Also by Cassandra Clare

The formal dining room at the Institute was rarely used—the family ate in the kitchen except for
the rare instances when Uncle Arthur was with them. The room was hung with framed portraits of
Blackthorns, brought from England, their names etched under their images. Rupert. John. Tristan.
Adelaide. Jesse. Tatiana. They gazed down blankly on a long oak table surrounded by high-backed
chairs.
Mark settled himself on the table, glancing around the walls. “I like them,” he said. “The portraits.
I always have.”
“They seem friendly to you?” Emma was leaning against the doorway. The door was cracked partly
open, and through it she could see the foyer and Julian talking to his brothers and sisters.
Livvy was gripping her saber and looked furious. Ty, beside her, was blank-faced, but his hands
were busy at work, tangling and untangling.
“Tavvy’s awake playing upstairs,” Drusilla was saying. She was in pajamas, her brown hair
mussed. “Hopefully he’ll pass out. Usually he can sleep through a war. I mean—”
“That wasn’t a war,” Julian said. “Though there were some bad moments before Malcolm showed
up.”
“Julian called Malcolm, huh?” Emma said, turning back into the dining room. “Even though you
were here, and Malcolm didn’t know you’re back?”
“He had to,” Mark said, and Emma was struck by how human he sounded. He looked human too, in
his jeans and sweater, perched casually on the table. “There were three hundred Followers
surrounding the place, and we couldn’t call the Conclave.”
“He could have asked you to hide,” said Emma. There was blood and dirt on her jacket. She flung
it over the back of a nearby chair.
“He did,” Mark said. “I refused.”
“What? Why did you do that?”
Mark said nothing, only looked at her. “Your hand,” he said. “It’s bleeding.”
Emma glanced down. He was right; there was a cut across her knuckles. “It’s nothing.”
He reached out to take her hand in his, gazing critically at the blood. “I could draw you an iratze,”
he said. “Just because I don’t want them on my skin doesn’t mean I won’t draw them on anyone else.”
Emma retracted her hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, returning to peeking into the entryway.