Also by Cassandra Clare

He is a half werewolf. And he’s been a member of the Followers, that’s what he called them, for six
months now. That’s what he meant by being a Blue.”
“The fact that he’s been a Follower for a long time, or the fact that he’s part lycanthrope?” Julian
asked.
“Both, I think,” Cristina said. “He went to great pains to tell me all about what it meant to be part
werewolf. How he’s stronger and faster than a human. He says he could kick through a brick wall.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t even get it,” said Emma. “How do you wind up being half-werewolf?”
“It means you have the werewolf virus, but it’s dormant,” said Jules. “You can pass it on, but you
can’t Turn yourself. You’ll never change into a wolf, but you do have increased speed and strength.”
“He said they all have increased speed and strength,” said Cristina. “Every time they hold a
Lottery, he said, the Followers all get stronger.”
“Sympathetic magic,” Julian said. Suddenly there was a commotion in their row.
“Am I late?” It was Mark, seeming flustered, tumbling into the seat beside Julian. His fair hair
looked as if he’d been standing in front of a wind machine. “Sorry, I got distracted.”
Julian looked at him for a long moment. “Don’t tell me,” he said finally. “I don’t want to know.”
Mark looked surprised. “You don’t?” he said. “I would.”
“I do,” chimed in Emma, but before Mark could say anything, the lights in the theater dimmed.
Silence fell instantly—not the slow hushing of voices Emma would have expected, but an abrupt,
unnatural cessation of noise.
A shiver passed up the back of her neck just as a single spotlight lit up the stage.
The band had gathered in the orchestra pit. They began to play a quiet melody, almost mournful, as
a black-velvet-draped object was wheeled out onto the stage by two uniformed men. The music
faded, and there was the tap-tap of high heels; a moment later the woman who had been taking tickets
at the door appeared. She had changed and was wearing a gorgeous full-length dress of black and
dark blue lace that looked like foam on the ocean. Even at a distance Emma could see the dark kohl
liner ringing her eyes.
The woman reached out a hand, the nails painted viper red, and seized hold of the black velvet,
tearing it aside and hurling it dramatically to the floor.
Revealed underneath was a machine. A large transparent drum sat atop a metal plinth; inside the
glass were hundreds of colored, numbered balls. A metal chute stuck out from the machine, and in
front of the chute was a tray.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the woman onstage. “I’m Belinda Belle.”
“‘Belinda Belle’?” Julian whispered. “Made-up name.”
“You’re a genius detective,” Emma whispered back. “Genius.”
He made a face at her, and Emma felt a wave of relief. This was her and Julian, making faces at
each other, making each other laugh. That was normal.
The woman on the stage continued, “Welcome to the Lottery.”
The room was silent. Belinda smiled, resting her hand on the device, perfectly still.
“A lottery machine,” murmured Julian. “That’s literal.”
“The Guardian could not be with us tonight,” said Belinda. “Security has required tightening. The
last hunt was interrupted by Nephilim, and the value of the sacrifice was endangered.”
There was a low hum. A jolt went through Emma. Nephilim. The woman had said “Nephilim.”
These people knew about Shadowhunters. It wasn’t a surprise so much as a confirmation of what
Emma had suspected all along. There was something going on here, something that reached its