Also by Cassandra Clare

“This is wrong, Malcolm.” Diana’s voice was choked but steady. “I’ve spent days talking to those
who’ve known you for years. Catarina Loss. Magnus Bane. They said you were a good, likable man.
That can’t be all lies.”
“Lies?” Malcolm’s voice rose. “You want to talk about lies? They lied to me about Annabel. They
said she had become an Iron Sister. All of them told me the same lie: Magnus, Catarina, Tessa. It was
from a faerie I found out that they had lied. From a faerie I learned what had really happened to
Annabel. By then she was long dead. The Blackthorns, murdering their own!”
“That was generations back. The boy you have chained to that table never knew Annabel. These
are not the people who hurt you, Malcolm. These are not the people who took Annabel from you.
They’re innocent.”
“No one is innocent!” Malcolm shouted. “She was a Blackthorn! Annabel Blackthorn! She loved
me, and they took her—they took her and walled her up and she died there in the tomb. They did that
to me and I do not forgive! I will never forgive!” He took a deep breath, clearly forcing himself to be
calm. “Thirteen Hands of Glory,” he said. “And Blackthorn blood. That will bring her back, and she
will be with me again.”
He turned away from Diana, toward Tavvy, and picked up the knife that lay on the table by Tavvy’s
head.
The tension in the tunnel was sudden and silent and explosive. Hands reached for weapons. Grips
tightened on hilts. Diego raised his ax. Five pairs of eyes turned to Emma.
Diana struggled even more desperately as Malcolm raised the knife. Light sparked off it, strangely
beautiful, illuminating the lines of the poem on the wall.
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
Julian, Emma thought. Julian, I’ve got no choice. We can’t wait for you.
“Go,” she whispered, and they exploded out of the tunnel: Ty and Livvy and Emma and Cristina,
all of them, Diego rushing straight for Malcolm.
For a split second Malcolm looked surprised. He dropped the knife—it hit the floor and, made of
soft copper, the blade bent. Malcolm stared down at it, then back up at the Blackthorns and their
friends—and began laughing. He stood, laughing, in the center of the protection circle, as they rushed
at him—and one by one were slammed backward by the force of the invisible protective wall. Diego
swung his battle-ax. The ax glanced off the air as if it had struck steel and recoiled backward.
“Surround Malcolm!” Emma shouted. “He can’t stay in the protected area forever! Circle him!”
They spread out, surrounding the protective runes on the floor. Emma found herself across from Ty,
knife in hand; he was looking at Malcolm with a peculiar expression on his face: half
incomprehension, half hatred.
Ty understood acting, pretending. But betrayal on the scale Malcolm had practiced it was
something else again. Emma couldn’t understand it herself and she’d had a clear view of just what
kind of betrayal people were capable of when she’d watched the Clave exile Helen and abandon
Mark.
“You’ll have to come out of there eventually,” Emma said. “And when you do—”
Malcolm bent and seized his damaged knife from the floor. When he straightened up, Emma saw
that his eyes were the color of bruises. “When I do, you’ll be dead,” he spat, and whirled to reach out
a hand toward the rows of the dead. “Rise!” he called. “My Followers, rise!”
There was a series of groans and creaks. Throughout the cave the dead Followers began to stand.
They moved neither unusually slowly nor unusually quickly, but they moved with steady
determination. They did not seem to be armed, but as they neared the main chamber, Belinda—her