Julian raised his glass of water with a brilliantly artificial smile. “Shouldn’t all Nephilim information be shared? We fight the same demons. If one branch of Nephilim has an advantage, isn’t that unfair?”

“Not necessarily,” said Samantha Larkspear, the female half of the twin Centurions Emma had met the day before. Her brother’s name was Dane; they shared the same thin, whippety faces, pale skin, and straight dark hair. “Not everyone has the training to use every tool, and a weapon you don’t know how to wield is wasted.”

“Everyone can learn,” said Mark.

“Then perhaps one day you will attend the Scholomance and be trained,” said the Centurion from Mumbai. Her name was Divya Joshi.

“It’s unlikely the Scholomance would accept someone with faerie blood,” said Zara.

“The Clave is hidebound,” said Diego. “That is true.”

“I dislike the word ‘hidebound,’ ” said Zara. “What they are is traditional. They seek to restore the separations between Downworlders and Shadowhunters that have always been in place. Mixing creates confusion.”

“I mean, look at what’s happened with Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane,” said Samantha, waving her fork. “Everyone knows that Magnus uses his influence with the Lightwoods to get the Inquisitor to let Downworlders off the hook. Even for things like murder.”

“Magnus would never do that,” Emma said. She’d stopped eating, though she’d been starving when they’d sat down.

“And the Inquisitor doesn’t try Downworlders—only Shadowhunters,” said Julian. “Robert Lightwood couldn’t ‘let Downworlders off the hook’ if he wanted to.”

“Whatever,” said Jessica Beausejours, a Centurion with a faint French accent and rings on all her fingers. “The Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance will be shut down soon enough.”

“No one’s shutting it down,” said Cristina. Her mouth was a tight line. “That’s a rumor.”

“Speaking of rumors,” said Samantha, “I heard Bane tricked Alec Lightwood into falling in love with him using a spell.” Her eyes glittered, as if she couldn’t decide if she found the idea appealing or disgusting.

“That’s not true,” said Emma, her heart beating fast. “That is a lie.”

Manuel raised an eyebrow at her. Dane laughed. “I wonder what will happen when it wears off, in that case,” he said. “Bad news for Downworlders if the Inquisitor’s not so friendly.”

Ty looked bewildered. Emma could hardly blame him. None of Zara’s circle seemed to care about facts. “Didn’t you hear Julian?” he said. “The Inquisitor doesn’t supervise cases where Downworlders have broken the Accords. He doesn’t—”

Livvy put her hand on his wrist.

“We all support the Accords here,” said Manuel, leaning back in his chair.

“The Accords were a fine idea,” said Zara. “But every tool needs sharpening. The Accords require refining. Warlocks should be regulated, for instance. They are too powerful, and too independent. My father plans to suggest a registry of warlocks to the Council. Every warlock must give their information to the Clave and be tracked. If successful, it will be expanded to all Downworlders. We can’t have them running around without us being able to keep tabs on them. Look what happened with Malcolm Fade.”

“Zara, you sound ridiculous,” said Jon Cartwright, one of the older Centurions—about twenty-two, Emma would have guessed. Jace and Clary’s age. The only thing Emma could remember about him was that he had a girlfriend, Marisol. “Like an ancient Council member, afraid of change.”

“Agreed,” said Rayan. “We’re students and fighters, not lawmakers. Whatever your father may be doing, it’s not relevant to the Scholomance.”

Zara looked indignant. “It’s just a registry—”

“Am I the only one who’s read X-Men and realizes why this is a bad idea?” said Kit. Emma had no idea when he’d reappeared, but he had, and was idly twirling pasta on his fork.

Zara began to frown, then brightened. “You’re Kit Herondale,” she said. “The lost Herondale.”

“I didn’t realize I was lost,” said Kit. “I never felt lost.”

“It must be exciting, suddenly finding out you’re a Herondale,” Zara said. Emma restrained the urge to point out that if you didn’t know much about Shadowhunters, finding out you were a Herondale was about as exciting as finding out you were a new species of snail. “I met Jace Herondale once.”

She looked around expectantly.

“Wow,” said Kit. He really was a Herondale, Emma thought. He’d managed to insert Jace-levels of indifference and sarcasm into one word.

“I bet you can’t wait to get to the Academy,” said Zara. “Since you’re a Herondale, you’ll certainly excel. I could put in a good word for you.”

Kit was silent. Diana cleared her throat. “So what are your plans for tomorrow, Zara, Diego? Is there anything the Institute can do to assist you?”

“Now that you mention it,” Zara said, “it would be incredibly useful . . .”

Everyone, even Kit, leaned forward with interest.

“If, while we were gone during the day, you did our laundry. Ocean water does ruin clothes quickly, don’t you find?”

* * *

Night fell with the suddenness of shadows in the desert, but despite the sound of waves coming in through her window, Cristina couldn’t sleep.

Thoughts of home tore at her. Her mother, her cousins. Better, past days with Diego and Jaime: She remembered a weekend she had spent with them once, tracking a demon in the dilapidated ghost town of Guerrero Viejo. The dreamlike landscape all around them: half-drowned houses, feathery weeds, buildings long discolored by water. She had lain on a rock with Jaime under uncountable stars, and they had told each other what they wanted most in the world: she, to end the Cold Peace; he, to bring honor back to his family.

Exasperated, she got out of bed and went downstairs, with only witchlight to illuminate her steps. The stairs were dark and quiet, and she found her way out the back door of the Institute with little noise.

Moonlight swept across the small dirt lot where the Institute’s car was parked. Behind the lot was a garden, where white marble classical statues poked incongruously out of the desert sand.

Cristina missed her mother’s rose garden with a sudden intensity. The scent of the flowers, sweeter than desert sage; her mother walking between the orderly rows. Cristina used to joke that her mother must have a warlock’s help in keeping the flowers blooming even during the hottest summer.

She moved farther away from the house, toward the rows of hollyleaf cherry and alder trees. Drawing closer to them, she saw a shadow and froze, realizing she had brought no weapons with her. Stupid, she thought—the desert was full of dangers, not all of them supernatural. Mountain lions didn’t distinguish between mundanes and Nephilim.

It wasn’t a mountain lion. The shadow moved closer; she tensed, then relaxed. It was Mark.

The moonlight turned his hair silvery white. His feet were bare under the hems of his jeans. Astonishment crossed his face as he saw her; then he walked up to her without hesitation and put a hand on her cheek.