Also by Cassandra Clare

think twice until it was over, when he’d wash the blood down the drain of the sink like scarlet paint.
And he would not regret it.
“Stop,” Julian said, and though he didn’t shout, didn’t yell, the Followers who were still moving
froze in place, as if they could read his expression just like Emma could. As if they were afraid.
Emma grabbed Sterling by the back of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. “Come on,” she said, and
began pushing through the crowd, dragging him toward the Institute. If she could just get him inside—
But Belinda was suddenly pushing herself forward, shoving among the other Followers to get close
to the Institute steps. There was still no blood around the rip in her sweater. Her glove was back on
her hand. Her dark hair was coming out of its elaborately crafted Victory rolls, and she looked
furious.
She bounded forward, placing herself between Emma and the stairs. Cristina and Diego were just
behind them; Cristina was wincing, her face pale.
“Julian Blackthorn!” Belinda shouted. “I demand that you let us take this man”—she pointed at
Sterling—“away from here! And that you cease interfering in our business! The Followers of the
Guardian have nothing to do with you or your Laws!”
Julian descended a single step. The glow of his seraph blade lit his eyes to an eerie undersea
green. “How dare you come here,” he said flatly. “How dare you invade the space of the Nephilim;
how dare you make demands. Your idiot cult wasn’t our business, no, until you started murdering.
Now it’s our business to make you stop. And we will.”
Belinda gave a harsh laugh. “There are three hundred of us—there are barely any of you—and
you’re children—”
“Not all of us are children,” said another voice, and Malcolm Fade stepped out onto the stairs
beside Julian.
The Followers gaped. Clearly, most of them had no idea who he was. But the fact that he was
surrounded by a halo of crackling violet fire was obviously making quite a few of them nervous.
“I’m Malcolm Fade,” he said. “High Warlock of Los Angeles. You do know what warlocks are,
don’t you?”
Emma couldn’t suppress a wild giggle. Perfect Diego was staring. Sterling was pallid with terror.
“One of us,” said Malcolm, “is worth five hundred of you. I can burn you to the ground in six
seconds flat and use the ashes to stuff a teddy bear for my girlfriend. Not that I have a girlfriend at the
moment,” he added, “but one lives in hope.”
“You’re a warlock, and you serve Nephilim?” Belinda demanded. “After all they’ve done to
Downworlders?”
“Don’t try to use your feeble knowledge of a thousand years of politics on me, child. It won’t
work.” Malcolm looked at his watch. “I’m giving you one minute,” he said. “Anyone who’s still here
after that gets set on fire.”
Nobody moved.
With a sigh, Malcolm pointed at a shrub of California sage clustered by the bottom of the stairs. It
burst into flames. A choking, sage-smelling smoke rose up. Flames danced along his fingers.
The Followers turned and ran for the road. Emma stood as they hurtled around her, as if she were
planted in the middle of an avalanche. In a moment all of them were gone but Belinda.
There was a terrible rage on her face, and an even more terrible despair. It was a look that froze
them all in place.
She raised her dark eyes to Julian. “You,” she said. “You may think you’ve defeated us now, with
your pet warlock, but the things we know about you—oh, the things we could tell the Clave. The truth