. You have to keep
secrets, and secrets—they break you apart. Cut you open. Make you vulnerable.”
The low timbre of his voice shuddered down through Emma’s bones. There was something in it that
frightened her. Something that reminded her of the glaciers in Mark’s eyes, distant and lonely.
“Jules,” she said.
Muttering something like “never mind,” he spun her away, then pulled her back toward him. Years
of practicing fighting together made them an almost perfect dancing team, she realized with surprise.
They could predict each other’s movements, glide with each other’s bodies. She could tell which way
Julian would step by the cadence of his breath and the faint tightening of his fingers around hers.
Julian’s dark curls were wildly tousled, and when he drew her near him, she could smell the clove
spice of his cologne, the faint scent of paint underneath.
The song ended. Emma looked up and over at the band; the clarinetist was watching her and Julian.
Unexpectedly, he winked. The band struck up again, this time a slower, softer number. Couples moved
together as if magnetized, arms wrapping around necks, hands resting on hips, heads leaning together.
Julian had frozen. Emma, her hands still in his, stood stock-still, not moving, not breathing.
The moment stretched out, interminable. Julian’s eyes searched hers; whatever he saw there
seemed to decide him. His arms came up around her and he pulled her close. Her chin hit his
shoulder, awkwardly. It was the first awkward thing they’d done together.
She felt him inhale, a hitching breath against her. His hands splayed, warm, under her shoulder
blades. She turned her head. She could hear his heartbeat, swift and furious, under her ear, feel the
hardness of his chest.
She reached up to loop her arms around his neck. There was enough of a height difference between
them that when she locked her fingers, they tangled in the hair at his nape.
A shiver went through her. She’d touched Julian’s hair before, of course, but it was so soft there,
there at the vulnerable space just under the fall of loose curls. And the skin was soft too. She stroked
downward with her fingers, reflexively, and felt at the same time the top bump of his spine and his
swiftly inhaled breath.
She looked up at him. His face was white, eyes cast down, dark lashes feathered against his
cheekbones. He was biting his bottom lip, the way he always did when he was nervous. She could
see the dents his teeth made in the soft skin.
If she kissed him, would he taste like blood or cloves or a mixture of the two? Sweet and spicy?
Bitter and hot?
She made herself shove the thought down. He was her parabatai. He wasn’t for kissing. He was—
His left hand moved down over her back to her waist, sliding around to lightly cup her hip. Her
body jolted. She’d heard of people having butterflies in their stomachs, and she knew what they
meant: that flapping, uneasy feeling deep in your gut. But she had it now everywhere. Butterflies under
all of her skin, fluttering, sending shivers that moved in waves up and down her body. She began to
trace her finger over his wrist, meaning to write on him: J-U-L-I-A-N, W-H-A-T A-R-E Y-O-U D-O-I-