Also by Cassandra Clare

“More since the Dark War.” Emma slipped Cortana back into its scabbard. She drew the stiletto
blades from her boots and handed one to Cristina before turning to face the target painted on the
opposite wall.
Cristina moved to Emma’s side and raised the blade in her hand, sighting down along the line of
her arm. Emma hadn’t thrown knives with Cristina before, but she was unsurprised to see that
Cristina’s posture and grip on the knife—her thumb parallel to the blade—were perfect. “Sometimes I
regret that I knew little of the war. I was in hiding in Mexico. My uncle Tomás was convinced Idris
would not be safe.”
Emma thought of Idris burning, of the blood in the streets, bodies stacked like kindling in the
Accords Hall. “Your uncle was right.”
“He died in the war, so I suppose he was.” Cristina released her blade; it flew through the air and
thumped into the central ring of the target. “My mother owned a house in San Miguel de Allende. We
went there, because the Institute was not safe. I always feel a coward when I think about it.”
“You were a kid,” Emma said. “They were right to send you where you would be safe.”
“Maybe,” said Cristina, looking downcast.
“Really. I’m not just saying that,” Emma told her. “I mean, how does Perfect Diego feel about it?
Does he feel like a coward?”
Cristina made a face. “I doubt it.”
“Of course not. He’s totally well-adjusted about everything. We should all be more like Perfect
Diego.”
“Hello!” A greeting rang through the room. It was Livvy, in practice gear, heading toward them.
She paused to pet her saber, which was hanging on the wall near the door with the other fencing
swords. Livvy had chosen the saber for her weapon when she was about twelve years old and had
practiced tenaciously ever since. She could discourse on types of saber, wooden grips versus rubber
or leather ones, tangs and pommels, and it was better not to get her started on pistol grips.
Emma admired her loyalty. She’d never felt a need to pick a weapon: Hers was always Cortana.
But she liked to be at least competent in everything, so she’d sparred with Livvy more than once.
“I missed you,” Livvy crooned to the saber. “I love you so much.”
“That was heartfelt,” Emma said. “If you’d said that to me when you got back, I would have cried.”
Livvy abandoned the saber and bounced over toward them. She commandeered a mat and began to
stretch her muscles. She could fold herself easily in half, tucking her fingers under her toes. “I did
miss you,” she said, voice muffled. “It was boring in England and there were no cute boys.”
“Julian said there were no humans for miles,” said Emma. “Anyway, it’s not like you missed
anything here.”
“Well, aside from the serial killings,” Livvy said, moving across the room to take up two throwing
knives. Emma and Cristina moved out of the way as she lined herself up across from the target. “And
I bet you dated Cameron Ashdown again, then dumped him.”
“She did,” said Cristina. Emma shot her a look that said traitor.
“Ha!” Livvy’s knife went wide of the target. She turned around, her braid bouncing on her
shoulders. “Emma goes out with him, like, every four months, then dumps him.”
“Oh?” Cristina cut a glance toward Emma. “Why has he been singled out for this special torture?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Emma said. “It wasn’t serious.”
“Not to you,” said Livvy. “Bet it was to him.” She held out her second knife to Cristina. “Want a
try?”
Cristina took the knife and moved into Livvy’s position.