Also by Cassandra Clare

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“I’m straight,” Malcolm said, looking surprised.
“Well, all right, then a girlfriend. You should find a nice Downworlder girl, maybe a vampire, so
she’ll live forever.”
“Leave Malcolm’s love life alone, Dru,” said Livvy.
“True love is hard to find,” Malcolm said, gesturing at the people kissing on-screen.
“Movie love is hard to find,” said Julian. “Because it’s not real.”
“What do you mean?” said Cristina. “Are you saying there is no true love? I don’t believe that.”
“Love isn’t chasing someone to the airport,” said Julian. He leaned forward, and Emma could see
just the edge of the parabatai Mark on his collarbone, escaping above the neck of his T-shirt. “Love
means you see someone. That’s all.”
“You see them?” Ty echoed, sounding dubious. He’d turned the music down on his player, but his
headphones were still on, his black hair scrunched up around them.
Julian took hold of the remote. The movie had ended; white credits scrolled down the screen.
“When you love someone, they become a part of who you are. They’re in everything you do. They’re
in the air you breathe and the water you drink and the blood in your veins. Their touch stays on your
skin and their voice stays in your ears and their thoughts stay in your mind. You know their dreams
because their nightmares pierce your heart and their good dreams are your dreams too. And you don’t
think they’re perfect, but you know their flaws, the deep-down truth of them, and the shadows of all
their secrets, and they don’t frighten you away; in fact you love them more for it, because you don’t
want perfect. You want them. You want—”
He broke off then, as if realizing everyone was looking at him.
“You want what?” said Dru with enormous eyes.
“Nothing,” Julian said. “I’m just talking.” And he shut off the TV and picked up the pizza boxes.
“I’m going to throw these away,” he said, and left.
“When he falls in love,” said Dru, looking after him, “it’s going to be like . . . wow.”
“Of course then we’ll probably never see him again,” said Livvy. “Lucky girl, whoever she’ll be.”
Ty’s brows drew together. “You’re joking, right?” he said. “You don’t mean we’ll actually never
see him again?”
“Definitely not,” Emma said. When Ty was much younger, he’d been puzzled by the way people
talked and the way they exaggerated to make a point. Phrases like “raining cats and dogs” had caused
him annoyance—and sometimes a small amount of betrayal, since he liked cats and dogs a great deal
more than he liked rain.
At some point Julian had begun a series of silly drawings for him, showing the literal meaning of
phrases and then the figurative ones. Ty had giggled at the illustrations of cats and dogs falling out of
the sky and people having their socks knocked off, as well as the bubble pictures of animals and
people explaining what the idioms really meant. After that he was often to be found in the library,
looking up expressions and their meanings, committing them to memory. Ty didn’t mind having things
explained to him, and he never forgot what he’d been taught, but he preferred teaching himself.
He still sometimes liked to be reassured that an exaggeration was an exaggeration, even if he was
90 percent sure of it. Livvy, who knew better than anyone the anxiety that imprecise language could
cause her brother, scrambled to her feet and went over to him. She put her arms around him, her chin
against his shoulder. Ty leaned against her, his eyes half-lidded. Ty liked physical affection when he
was in the mood for it, as long as it wasn’t too intense—he liked having his hair ruffled and his back
patted or scratched. Sometimes he reminded Emma a bit of their cat, Church, when Church wanted an