Also by Cassandra Clare

Mark Blackthorn wasn’t brooding or troubled exactly. But Mark Blackthorn belonged to Kieran
and the Wild Hunt. Mark Blackthorn had a divided heart.
He also had a soft, husky voice, startling eyes, and a habit of saying things that turned her world
backward. And he was an excellent dancer, from what she’d seen. Cristina rated dancing highly. Boys
who could dance well, kissed well—that was what her mother always said.
A dark shadow ran across the roof of Sterling’s house.
Cristina was up and out of the car in seconds, her seraph blade in her hand. “Miguel,” she
whispered, and it blazed up. She was heavily glamoured enough that she knew no mundane could see
her, but the blade provided precious light.
She moved forward carefully, her heart pounding. She remembered what Emma had told her about
the night Julian had been shot: the shadow on the roof, the man in black. She eased up to the house
itself. The windows were dark, the curtains motionless. Everything was still and silent.
She moved toward the Jeep. She slipped her stele out of her pocket just as a shape dropped to the
ground beside her with an oomph. Cristina leaped out of the way as the shadow unfolded; it was
Sterling, dressed in what Cristina imagined mundanes thought gear looked like. Black pants, black
boots, a tailored black jacket.
He stared at her, and his face turned slowly purple. “You,” he snarled.
“I can help you,” Cristina said, keeping her voice and her blade steady. “Please let me help you.”
The hatred in his eyes startled her. “Get away,” he hissed, and yanked something out of his pocket.
A gun. A handgun, small caliber, but enough to make Cristina step back. Guns were something that
rarely entered Shadowhunter life; they belonged to mundanes, to their world of ordinary human crime.
But they could still spill Shadowhunter blood and split Shadowhunter bones. He backed away,
pointing the gun at her, until he reached the end of his driveway. Then he turned and ran.
Cristina bolted after him, but by the time she’d reached the end of the driveway, he was
disappearing around the corner of the street. Apparently he hadn’t exaggerated—weres really were
faster than humans. Faster, even, than Shadowhunters.
Cristina muttered a mild curse and trudged back to the Jeep. She drew her stele from her belt with
her free hand and, crouching down, carefully marked a small tracking rune into the side of the vehicle,
just above the wheel.
It wasn’t a total disaster, she thought, trudging back to the truck. As Emma had said, they were still
within the two-day window before the “hunt” began. And having put a tracking rune on Sterling’s car
was sure to help. If they just stayed away from his house, let him think they’d given up, hopefully he’d
get careless and start driving.
Only when she climbed into the truck and slammed the door behind her did she see that her phone
was flashing. She’d missed a call. She picked it up and her heart fell into her stomach.
Diego Rocio Rosales.
She dropped the phone as if it had turned into a scorpion. Why, why, why would Diego call her?
She’d told him never to speak to her again.
Her hand stole to the charm at her throat and she clutched it, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
Give me the strength not to call him back.
“Are you feeling better, Uncle?” Julian said.
Arthur, slumped behind the desk in his office, looked up with faded, distant eyes.
“Julian,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
“I know. You said.” Julian leaned back against a wall. “Do you remember what it was about?”