Also by Cassandra Clare

was advancing on Ty and Livvy. He raised his hand again—and a small figure flew toward him,
holding up a blazing seraph blade.
It was Dru.
“Stay away from them!” she shrieked, her blade shining between them. “Stay away from my brother
and sister!”
Malcolm snarled, curling his finger toward her. A rope of purple light coiled around Dru’s legs,
jerking her off her feet. The seraph blade rolled away, sputtering against the stone. “I still need
Blackthorn blood,” Malcolm said, reaching down for her. “And yours will do as well as your little
brother’s would have. In fact, you look like you’d have a lot more of it—”
“Stop!” Emma shouted.
Malcolm looked up at her—and froze. Emma was standing upright on the stone table. One hand
clutched Cortana. The other held the candelabra of Hands of Glory.
“It took you a long time to collect these, didn’t it?” she said in a cold voice. “The hands of thirteen
murderers. Not so easy.”
Malcolm released Dru and she scuttled away toward the far side of the room, scrabbling at her belt
for another weapon. Malcolm’s face contorted. “Give it back.”
“Call them off,” Emma said. “Call off your Followers, and I’ll give you back your Hands of
Glory.”
“Deprive me of my chance to regain Annabel, and you will pay with agony,” he snarled.
“Can’t be worse than the agony of hearing you talk,” Emma said. “Call them off or I’ll cut these
disgusting things into tiny pieces.” She tightened her grip on Cortana. “Let’s see if you can do a magic
spell with those.”
Malcolm’s gaze swept the room. The bodies of Followers littered the cavern, but some of them
were still on their feet, pinning Diego and Cristina in the corner of the room. Mark and Kieran were
astride Windspear, both laying about themselves with blades. The horse’s hooves were stained redbrown
with blood.
The warlock’s hands clenched at his sides. He turned and spat a few words in Greek, and the
remaining Followers began to fall, crumpling to the ground. Diego and Cristina dashed over to Dru;
Kieran brought Windspear to a halt and the faerie steed stood still as the dead fell dead once again.
Malcolm charged toward the table. Emma ran the length of it, sprang off the end, and landed lightly
on the floor. Then she kept running.
She ran toward the rows of chairs that had been set up for the Followers, down the aisle between
them, and into the shadows. The faint glow of Cortana gave enough light that she could see a dark
corridor between rocks, snaking away into the hill.
She plunged into it. Only the glowing moss on the walls gave any illumination. She thought she
could see a glimmer in the distance and pressed on, though running with the heavy candelabra was
making her arm ache.
The corridor forked. Hearing footsteps behind her, Emma plunged to the left. She had only been
running for a few yards when a glass wall loomed up in front of her.
The porthole. It had grown larger, filling nearly a whole wall. The massive lever Emma
remembered protruded from the stone beside it. The porthole glowed from within, like an enormous
aquarium.
Behind the glass she could see the ocean—it was radiant, a deep blue-green. She could see fish
and drifting seaweed and strange lights and colors beyond the glass.
“Oh, Emma, Emma,” said Malcolm’s voice behind her. “You took the wrong path, didn’t you? But