Also by Cassandra Clare

“Emma, if we need to go to Rook’s, then I’m part of the plan. I’m in it, a hundred percent.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. Long hair didn’t hide the Marks on her shoulders; her arms had
muscles; her wrists were strong and sturdy. She was a map of scars: the old white scars from used-up
runes, wending trails of cuts, and the splotches of burns from acidic demon blood.
She felt suddenly old, not just seventeen instead of twelve, but old. Old in her heart, and too late.
Surely if she were going to find her parents’ murderer she would have done so by now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He leaned back against her headboard. He was wearing an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “What
for?”
For the way I feel. She shoved the words back. If she was having strange feelings about Jules, it
wasn’t fair to tell him about them. She was the one in the wrong.
And he was hurting. She could see it in the set of his mouth, the darkness behind his light eyes.
“Doubting you,” she said.
“Back at you.” He flopped back onto her pillows. His shirt, untucked, rode up, giving Emma a
clear view of his stomach, the corrugation of muscles, the smatter of golden freckles over his hip. . . .
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find out what happened to my parents,” she said.
At that he sat up, which was a relief. “Emma,” he said, and then paused. He didn’t say Why would
you say that? Or What do you mean? Or any of the other things people said to fill up space. Instead,
he said, “You will. You’re the most determined person that I’ve ever known.”
“I feel farther away now than I’ve ever felt. Even though we actually have a connection, even
though we’re following up on it. I don’t see how their deaths could be connected to the Midnight
Theater or the Lottery. I don’t see—”
“You’re afraid,” Jules said.
Emma leaned against the dresser. “Afraid of what?”
“Afraid we’ll find out something about them you don’t want to know,” he said. “In your mind, your
parents are perfect. Now that we’re actually closing in on answers, you’re worried you’ll find out
they were—”
“Not perfect?” Emma fought to keep the edge of tension out of her voice. “Bad people?”
“Human,” he said. “We all find out the people who are supposed to take care of us are human
eventually. That they make mistakes.” He pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I live in dread of the
day the kids all figure that out about me.”
“Julian,” Emma said. “I hate to tell you this, but I think they’ve already figured that out.”
He smiled and slid off the bed. “Insults,” he said. “I guess that means you’re fine.” He moved to the
door.
“We can’t tell Diana we’re going to Rook’s,” she said. “She thinks he’s a crook.”
“She’s not wrong.” The dim light in the room sparked off Julian’s bracelet. “Emma, do you want
me to—”
He hesitated, but Emma heard the unspoken words. Stay with you?
Stay with me, she wanted to say. Stay and make me forget my nightmares. Stay and sleep next to
me. Stay and chase the bad dreams away, the memories of blood.
But she only forced a smile. “I should get to sleep, Jules.”
She couldn’t see his expression as he turned to leave the room. “Good night, Emma.”
Emma woke late the next day: sometime overnight, the storm had washed the sky clean of clouds, and
the afternoon sun was bright. Her head aching, she clambered out of bed, showered and changed, and