Also by Cassandra Clare

in the end it’s Blackthorn blood.”
Cristina sat up straight. “What?”
“They claimed it meant Blackthorn blood was destructive, like flood or fire. That whoever made
up the rhyme was saying Blackthorns were bad luck. Not that it matters. It’s just a bit of nonsense.”
“That isn’t nonsense,” Cristina exclaimed. “It means something. The words written on the bodies . .
.” She frowned in concentration. “They are the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘Fire to water,’” she said. “It is the same—they are simply different translations. When English is
not your first language, you understand the sense of the words differently. Believe me, ‘Fire to water’
and ‘First the flame and then the flood,’ they could be the same thing.”
“But what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Cristina pushed her hands into her hair in frustration. “Please, promise me you’ll
mention it to Emma and Jules as soon as you can. I could be wrong, but . . .”
Mark looked baffled. “Yes, of course—”
“Promise.”
“Tomorrow, I promise.” His smile was bemused. “It occurs to me that you know a great deal about
me, Cristina, and I know very little about you. I know your name, Mendoza Rosales. I know you left
something behind in Mexico. What was it?”
“Not a something,” she said. “Someone.”
“Perfect Diego?”
“And his brother, Jaime.” She waved away Mark’s raised eyebrow. “One of them I was in love
with, and the other was my best friend. They both broke my heart.” She was almost astonished to hear
the words come out of her mouth.
“For your heart twice broken, I am sorry,” said Mark. “But is it wrong that I am glad that it brought
you into my life? If you had not been here when I arrived—I do not know that I could have borne it.
When I first saw Julian, I thought he was my father. I did not know my brother so grown. I left them
children, and now they are no longer that. When I knew what I had lost, even with Emma, those years
of their lives . . . You are the only one I have not lost something with, but rather gained a new
friendship.”
“Friendship,” Cristina agreed.
He extended his hand, and she looked at him, bemused.
“It is traditional,” he said, “among the fey, for a declaration of friendship to be accompanied by a
clasp of hands.”
She put her hand in his. His fingers closed about her own; they were rough where they were
calloused, but lithe and strong. And not cool, as she had imagined they would be, but warm. She tried
to hold back the shiver that threatened to spread up her arm, realizing how long it had been since she
had held someone’s hand like this.
“Cristina,” he said, and her name sounded like music when he spoke it.
Neither of them noticed the movement at the window, the flash of a pale face looking in, or the
sound of an acorn being viciously crushed between narrow fingers.
The large chamber inside the cave hadn’t changed since the last time Emma had been in it. The same
bronze walls, the same chalked circle on the floor. The same large glass doors fixed into the walls
and wavering darkness behind them.
Energy crackled against her skin as she walked into the circle. The magic of the glamour. From