Also by Cassandra Clare

Emma and Julian led the way into the cavern, and Mark brought up the rear, sandwiching the
others between them. As before, the tunnel was narrow at first, the ground tumbled with uneven
pebbles. The rocks were disturbed now, many of them kicked aside. Even in the dimness—Emma had
not dared illuminate her witchlight—she could see where the moss growing along the cave wall had
been clawed at by human fingers.
“People came through here earlier,” Emma murmured. “A lot of people.”
“Followers?” Julian’s voice was low.
Emma shook her head. She didn’t know. She was cold, the good sort of cold, the battle cold that
came from your stomach and spread outward. The cold that sharpened your eyes and seemed to slow
time around you, so that you had infinite hours to correct the sweep of a seraph blade, the angle of a
sword.
She could feel Cortana between her shoulder blades, heavy and golden, whispering to her in her
mother’s voice. Steel and temper, daughter.
They came out into the high-ceilinged cavern. Emma stopped dead, and the others crowded around
her. No one said a word.
The cavern was not as Emma remembered it. It was dim, giving the impression of immense space
spreading away into darkness. The portholes were gone. Etched into the stone of the cave near her
were the words of the poem that had become so familiar to them all. Emma could see sentences here
and there, flashing out at her.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
The wingèd seraphs of Heaven.
Shadowhunters.
Julian’s witchlight flared up in his hand, illuminating the space, and Emma gasped.