Also by Cassandra Clare

“No,” Julian said, his voice gentle, and Emma wondered not for the first time how he could be so
gentle when she knew he must feel like screaming and flying apart into a thousand pieces. “But
sometimes they give you back what belongs to you.”
Ty said nothing. His hands were still fluttering in their repetitive movements. There had been a time
when Ty’s father had tried to train him to immobility, had held his son’s hands tightly at his sides
when he was upset and said, “Still, still.” It had panicked Ty into throwing up. Julian never did that.
He just said everyone got butterflies when they were nervous; some people got them in their
stomachs, and Ty showed his in his hands. Ty had been pleased by that. He loved moths, butterflies,
bees—anything with wings.
“He doesn’t look like I remember,” said a tiny voice. It was Dru, who had edged into the room
around Cristina. She was holding hands with Tavvy.
“Well,” said Emma. “Mark is five years older now.”
“He doesn’t look older,” said Dru. “He just looks different.”
There was a silence. Dru was right. Mark didn’t look older, certainly not five years older. Partly it
was because he was so thin, but there was more to it than that.
“He’s been in Faerie all these years,” Julian said. “And time— time works differently there.”
Ty stepped forward. His gaze raked the bed, examining his brother. Drusilla hung back. She’d been
eight when Mark had gone; Emma couldn’t imagine what her memories of him were like— cloudy
and blurred, probably. And as for Tavvy—Tavvy had been two. To him the boy in the bed would be a
total stranger.
But Ty. Ty would remember. Ty moved closer to the bed, and Emma could almost see the quick
mind working behind his gray eyes. “That would make sense. There are all sorts of stories about
people vanishing for a night with the faeries and coming back to find a hundred years have passed.
Five years could have been like two years for him. He looks about the same age as you, Jules.”
Julian cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”
Ty cocked his head to the side. “Why did they bring him back?”
Julian hesitated. Emma didn’t move; she didn’t know, any more than he did, how to tell the children
who were looking at them with wide eyes that the lost brother who appeared to have been returned to
them forever might be here only temporarily.
“He’s bleeding,” Dru said.
“What?” Julian tapped the witchlight lamp at the side of the bed and the glow in the room
intensified to a hot brightness. Emma drew in her breath. The side of Mark’s ragged white T-shirt, at
his shoulder, was red with blood—a patch that was slowly spreading.
“Stele,” Julian barked, holding out his hand. He was already pulling at his brother’s shirt, baring
his shoulder and collarbone, where a half-healed gash had opened. Blood was trickling from the
wound, not fast, but Tavvy made an inarticulate sound of distress.
Emma pulled her stele from her belt and threw it. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t need to.
Julian’s hand came up and he caught it out of the air. He bent to press the tip to Mark’s skin, to begin
the healing rune—
Mark screamed.
His eyes flew open, bright and crazed, and he thrashed out at the air with his stained, dirty, bloody
hands.
“Get it away,” he snarled, struggling upright. “Get it away, get that thing away from me!”
“Mark—”
Julian reached for his brother, but Mark batted him away. He might have been thin, but he was