Also by Cassandra Clare

At the sound of Sebastian’s name, Clary went pale. She looked immediately over at Jace, who
matched her glance—a look woven through with years of shared history. “No,” Clary said. “They
weren’t. Sebastian was a murderer, but Emma has never believed that he was responsible for her
parents’ deaths, and neither have Jace or I.” She turned to look at Emma. “You were right,” she said.
“I always thought you would be proved right someday. But I’m sorry it was Malcolm. He was your
friend.”
“And mine,” said Magnus, his voice strained. Clary moved toward him, placing her hand on his
arm.
“He was also the High Warlock,” said Robert. “How did this happen? What do you mean he’d
been murdering people?”
“A series of killings in Los Angeles,” said Diego. “He was convincing mundanes to commit murder
and then harvesting their bodies for parts he could use in necromancy.”
“The Clave should have been called in.” Robert sounded furious. “The Clave should have been
called in the moment a faerie convoy approached you—”
“Inquisitor,” said Diego. He sounded tired. The whole right shoulder of his gear was dark red with
blood. “I am a Centurion. I answer directly to the Council. I didn’t report what was happening either,
because once things were in motion, reporting would have meant slowing things down.” He didn’t
look at Cristina. “The Clave would have begun the investigation over again. There was no time, and
the life of a child hung in the balance.” He put his hand to his chest. “If you wish to strip me of my
medallion, I would understand. But I will maintain to the end that the Blackthorns did what was
right.”
“I am not going to strip you of your medallion, Diego Rocio Rosales,” said Robert. “We have few
Centurions, and you are one of the best.” He looked at Diego critically, at his bloody arm and
exhausted face. “The Council will expect a report from you tomorrow, but for now, see to your
wounds.”
“I’ll go with him,” Cristina said.
She helped Diego up the stairs, him leaning on her slender frame. Mark looked up at them and then
away as they disappeared past the witchlight, into the shadows.
“Robert,” said Jace when they were gone. “When Julian was twelve he testified in front of the
Council. It’s been five years. Let him talk now.”
Despite the look of clear reluctance on his face, Robert nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Everyone
wants to hear you speak, Julian Blackthorn. So speak.”
Julian spoke. Calmly and without flourishes, he began to describe the investigation, from the first
bodies found to their realization that evening of Malcolm’s guilt.
Emma watched her parabatai as he spoke, and wondered how things would have turned out
differently if Sebastian Morgenstern hadn’t attacked the L.A. Institute five years ago.
In Emma’s mind, for years now, there had been two Julians. Julian before the attack, who was like
everyone else—loving his family but annoyed by them too; a brother among brothers and sisters with
whom he squabbled and argued and teased and laughed.
And Julian after. Julian, still a child, teaching himself how to feed and change a baby, cooking four
different meals for four younger siblings who liked and disliked different things; Julian hiding his
uncle’s sickness from a mass of adults who would have taken his children away from him; Julian
waking up from screaming nightmares that something had happened to Ty or Livvy or Dru.
Emma had been there to hold him, but she had never quite understood—how could she have, when