Also by Cassandra Clare

Mark stood at an upstairs window and looked out at the sun rising over the desert. The mountains
seemed cut out of dark paper, sharp and distinct against the sky. For a moment he imagined he could
reach out and touch them, that he could fly from this window and reach the top of the highest peak.
The moment passed, and once again he saw the distance between himself and the mountains. Ever
since he had returned to the Institute, he had felt as if he were struggling to see everything through a
thin layer of glamour. Sometimes he saw the Institute as it was, sometimes it faded from view and
instead he saw a bare landscape and the fires of the Wild Hunt burning in small encampments.
Sometimes he turned to say something to Kieran only to discover that he wasn’t there. Kieran had
been there every morning that Mark had woken up for years of Faerie time.
Kieran had been meant to come and see him the night Mark had watched the children in the kitchen.
But he’d never come. There’d been no communication from him, either, and Mark was worried now.
He told himself that the faerie prince was probably just being cautious, but he found his hand straying
to the arrowhead at his throat more often than usual.
It was a gesture that reminded him of Cristina, the way she touched the medallion at her throat
when she was nervous. Cristina. He wondered what had passed between her and Diego.
Mark turned away from the window just as the sound came. His hearing had been sharpened by
years in the Hunt; he doubted anyone else in the Institute would have heard it or been awakened.
It was a single note, the sound of Gwyn the Hunter’s horn: sharp and harsh, as lonely as mountains.
Mark’s blood went cold. It was not a greeting or even a call to the Hunt. It was the note Gwyn blew
when they were searching out a deserter. It was the sound of betrayal.
Julian had straightened up, raking his hands through his tangled curls, his jaw set. “Emma,” he said.
“Go back inside.”
Emma turned and strode back into the Institute—only long enough to seize up Cortana from where it
hung beside the door. She stalked back outside to find that the faerie convoy had dismounted their
horses, who remained unnaturally still, as if tied in place. Their eyes were blood red, their manes
wound with red flowers. Faerie steeds.
Gwyn had approached the foot of the steps. He had a strange face, slightly alien: wide eyes, broad
cheekbones, wicked eyebrows. One black eye, and one that was pale blue.