Also by Cassandra Clare

EMERGENCY
PLEASE COME NOW
PLEASE
KIT ROOK
“Cristina?”
Cristina uncurled herself slowly. Her back and legs ached; she’d fallen asleep in the chair beside
her bed. She could, she supposed, have curled up on the floor, but it would have been more difficult
to keep an eye on Diego that way.
The wound to his shoulder had been much worse than she’d thought: a deep cut surrounded by the
red blister-burn of dark magic that made healing runes nearly ineffective. She’d cut his bloody gear
off him and the shirt under it as well, soaked through with sweat and blood.
She’d brought towels and padded the bed under him with them, wetted some of them down to
sponge the blood from his face and neck. She’d given him painkilling rune after painkilling rune,
healing rune after healing rune. Still, he’d tossed and turned much of the night, his storm-black hair
tangled against the pillows.
Not since she’d left Mexico had she so clearly and painfully remembered what they had been to
each other when they were younger. How much she had loved him. Her heart had felt torn to pieces
when he cried out for his brother, pleading with him. Jaime, Jaime, ayúdame. Help me. And then he
had cried out for her, and that was worse. Cristina, no me dejes. Regresa.
Cristina, don’t leave me. Come back.
I’m here, she’d told him. Estoy aquí, but he hadn’t woken up, and his fingers had clawed at the
sheets until he’d fallen into an uneasy slumber.
She didn’t remember how long after that she’d fallen asleep herself. She’d been able to hear the
sound of voices from downstairs, and then footsteps in the hall. Emma had ducked in to check on her
and Diego, had hugged her and gone to sleep when Cristina had assured her that everything was all
right.
But there was light streaming through the window now, and Diego was looking at her with eyes
clear of pain and fever.
“¿Estás bien?” she whispered, her throat dry.
He sat up, and the sheet fell away from him. It was, Cristina thought, rather a sudden reminder that
he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She focused on the fact that there was a mark on his chest where Malcolm’s
magic had struck him. It was over his heart, like a marriage rune would be, and it was a more intense
violet than a bruise. It was almost the color of Malcolm’s eyes.
“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “I am all right. Were you with—” He looked
down, and for a moment he was very much the little boy Cristina remembered, trailing in Jaime’s
disastrous wake, weathering trouble and scoldings in quiet silence. “I dreamed you stayed with me.”
“I did stay with you.” She resisted the urge to lean forward and push his hair back.
“And everything’s all right?” he asked. “I don’t remember much after we returned.”
She nodded. “It worked out surprisingly well.”
“This is your room?” Diego said, glancing around. His gaze lit on something past her left ear and
he smiled. “I remember that.”
Cristina turned to look. Perched on a shelf by the bed was an árbol de vida, a tree of life—a
delicate pottery framework hung all over with ceramic flowers, moons, suns, lions, mermaids, and
arrows. The angel Gabriel rested at the bottom, his back against the tree, his shield across his knee. It
was one of the few reminders of home she’d brought with her when she left.