Also by Cassandra Clare

scurried around arming themselves and buckling gear on over their clothes. Not patrol gear, which
was lighter, but the heavy dark gear you wore when you thought you were going to fight.
When you knew you were going to fight.
There had been some discussion of whether all of them were going to go to the convergence, or
whether Dru at least should stay back at the Institute. Dru had protested vociferously, and Julian
hadn’t fought it—the Institute didn’t feel safe at the moment, with the oculus smashed open. Kieran
had gotten in, and who knew what else could? He wanted his family where he could see them. And
there wasn’t much he could say to Dru about her age: He and Emma had fought and killed during the
Dark War, and they’d been younger than she was now.
He had taken Ty aside, separately, and told him that if he wanted to stay behind from the fight
because he was wounded, there was nothing shameful about that. He could lock himself in the car
while they went into the convergence.
“Do you think I have nothing to contribute to a fight?” Ty had asked.
“No,” Julian had said, and meant it. “But you’re hurt, and I—”
“It’s a fight. We might all get hurt.” Ty had looked directly into Julian’s eyes. He could tell that Ty
was doing it for him, because he remembered that Julian had told him that people often looked
directly into each other’s eyes to show that they were telling the truth. “I want to go. I want to be there
to help Tavvy, and I want you to let me. It’s what I want, and that should matter.”
Ty was in the weapons room with them now. It was a cavernous space with no windows. Every
spare inch of the walls was hung with swords, axes, and maces. Gear, belts, and boots were stacked
in piles. There was a ceramic tile bowl full of steles, and a table covered with a long cloth held
seraph blades.
Julian could sense them all around him, his friends and family. He knew Mark was at his side,
toeing off his shoes and kicking his feet into boots. He knew Emma was at the counter, lining up
seraph blades that had already been named and prepared, sliding some into her belt and distributing
the rest. His awareness of her swung as she moved around the room like the needle on a compass.
Above all, though, he was aware of Tavvy, out there somewhere, needing him. There was a cold
terror in him that threatened to pull the determination out of his bones and sap his concentration.
Pushing it away to focus on what was happening here and now was one of the hardest things he’d ever
done. He bitterly wished that things were different, that they had the cooperation of the Clave, that
they could have gotten to Magnus and asked for a Portal.
But it was no use wishing.
“Talk,” he snapped at Kieran, pulling down a weapons belt from a shelf. “That black light, you said
it was ‘faerie magic.’ Did you mean dark magic?”
Now that Mark was no longer looking directly at him, Kieran seemed bored and annoyed. He
leaned against the central table, taking care not to come in contact with any of the weapons—not, his
expression made clear, because they were sharp or frightening but because they were Nephilim
weapons and therefore repellent.
“The question is whether it will show up on the Clave’s map,” said Ty, buckling on protective
gauntlets. He was already in his gear, and the slight outline of the bandage on his calf was barely
visible under the thick fabric. “The one Magnus uses to track dark magic use. Or is that blocked like
the cell phones?”
“It was Unseelie magic, but not dark in nature,” said Kieran. “It will not show itself on the map.
They were very sure of that.”
Julian frowned. “Who is they? In fact, how do you know so much about Malcolm?”