Also by Cassandra Clare

“Emma.” There was a hand on her shoulder, shaking her. “Emma, wake up.”
She rolled over and blinked, then froze in surprise. There was no ceiling over her, only bright blue
sky. She felt stiff and sore, her skin abraded by sand.
Julian was hovering over her. He was fully dressed, his face gray-white like scattered ash. His
hands fluttered around her, not quite touching her, like Ty’s butterflies. “Someone was here.”
At that she did sit up. She was sitting on the beach—a small, bare half circle of a beach, hemmed in
on either side by fingers of stone reaching into the ocean. The sand around her was thoroughly
churned up, and she blushed, memory crashing into her like a wave. It looked like it was at least
midday, though thankfully the beach was deserted. It was familiar, too. They were close to the
Institute, closer than she’d thought. Not that she’d thought much.
She dragged air into her lungs. “Oh,” she said. “Oh my God.”
Julian didn’t say anything. His clothes were wet, crusted with sand where they folded. Her own
clothes were on, Emma realized belatedly. Julian must have dressed her. Only her feet were bare.
The tide was low, seaweed lying exposed at the waterline. Their footsteps from the night before
had long been washed away, but there were other footsteps embedded in the sand. It looked as if
someone had climbed over one of the rock walls, walked up to them, and then doubled back and
walked away. Two lines of footsteps. Emma stared at them in horror.
“Someone saw us?” she said.
“While we were sleeping,” said Julian. “I didn’t wake up either.” His hands knotted at his sides.
“Some mundane, I hope, just figuring we were a dumb teenage couple.” He let out a breath. “I hope,”
he said again.
Flashes of memory of the night before shot through Emma’s mind—the cold water, the demons,
Julian carrying her, Julian kissing her. Julian and her, lying entwined on the sand.
Julian. She didn’t think she could think of him as Jules again. Jules was her childhood name for
him. And they had left their childhood behind.
He turned to look at her, and she saw the anguish in his sea-colored eyes. “I am so sorry,” he
whispered. “Emma, I am so, so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” she asked.
“I didn’t think.” He was pacing, his feet kicking up sand. “About—being safe. Protection. I didn’t
think about it.”
“I’m protected,” she said.
He whirled to face her. “What?”
“I have the rune,” she said. “And I don’t have any diseases, and neither do you, do you?”
“I—no.” The relief on his face was palpable and for some reason made her stomach ache. “That
was my first time, Emma.”
“I know,” she said in a whisper. “Anyway, you don’t need to apologize.”
“I do,” he said. “I mean, this is good. We’re lucky. But I should have thought of it. I don’t have an
excuse. I was out of my mind.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“I must have been, to do that,” he said.
“To do what?” She was impressed by how clearly and calmly each word came out. Anxiety beat
through her like a drum.
“What we did.” He exhaled. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re saying what we did was wrong.”
“I meant—” He looked as if he were trying to contain something that wanted to tear its way out of