Also by Cassandra Clare

Kieran staggered upright. “Please,” he said, looking not at Iarlath, but at Mark.
Mark gave him a look full of so much searing hate Emma nearly recoiled. Kieran looked, if
possible, even sicker.
“You should have forseen this, whelp,” said Iarlath, but his gaze wasn’t on Kieran—it was on
Mark, hungry, full of appetite, as if the thought of a whipping drew him like the thought of food. Mark
reached out toward the tree—
Julian stepped forward. “Whip me instead,” he said.
For a moment everyone froze. Emma felt as if a baseball bat had slammed into her chest. “No,” she
tried to say, but the word wouldn’t come.
Mark whirled around to face his brother. “You can’t,” he said. “Mine is the crime. Mine must be
the punishment.”
Julian stepped past Mark, almost pushing him aside in his determination to present himself in front
of Gwyn. He stood with his back straight and chin up. “In a faerie battle, one can pick a champion to
represent them,” he said. “If I could stand in for my brother in a fight, why not now?”
“Because I’m the one who broke the law!” Mark looked desperate.
“My brother was taken at the beginning of the Dark War,” Julian said. “He never fought in the
battle. His hands are clean of faerie blood. Whereas I was in Alicante. I killed Fair Folk.”
“He’s goading you,” Mark said. “He doesn’t mean it—”
“I do mean it,” said Julian. “It is the truth.”
“If someone volunteers to take the place of a condemned man, we cannot gainsay it.” Gwyn’s look
was troubled. “Are you sure, Julian Blackthorn? This is not your punishment to take.”
Julian inclined his head. “I’m sure.”
“Let him take the whipping,” Kieran said. “He wants it. Let him have it.”
After that, things happened very quickly. Mark threw himself at Kieran, his expression murderous.
He was shouting as he dug his fingers into the front of Kieran’s shirt. Emma moved forward and was
knocked back by Gwyn, who moved to pull Kieran and Mark apart, pushing Mark brutally aside.
“Bastard,” Mark said. His mouth was bleeding. He spit at Kieran’s feet. “You arrogant—”
“Enough, Mark,” snapped Gwyn. “Kieran is a prince of the Unseelie Court.”
“He is my enemy,” said Mark. “Now and forevermore, my enemy.” He raised a hand as if to strike
Kieran; Kieran didn’t move, just looked at him with shattered eyes. Mark lowered his hand and
turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Kieran any longer. “Jules,” he said instead. “Julian,
please, don’t do this. Let me.”
Julian gave his brother a slow, sweet smile. In that smile was all the love and wonder of the little
boy who’d lost his brother and against all odds, gotten him back. “It can’t be you, Mark—”
“Take him,” Iarlath said to Gwyn, and Gwyn, reluctance written all over his face, stepped forward
and caught hold of Mark, pulling him away from Julian. Mark struggled, but Gwyn was a massive man
with enormous arms. He held tightly to Mark, his expression impassive, as Julian reached down and
pulled off his jacket, and then his shirt.
In the bright daylight his skin, lightly tanned but paler over his back and chest, looked vulnerable
and exposed. His hair was ruffled all over from the collar of the shirt, and as he dropped it on the
ground he looked at Emma.
His look broke through the icy vise of shock that gripped her. “Julian.” Her voice shook. “You
can’t do this.” She moved forward and found Iarlath blocking her way.
“Stay,” Iarlath hissed. He stepped away from Emma, who went to go after him and found her legs
pinned in place. She couldn’t move. The buzz of enchantment prickled along her legs and spine,