Also by Cassandra Clare

strong; Julian stumbled, and Emma felt it like a burst of pain in the back of her head. She dashed
forward, putting herself between the two brothers.
She was about to shout at Mark, to tell him to stop, when she caught sight of his face. His eyes
were wide and white with fear, his hand clutched to his chest—there was something there, something
that glittered at the end of a cord around his throat—and then he hurled himself off the bed, his body
jerking, hands and feet scrabbling at the hardwood.
“Move back,” Julian said to his siblings, not shouting, but his voice quick and authoritative. They
scrambled away, scattering. Emma caught a glimpse of Tavvy’s unhappy face as Dru lifted him off his
feet and carried him out of the room.
Mark had darted into the corner of the bedroom, where he froze, his hands wrapped around his
knees, his back pressed hard to the wall. Julian started after his brother, then stopped, the stele
dangling helplessly from his hand.
“Don’t touch me with that,” Mark said, and his voice—very recognizably Mark’s voice, and very
cold and precise—was shockingly at odds with the filthy scarecrow look of him. He held them at bay
with his glare.
“What’s wrong with him?” Livvy asked in a near whisper.
“It’s the stele.” It was Julian, voice soft.
“But why?” said Emma. “How can a Shadowhunter be afraid of a stele?”
“You call me afraid?” demanded Mark. “Insult me again and find your blood spilled, girl.”
“Mark, this is Emma,” Julian said. “Emma Carstairs.”
Mark pressed himself farther back into the wall. “Lies,” he said. “Lies and dreams.”
“I’m Julian,” Jules said. “Your brother Julian. And that’s Tiberius—”
“My brother Tiberius is a child!” Mark shouted, suddenly livid, his hands clawing behind him at
the wall. “He is a little boy!”
There was a horrified silence. “I’m not,” said Ty, finally, into the quiet. His hands were fluttering at
his sides, pale butterflies in the dim light. “I’m not a child.”
Mark said nothing. He closed his eyes, and tears slid out from beneath his lids, tracking down his
face, mixing with the dirt.
“Enough.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Cristina who had spoken. She looked embarrassed as
everyone turned to look at her, but stood her ground, chin up, straight-backed. “Can’t you see this is
tormenting him? If we were to go into the hall—”
“You go,” said Julian, looking at Mark. “I’ll stay here.”
Cristina shook her head. “No.” She sounded apologetic but firm. “All of us.” She paused as Julian
hesitated.
“Please,” she said.
She crossed the room and opened the door. Emma watched in amazement as the Blackthorns, one
by one, filed out of the room; a moment later they were all standing in the corridor, and Cristina was
shutting the door of Mark’s room behind her.
“I don’t know,” Julian said immediately as the door clicked shut. “Leaving him alone in there—”
“It’s his room,” Cristina said. Emma stared at her in amazement; how could she be so calm?
“But he doesn’t remember it,” Livvy said, looking agitated. “He doesn’t remember—anything.”
“He does remember,” Emma said, laying a hand on Livvy’s shoulder. “It’s just that everything he
remembers has changed.”
“We haven’t.” Livvy looked so woebegone that Emma pulled her close and kissed the top of her
head, which was no mean feat since Livvy was only an inch shorter than her.