Also by Cassandra Clare

“No,” said Kit. He felt dazed and puzzled, as if a bright camera flash had gone off in his eyes. “I’m
not.”
The boy still wasn’t looking directly at Kit. As if Kit weren’t worth looking at. Kit’s dazed feeling
was starting to fade, to be replaced by anger.
“Go on,” Kit said, challenging. “Figure it out.”
The boy’s expression clouded, then cleared. “You’re his son,” he said. “Johnny Rook’s son.”
And then his lip did curl, just the slightest curl of contempt, and anger boiled up in Kit. He jerked
aside fast, away from the dagger, and kicked out. The other boy spun, but Kit caught him with a
glancing blow. He heard a cry of pain. The light tumbled from the boy’s hand, winking out, and then
Kit was being shoved up against the wall again, a hand scrabbling to fist itself in his shirt, and the
dagger was back at his throat, and the other boy was whispering, “Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet,” and
then the room was full of light.
The other boy froze. Kit looked up to see two other Shadowhunters standing on the cellar steps: a
boy with blazing blue-green eyes and the blond girl he had seen at the Shadow Market the week
before. They were both staring—not at him, but at the boy gripping his shirt.
The boy winced but held his ground, defiance chasing alarm across his face. Aha, Kit thought with
dawning realization. You’re not supposed to be down here, are you?
“Tiberius Blackthorn,” said the boy with blue-green eyes. “What on earth are you doing?”
Emma stood and gawked at Ty, completely brought up short. It was as if the Institute had suddenly
appeared in the middle of Johnny Rook’s cellar: The sight of Ty was familiar, and yet totally
incongruous.
Ty looked rumpled and more frazzled than she’d seen him in years, though his grip on his dagger
was steady. Diana would have been pleased. She would probably not have been pleased that he was
pointing it at the throat of a mundane boy—he looked about fifteen, and oddly familiar. She’d seen
him before, Emma realized, at the Shadow Market. His hair was a mass of blond tangles; his shirt
was clean but ragged, his jeans worn to a faded pallor. And he looked ready to punch Ty in the face,
which was unusual for a mundane in his position. Most of them were much more unsettled by a knife
to the throat.
“Ty,” Julian said again. He looked furious—fury with an edge of panic. “Ty, let go of Johnny
Rook’s son.”
The blond boy’s eyes widened. “How did you—how do you know who I am?” he demanded.
Julian shrugged. “Who else would you be?” He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you know
something about the Lottery at the Midnight Theater?”
“Jules,” Emma said. “He’s just a kid.”
“I’m not a kid!” the boy protested. “And my name is Kit.”
“We’re trying to help,” Julian said. The blond boy—Kit—scowled. Julian softened his voice.
“We’re trying to save lives.”
“My father told me that’s what Shadowhunters always say.”
“Do you believe everything he says?”
“He was right this time, wasn’t he?” Kit pointed out. His gaze slid to Emma; she remembered
noticing that he had the Sight. She’d thought he was Rook’s assistant, though, not his son. They looked
nothing alike. “You said it.”
“I meant—” Julian began.
“I don’t know anything about a lottery,” Kit snapped. He glanced at Tiberius. What was odder,