It had certainly worked on Emma. Despite Julian’s best efforts with the tea, she had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, Malcolm’s diary open beside her, her body curled like a cat’s.

She had been reading out loud to him from the diary before she’d fallen asleep. From the very beginning, when Malcolm had been found alone, a confused child who couldn’t remember his parents and had no idea what a warlock was. The Blackthorns had taken him in, as far as Julian could tell, because they thought a warlock might be useful to them, a warlock they could control and compel. They had explained to him his true nature, and none too gently at that.

Of all the family, only Annabel had shown kindness to Malcolm. They had explored the cliffs and caves of Cornwall together as children, and she had shown him how they could exchange messages secretly using a raven as a carrier. Malcolm wrote lyrically of the seaside, its changes and tempests, and lyrically of Annabel, even when he did not know his own feelings. He loved her quick wit and her strong nature. He loved her protectiveness—he wrote of how she had defended him angrily to her cousins—and over time he began to marvel at not just the beauty of her heart. His pen skipped and stuttered as he wrote of her soft skin, the shape of her hands and mouth, the times when her hair came out of its plaits and floated around her like a cloud of shadow.

Julian had almost been glad when Emma’s voice had trailed off, and she’d lain down—just to rest her eyes, she said—and fallen almost instantly asleep. He had never thought he would sympathize with Malcolm or think of the two of them as alike, but Malcolm’s words could have been the story of the ruination of his own heart.

Sometimes, Malcolm had written, someone you have known all your life becomes no longer familiar to you, but strange in a marvelous way, as if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty. Annabel, you have taken my life, my life as dull as the edge of an unused blade, you have taken it apart and put it back together in a shape so strange and marvelous I can only wonder . . .

There was a loud thud, a sound as if a bird had flown into the glass of one of the windows. Julian sat up straight, reaching for the dagger he’d placed on the low table next to the sofa.

The thud came again, louder.

Julian rose to his feet. Something moved outside the window—the flash of something white. It was gone, and then there was another thud. Something thrown against the glass, like a child throwing pebbles at a friend’s window to get their attention.

Julian glanced at Emma. She had rolled onto her back, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. Her mouth was slightly open, her cheeks flushed.

He went to the door and turned the knob slowly, trying to prevent it from squeaking. It opened, and he stepped out into the night.

It was cool and dark, the moon dangling over the water like a pearl on the end of a chain. Around the house was uneven ground that fell away almost sheerly on one side to the ocean. The surface of the water was darkly transparent, the shape of rocks visible through it as if Julian was looking through black glass.

“Julian,” said a voice. “Julian Blackthorn.”

He turned. The house was behind him. Ahead of him was Peak Rock, the tip of the cliff, and dark grass growing out of gaps between the gray stones.

He raised his hand, the witchlight rune-stone in it. Light rayed out, illuminating the girl standing in front of him.

It was as if she’d stepped out of his own drawing. Dark hair, straight as a pin, an oval face like a sad Madonna, framed by the hood of an enormous cloak. Beneath the cloak he could see thin, pale ankles and cracked shoes.

“Annabel?” he said.

* * *

The knife flew from Kit’s hand. It shot across the distance between him and the approaching mob and drove straight into Barnabas Hale’s shoulder. The snake-scaled warlock staggered backward and fell, yelling in pain.

“Kit!” Livvy said, in amazement; he could tell she wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing, but he’d never forgotten an Emerson quote that was a favorite of his father’s: When you strike at a king, you must kill him.

One warlock was more powerful than a pack of werewolves, and Barnabas was their leader. Two reasons to take him out of the fight. But there was no more time to think about that, because the Downworlders were on them.

“Umbriel!” shouted Livvy. A blazing blade shot from her hand. She was a whirl of motion, her saber training making her fast and graceful. She spun in a deadly circle, her hair whipping around her. She was a gorgeous blur of light and dark, and arcs of blood followed her blade.

Ty, wielding a shortsword, had backed up against the pillar of a stall, which was clever because the stall owner was shouting at the Downworlders to get back even as they advanced.

“Oi! Get away!” yelled the stall owner, and her wares began to fly through the air, bottles of tinctures splattering against the surprised faces of werewolves and vampires. Some of the substances seemed corrosive—at least one werewolf fell back with a yell, clutching a sizzling face.

Ty smiled, and despite everything that was happening, it made Kit want to smile, too. He filed it away as a memory to revisit later, considering that right now a massive werewolf with shoulders like flying buttresses was careening toward him. He reached out and yanked a pole free of Shade’s tent, causing the whole structure to tilt.

Kit swung out with the pole. It wasn’t the hardest metal, but it was flexible, like a massive whip. He heard the crunch of bone against skin as it slammed the leaping werewolf directly in the sternum. With a grunt of agony, the lycanthrope went sailing past Kit’s head.

Kit’s body thrummed with excitement. Maybe they could do it. Maybe the three of them could fight their way out of this. Maybe that was what it meant to have Heaven in your blood.

Livvy screamed.

Kit knocked a vampire out of his way with a vicious whack of the pole, and spun to see what had happened. One of the bottles flying through the air had smashed against her side. It was clearly an acidic substance—it was burning through the material of her clothes, and though her hand was clamped against the wound, Kit could see blood between her fingers.

She was still slashing out with her other hand, but the Downworlders, like sharks smelling blood, had turned away from Ty and Kit and were moving toward her. She hit out, spearing two, but without being able to properly shield her body, her circle of protection was shrinking. A vampire stepped nearer, licking his lips.

Kit began to run toward her. Ty was ahead of him, using his shortsword to hack his way through the crowd. Blood was pattering down on the ground at Livvy’s feet. Kit’s heart tensed with panic. She slumped just as Ty reached her and the two of them went down on the ground, Livvy in her brother’s arms. Umbriel clattered from her hand.

Kit staggered toward the two of them. He threw his pole aside, hitting several werewolves, and snatched up Livvy’s seraph blade.

Ty had put down the shortsword. He was holding his sister, who was unconscious, her hair spilling across his shoulders and chest. He had his stele out and was tracing a healing rune on her skin, though his hand was shaking and the rune was uneven.

Kit held up the blazing sword. The light of it made the Downworlders cringe back slightly, but he knew it wasn’t enough: They would press on, and tear him apart, and then they would tear apart Livvy and Ty. He saw Barnabas, his suit soaked in blood, leaning on the arm of a bodyguard. His eyes, fixed on Kit, were filled with hate.