“I’m here,” Mark said, placing the sword he’d been holding back in the rack. The full moon was high, and white light filtered through the windows. The moon traced a path like a road across the sea from where it kissed the horizon to the edge of the beach.

Jace hadn’t said anything yet; he was watching Mark with hooded golden eyes, like a hawk’s. Mark couldn’t help but remember Clary and Jace as they had been when he’d met them just after the Hunt had taken him. He’d been hiding in the tunnels near the Seelie Court when they’d come walking toward him, and his heart had ached and broken to see them. Shadowhunters, striding through the dangers of Faerie, heads held high. They were not lost; they were not running. They were not afraid.

He had wondered if he would have that pride again, that lack of fear. Even as Jace had pressed a witchlight into his hand, even as he had said, Show them what a Shadowhunter is made of, show them that you aren’t afraid, Mark had been sick with fear.

Not for himself. For his family. How would they fare in a world at war, without him to protect them?

Surprisingly well, had been the answer. They hadn’t needed him after all. They’d had Jules.

Jace seated himself on a windowsill. He was bigger than he had been the first time Mark had met him, of course. Taller, broader shouldered, though still graceful. Rumor had it that even the Seelie Queen had been impressed by his looks and manner, and faerie gentry were rarely impressed by humans. Even Shadowhunters.

Though sometimes they were. Mark supposed his own existence was proof of that. His mother, the Lady Nerissa of the Seelie Court, had loved his Shadowhunter father.

“Julian doesn’t want the Centurions here,” said Jace. “Does he?”

Mark looked at them both with suspicion. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mark won’t tell us his brother’s secrets, Jace,” said Clary. “Would you tell Alec’s?”

The window behind Jace rose high and clear, so clear Mark sometimes imagined he could fly out of it. “Maybe if it was for his own good,” Jace said.

Clary made an inelegant doubtful noise. “Mark,” she said. “We need your help. We have some questions about Faerie and the Courts—their actual physical layout—and there don’t seem to be any answers—not from the Spiral Labyrinth, not from the Scholomance.”

“And honestly,” Jace said, “we don’t want to look too much like we’re investigating, because this mission is secret.”

“Your mission is to Faerie?” Mark guessed.

They both nodded.

Mark was astonished. Shadowhunters had never been comfortable in the actual Lands of Faerie, and since the Cold Peace they’d avoided them like poison. “Why?” He turned quickly from the claymore. “Is this some kind of revenge mission? Because Iarlath and some of the others cooperated with Malcolm? Or—because of what happened to Emma?”

Emma still sometimes needed help with the last of her bandages. Every time Mark looked at the red lines crossing her skin, he felt guilt and sickness. They were like a web of bloody threads that kept him bound to the deception they were both perpetrating.

Clary’s eyes were kind. “We’re not planning to hurt anyone,” she said. “There’s no revenge going on here. This is strictly about information.”

“You think I’m worried about Kieran,” realized Mark. The name lodged in his throat like a piece of snapped-off bone. He had loved Kieran, and Kieran had betrayed him and gone back to the Hunt, and whenever Mark thought about him, it felt as if he were bleeding from someplace inside. “I am not,” he said, “worried about Kieran.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we talked to him,” said Jace.

“I wouldn’t be worried about him,” said Mark. “I might be worried about you.”

Clary laughed softly. “Thank you, Mark.”

“He’s the son of the Unseelie Court’s King,” said Mark. “The King has fifty sons. All of them vie for the throne. The King is tired of them. He owed Gwyn a favor, so he gave him Kieran in repayment. Like the gift of a sword or a dog.”

“As I understand it,” said Jace, “Kieran came to you, and offered to help you, against the wishes of the fey. He put himself in grave danger to assist you.”

Mark supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Jace knew that. Emma often confided in Clary. “He owed me. It was thanks to him that those I love were badly hurt.”

“Still,” said Jace, “there is some chance he might prove amenable to our questions. Especially if we could tell him they were endorsed by you.”

Mark said nothing. Clary kissed Jace on the cheek and murmured something in his ear before she headed out of the room. Jace watched her go, his expression momentarily soft. Mark felt a sharp stab of envy. He wondered if he would ever be like that with someone: the way they seemed to match, Clary’s kind playfulness and Jace’s sarcasm and strength. He wondered if he had ever matched with Kieran. If he would have matched with Cristina, had things been different.

“What is it you mean to ask Kieran?” he said.

“Some questions about the Queen, and about the King,” said Jace. Noting Mark’s impatient movement, he said, “I’ll tell you a little, and remember I should be telling you nothing. The Clave would have my head for this.” He sighed. “Sebastian Morgenstern left a weapon with one of the Courts of Faerie,” he said. “A weapon that could destroy us all, destroy all Nephilim.”

“What does the weapon do?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. That’s part of what we need to find out. But we know it’s deadly.”

Mark nodded. “I think Kieran will help you,” he said. “And I can give you a list of names of those in Faerie to look for who might be friendly to your cause, because it will not be a popular one. I do not think you know how much they hate you. If they have a weapon, I hope you find it, because they will not hesitate to use it, and they will have no mercy on you.”

Jace looked up through golden lashes that were very like Kit’s. His gaze was watchful and still. “Mercy on us?” he said. “You’re one of us.”

“That seems to depend on who you ask,” Mark said. “Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll start with the names . . . .”

* * *

It had been too long since Uncle Arthur had left the attic room where he slept, ate, and did his work. Julian wrinkled his nose as he and Diana climbed the narrow stairs—the air was staler than usual, rancid with old food and sweat. The shadows were thick. Arthur was a shadow himself, hunched over his desk, a witchlight burning in a dish on the windowsill above. He didn’t react to Julian and Diana’s presence.

“Arthur,” Diana said, “we need to speak with you.”

Arthur turned slowly in his chair. Julian felt his gaze skate over Diana, and then over himself. “Miss Wrayburn,” he said, finally. “What can I do for you?”

Diana had accompanied Julian on trips to the attic before, but rarely. Now that the truth of their situation was known by Mark and Emma, Julian had been able to acknowledge to Diana what they had always both known but never spoken about.

For years, since he was twelve years old, Julian had borne alone the knowledge that his uncle Arthur was mad, his mind shattered during his imprisonment in the Seelie Court. He had periods of lucidity, helped by the medicine Malcolm Fade had provided, but they never lasted long.