Also by Cassandra Clare

clutching Tavvy tightly). In the distance, Julian thought he could see the faint pale shape of Windspear.
They headed toward the Institute steps together. At the top of the stairs, Julian hesitated with his
hand on the front door.
Anything could be waiting for him on the other side, from the massed array of the Council to a few
dozen Clave warriors. Julian knew there was no more hiding Mark. He knew what his plans were. He
knew they balanced, like a million angels, on the head of a pin. Chance, circumstance, and
determination held them together.
He glanced over and saw Emma looking at him. Though her tired and grimy face didn’t break into a
smile, he saw her confidence and her trust in him in her eyes.
He’d missed one, he thought. Chance, circumstance, determination—and faith.
He opened the door.
The light in the entryway was blazingly bright. Both witchlight chandeliers were burning, and the
upstairs gallery was illuminated by rows of torches that the family almost never used. Light glowed
beneath the doors of the Sanctuary.
In the middle of the room stood Magnus Bane, resplendent in an elegant outfit: a brocade jacket and
trousers, his fingers adorned with dozens of rings. Beside him was Clary Fairchild, her bright red
hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing a delicate green dress. They both looked as if they had just come
from a party.
As Julian and the rest flooded into the room, Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Well, well,” he said.
“Kill the fatted calf and all that. The prodigals have returned.”
Clary’s hand flew to her mouth. “Emma, Julian—” She whitened. “Mark? Mark Blackthorn?”
Mark said nothing. None of them did. Julian realized that unconsciously, they had grouped
themselves around Mark, a loose circle protecting him. Even Diego, wincing and blood-spattered,
was part of it.
Mark stood silent, his ragged pale-blond hair a halo around his head, his pointed ears and
polychrome eyes clearly visible in the bright light.
Magnus looked hard at Mark before glancing up toward the second floor. “Jace!” he called. “Get
down here!”
Clary made a move toward the Blackthorns, but Magnus pulled her back gently. She was frowning.
“Are you all right?” she said, directing the question to Emma but clearly meaning it for all of them.
“Are you hurt?”
Before anyone could speak, there was a commotion at the top of the steps, and a tall figure
appeared there.
Jace.
The first time Julian had really met Jace Herondale, who was famous throughout the Shadowhunter
world, Jace had been about seventeen and Julian had been twelve. Emma, who had also been twelve,
had not been shy about letting the world know she thought Jace was the handsomest and most amazing
person who had ever graced the planet with his presence.
Julian had not agreed, but then, no one had asked him.
Jace descended the stairs in a manner that made Julian wonder if Jace thought he had a magnificent
train trailing behind him—slowly, deliberately, and as if he were aware that he was the focus of all
eyes.
Or maybe he was just used to being stared at. Emma had stopped going on about Jace at some
point, but the Shadowhunter world in general considered him out of the ordinary in terms of looks.
His hair was shockingly gold and so were his eyes. Like Magnus and Clary he looked like he had