Also by Cassandra Clare

Beside him came Iarlath, his yellow eyes unblinking. And at his other side, Kieran. He was as
beautiful as Emma had remembered him, and looked as cold. His pale face was as severely cut as
white marble, his black and silver eyes uncanny in the daylight.
“What’s going on?” Emma demanded. “Has something happened?”
Gwyn glanced at her dismissively. “This is none of your affair, Carstairs girl,” he said. “This
matter concerns Mark Blackthorn. None of the rest of you.”
Julian crossed his arms over his chest. “Anything that concerns my brother concerns me. In fact, it
concerns all of us.”
Kieran’s mouth set into a hard, uncompromising line. “We are Gwyn and Kieran of the Wild Hunt,
and Iarlath of the Unseelie Court, here on a matter of justice. And you will fetch your brother.”
Emma moved to stand in the center of the top step, unsheathing Cortana, which sent bright sparks
skittering into the air. “Don’t tell him what to do,” she said. “Not here. Not on the steps of the
Institute.”
Gwyn gave an unexpected, rumbling laugh. “Don’t be a fool, Carstairs girl,” he said. “No single
Shadowhunter can hold off three of the Fair Folk, not even armed with one of the Great Swords.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate Emma,” said Julian in a voice like razor wire. “Or you’ll find your head
lying on the ground next to your still-twitching body.”
“How graphic,” said Iarlath, amused.
“I’m here,” said a breathless voice behind them, and Emma half-closed her eyes, fear going through
her like pain.
Mark.
It looked as if he had thrown on jeans and a sweater in a hurry, and jammed his feet into sneakers.
His blond hair was ruffled and he looked younger than he usually did, his eyes wide with surprise and
undefended astonishment.
“But my time isn’t up,” Mark said. He was speaking to Gwyn but looking at Kieran. There was an
expression on his face—one Emma couldn’t interpret or describe, one that seemed to mix pleading
and pain and gladness. “We’re still trying to find out what’s going on. We’re nearly there. But the
deadline—”
“Deadline?” Kieran echoed. “Listen to you. You sound like one of them.”
Mark looked surprised. “But, Kieran—”
“Mark Blackthorn,” said Iarlath. “You stand accused of sharing one of the secrets of Faerie with a
Shadowhunter, despite being expressly forbidden to do so.”
Mark let the door of the Institute fall shut behind him. He took several steps forward, until he was
standing beside Julian. He clasped his hands behind his back; they were shaking. “I—I don’t know
what you mean,” he said. “I haven’t told my family anything forbidden.”
“Not your family,” said Kieran, an ugly twist to his voice. “Her.”
“Her?” Julian said, looking at Emma, but she shook her head.
“Not me,” she said. “He means Cristina.”
“You didn’t expect us to leave you unobserved, did you, Mark?” Kieran said. His black and silver
eyes were like etched daggers. “I was outside the window when I heard you speaking with her. You
told her how Gwyn could be deprived of his powers. A secret known only to the Hunt, and forbidden
to repeat.”
Mark had turned the color of ashes. “I didn’t—”
“There is no point lying,” said Iarlath. “Kieran is a prince of Faerie and cannot speak untruths. If he
says he overheard this, then he did.”