Also by Cassandra Clare

staircase that descended to the Institute’s entryway. It was located exactly in the middle of the
Institute, splitting the north and south wings. Emma had deliberately chosen a bedroom, years ago, that
was at the other end of the Institute from where the Blackthorns slept. It was a way of declaring
silently that she knew she was still a Carstairs.
She leaned on the railing now and looked down, Cristina beside her. Institutes were built to
impress: They were meeting places for Shadowhunters, the heart of Conclaves—communities of local
Nephilim. The massive entryway, a square room whose focal point was the enormous staircase that
led up to the landing and the second floor, had a black-and-white marble floor and was decorated
with uncomfortable-looking furniture that no one ever sat in. It seemed like the entrance of a museum.
From the landing you could see that the white and black tiles that patterned the floor formed the
shape of the Angel Raziel, rising from the waters of Lake Lyn in Idris, holding two of the Mortal
Instruments—a flashing sword and a gold-encrusted cup.
It was an image every Shadowhunter child knew. A thousand years ago the Angel Raziel had been
summoned by Jonathan Shadowhunter, the father of all Nephilim, to put down a plague of demons.
Raziel had gifted Jonathan with the Mortal Instruments and the Gray Book, in which all runes were
inscribed. He had also mixed his blood with human blood and given it to Jonathan and his followers
to drink, allowing their skin to bear runes and creating the first of the Nephilim. The image of Raziel
rising was sacred to Nephilim: It was called the Triptych and was found in places where
Shadowhunters met or where they had died.
The image on the floor of the Institute’s entryway was a memorial. When Sebastian Morgenstern
and his faerie army had stormed the Institute, the floor had been plain marble. After the Dark War, the
Blackthorn children had returned to the Institute to find that the room where so many had died was
already being torn up. The stones where Shadowhunters had bled were replaced, and the mural put in
to commemorate those who had been lost.
Every time Emma walked on it, she was reminded of her parents and of Julian’s father. She didn’t
mind—she didn’t want to forget.
“When you said they are and they aren’t, did you mean because Arthur was here?” Cristina asked.
She was looking thoughtfully down on the Angel.
“Definitely not.” Arthur Blackthorn was the head of the Los Angeles Institute. At least, that was his
title. He was a classicist, obsessed with the mythology of Greece and Rome, constantly locked in the
attic with bits of old pottery, moldering books, and endless essays and monographs. Emma didn’t
think she’d ever seen him take a direct interest in a Shadowhunter issue. She could count on one hand
the number of times she and Cristina had seen him since Cristina’s arrival at the Institute. “Although
I’m impressed you remember he lives here.”
Cristina rolled her eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes. It punctures my dramatic moment. I want my dramatic moment unpunctured.”
“What dramatic moment?” Cristina demanded. “Why have you dragged me out here when I want to
shower and change out of this gear? Besides, I need coffee.”
“You always need coffee,” said Emma, moving back toward the corridor and the other wing of the
house. “It’s a debilitating addiction.”
Cristina said something uncomplimentary under her breath in Spanish, but she followed Emma
nonetheless, her curiosity clearly winning out. Emma spun around so she could walk backward, like a
tour guide.
“Okay, most of the family is in the south wing,” she said. “First stop, Tavvy’s room.” The door of
Octavian Blackthorn’s room was already open. He wasn’t that invested in privacy, being only seven.