And it was probably cold outside too, he thought, as Ty pushed the door open and, yes, damp chilly air swirled in. Ty disappeared into the chill and the shadows outside, and Kit followed.

They were back on the roof, though it was no longer night, to Kit’s surprise; it was early morning—gray and heavy, with clouds gathering over the Thames and the dome of St. Paul’s. The noise of the city rose up, the pressure of millions of people going about their daily business, unaware of Shadowhunters, unaware of magic and danger. Unaware of Ty, who had gone to the railing surrounding the central part of the roof and was staring out over the city, his hands gripping the iron fleur-de-lis.

“Ty.” Kit went toward him, and Tiberius turned around, so his back was against the railing. His shoulders were stiff, and Kit stopped, not wanting to invade his personal space. “Are you all right?”

Ty shook his head. “Cold,” he said. His teeth were chattering. “I’m cold.”

“Then maybe we should go back downstairs,” said Kit. “Inside it’s warmer.”

“I can’t.” Ty’s voice sounded like it was coming from a long way down deep inside him, an echo half-sunk in water. “Being in that room, I couldn’t—it was—”

He shook his head in frustration, as if being unable to find the words was torturing him.

“Livvy’s going to be fine,” said Kit. “She’ll be okay by tomorrow. Magnus said.”

“But it’s my fault.” Ty was pressing his back harder against the railing, but it wasn’t holding him up. He slid down it until he was sitting on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was breathing hard and rocking back and forth, his hands up by his face as if to brush away cobwebs or annoying gnats. “If I was her parabatai—I wanted to go to the Scholomance, but that doesn’t matter; Livvy matters—”

“It’s not your fault,” Kit said. Ty just shook his head, hard. Kit tried frantically to remember what he’d read online about meltdowns, because he was pretty sure Ty was on his way to having one. He dropped to his knees on the damp roof—was he supposed to touch Ty, or not touch him?

He could only imagine what it was like for Ty all the time: all the world rushing at him at once, blaring sounds and stabbing lights and nobody remembering to modulate their voices. And to have all the ways you usually managed that ripped away by grief or fear, leaving you exposed as a Shadowhunter going into battle without their gear.

He remembered something about darkness, about pressure and weighted blankets and silence. Though he had no idea how he was going to get hold of any of those things up on top of a building.

“Tell me,” Kit said. Tell me what you need.

“Put your arms around me,” said Ty. His hands were pale blurs in the air, as if Kit were looking at a time-lapse photo. “Hold on to me.”

He was still rocking. After a moment, Kit put his arms around Ty, not quite knowing what else to do.

It was like holding a loosed arrow: Ty felt hot and sharp in his arms, and he was vibrating with some strange emotion. After what felt like a long time he relaxed slightly. His hands touched Kit, their motion slowing, his fingers winding themselves into Kit’s sweater.

“Tighter,” Ty said. He was hanging on to Kit as if he were a life raft, his forehead digging painfully into Kit’s shoulder. He sounded desperate. “I need to feel it.”

Kit had never been a casual hugger, and no one had ever, that he could remember, come to him for comforting. He wasn’t a comforting sort of person. He’d always assumed that. And he barely knew Ty.

But then, Ty didn’t do things for no reason, even if people whose brains were differently wired couldn’t see his reasons immediately. Kit remembered the way Livvy rubbed Ty’s hands tightly when he was stressed and thought: The pressure is a sensation; the sensation must be grounding. Calming. That made sense. So Kit found himself holding Ty harder, until Ty relaxed under the tight grip of his hands; held him more tightly than he’d ever held anyone, held him as if they’d been lost in the sea of the sky, and only holding on to each other could keep them afloat above the wreckage of London.

20

EVERMORE

Diana sat in her small room above the weapons shop and flipped through the file Jia had given her.

She hadn’t been in this room since the end of the Dark War, but it felt comfortable and familiar—the blanket her grandmother had made folded at the foot of the bed, the first blunt wooden daggers her father had given her to practice with on the wall, her mother’s shawl across the back of a chair. She wore a pair of bright red satin pajamas she’d found in an old trunk and felt amusingly dressed up.

Her amusement faded quickly, though, as she examined the pages inside the cream-colored file. First was Zara’s story about how she’d killed Malcolm, which had been signed off on by Samantha and Dane as witnesses. Not that Diana would have believed Samantha or her brother if they’d said the sky was blue.

Zara was claiming that the Centurions had chased Malcolm away the first time he’d attacked, and that the next night she’d fearlessly patrolled the borders of the Institute until she’d found him lurking in the shadows and bested him in a one-on-one swordfight. She claimed his body had then disappeared.

Malcolm was hardly a lurk-in-the-shadows type, and from what Diana had seen on the night he’d returned, his magic was still working. He’d never fight Zara with a blade when he could blast her with fire.

But none of that was hard evidence that she was lying. Diana frowned, turning the pages, and then sat up straight. There was more here than just the report on Malcolm’s death. There were pages and pages about Zara. Dozens of reports of her achievements. All together like this, it was an impressive package. And yet . . .

As Diana read through, taking careful notes, a pattern started to emerge. Every success of Zara’s, every triumph, took place when no one was around to witness it except those in her inner circle—Samantha, Dane, or Manuel. Often others would arrive in time to see the empty demon nest, or the evidence of a battle, but that was all.

There were no reports of Zara ever being wounded or hurt in any battle. Diana thought of the scars she’d gotten through her life as a Shadowhunter and frowned more deeply. And more deeply yet when she reached Marisol Garza Solcedo’s year-old report—Marisol claimed to have saved a group of mundanes from an attacking Druj demon in Portugal. She was knocked unconscious. When she awoke, she said, Zara’s destruction of the Druj was being celebrated.

The report had been submitted, along with a signed statement by Zara, Jessica, Samantha, Dane, and Manuel, stating that Marisol was imagining things. Zara, they said, had killed the Druj after a fierce fight; again, Zara had no wounds.

She takes credit for what other people do, Diana thought. Her window rattled, wind probably. I ought to go to bed, she thought. The clock in the Gard, new since the Dark War, had rung the early hours of dawn some time ago. But she kept reading, fascinated. Zara would hang back, wait for the battle to be over, and announce the victory as her own. With her group backing her up, the Clave accepted her claims at face value.

But if it could be proved that she hadn’t killed Malcolm—in some way that kept Julian and the others protected—then perhaps the Cohort would be disgraced. Certainly the Dearborns’ bid to seize the Los Angeles Institute would fail—