Also by Cassandra Clare

Cristina came out of Emma’s bedroom looking somber.
Mark caught a glimpse of the room before the door closed behind her: He saw Emma’s still form,
looking small beneath a pile of heavy covers, and Julian sitting on the bed beside her. His brother’s
head was bent, his dark hair falling to cover his face.
Mark had never seen him so miserable.
“Is she all right?” he asked Cristina. They were alone in the corridor. Most of the kids were still
asleep.
Mark didn’t want to remember his brother’s face when Julian had woken up near the quickbeam
and seen Mark kneeling over Emma’s body, her stele in his hand, drawing healing runes on her
lacerated skin with the shaking, unpracticed hand of someone long unused to the language of angels.
He didn’t want to remember the way Julian had looked when they’d come inside, Mark carrying
Cortana and Julian with Emma in his arms, her blood all over his shirt, her hair matted with it. He
didn’t want to remember the way Emma had screamed when the whip came down, and the way she’d
stopped screaming when she collapsed.
He didn’t want to remember Kieran’s face as Mark and Julian had raced back toward the Institute.
Kieran had tried to stop Mark, had put his hand on his arm. His face had been bleached and pleading,
his hair a riot of black and despairing blue.
Mark had shaken off his grip. “Touch me again with your hand and you will see it parted from your
wrist forever,” he had snarled, and Gwyn had pulled Kieran away from him, speaking to him in a
voice that was equal parts sternness and regret.
“Let him be, Kieran,” he said. “Enough has been done here this day.”
They’d carried Emma into her bedroom, and Julian had helped lay her down on the bed while
Mark had gone to get Cristina.
Cristina hadn’t screamed when he’d awoken her, or even when she’d seen Emma in her torn and
blood-soaked clothes. She had gone to work helping them: She’d put Emma into clean, dry clothes,
had retrieved bandages for Jules, had washed the blood from Emma’s hair.
“She will be all right,” Cristina said now. “She will heal.”
Mark didn’t want to remember the way Emma’s skin had opened as the whip had come down, or
the sound the whip made. The smell of blood mixing with the salt of the ocean air.