Also by Cassandra Clare

making you something you do not want to be. But your father had many enemies. Now that he is dead
and cannot protect you, they will come after you. You will be safest in the Institute.”
Kit grunted. He looked neither impressed nor trusting.
It was odd, Emma thought, as they pulled up at the end of the road. The only things Kit had in
common with his father, looks-wise, were his height and slenderness. As he stepped out of the car,
hunching over his bloody shirt, his eyes were a clear blue. His hair, pale gold waves—that was pure
Herondale. And his face, too, the fine bones of it, the gracefulness. He was too bloody and scratched
and miserable-looking to tell now, but he’d be devastating someday.
Kit looked at the Institute, all glass and wood and shining in the afternoon light, with loathing.
“Aren’t Institutes like jails?”
Emma snorted. “They’re like big houses. Shadowhunters from all over the world can stay there.
They have a million bedrooms. I live in this one.”
“Whatever.” Kit sounded sullen. “I don’t want to go in.”
“You could run away,” Tessa said, and for the first time Emma heard the hardness under the gentle
tone of her voice. It was a reminder that she and Jace shared some of the same blood. “But you would
most likely be eaten by a Mantid demon as soon as the sun set.”
“I’m not a Shadowhunter,” Kit said, getting out of the car. “Stop acting like I am.”
“Well, there’s a quick test for it,” said Jem. “Only a Shadowhunter can open the door of the
Institute.”
“The door?” Kit stared at it. He was holding one arm close against his body. Emma’s gaze
sharpened. With Julian as a parabatai, she had become familiar with the way boys handled
themselves when they were trying to conceal an injury. Maybe some of that blood was his.
“Kit—” she began.
“Let me get this straight,” he interrupted. “If I try to open that door and I can’t, you’ll let me go?”
Tessa nodded. Before Emma could say anything else, Kit limped up the stairs. She dashed after
him, Tessa and Jem behind her. Kit put his shoulder to the door. He shoved.
The door flew open and he half-fell inside, nearly knocking over Tiberius, who had been crossing
the entryway. Ty stumbled back and stared at the boy on the floor.
Kit was kneeling, his hand clearly cradling his left arm. He was breathing hard as he looked
around, taking in the entryway—the marble floor, carved with runes. The swords hanging on the
walls. The mural of the Angel and the Mortal Instruments. “It’s impossible,” he said. “I can’t be.”
Ty’s look of astonishment faded. “Are you all right?”
“You,” Kit said, staring up at Ty. “You pointed a knife at me.”
Ty looked uncomfortable. He reached up to tug on a lock of his dark hair. “It was just work. Not
personal.”
Kit started to laugh. Still laughing, he sank back onto the floor. Tessa knelt down next to him,
putting her hands on his shoulders. Emma couldn’t help seeing herself, during the Dark War, breaking
down when she realized her parents were dead.
Kit looked up at her. His expression was blurry. It was the expression of someone who was using
every bit of his willpower not to cry. “A million bedrooms,” he said.
“What?” Emma said.
“You said there were a million bedrooms here,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to find an
empty one. And then I’m going to lock myself into it. And if anyone tries to break the door down, I’ll
kill them.”