Grace gave a little cry as she caught sight of the still-wet blood on Jesse’s body. His hands were still folded over the Blackthorn sword. She darted to his side. “Is he all right?”

“He’s as dead as he was before,” said Malcolm, somewhat impatiently. “He’s certainly better for having Belial cast out of him, but that doesn’t make him alive.”

Grace looked at Lucie in a little surprise, but Lucie only shook her head slightly. She had suspected Malcolm might have witnessed more of the fight in Mount Street Gardens than he was letting on.

“The anchor is gone,” Lucie said. “I can sense that, but I can also sense that Jesse, the essential spark of him—that’s still there.”

But Grace was shaking her head. Her hood had fallen back, and her blond hair tumbled down over her shoulders, loose from its pins. “Why did you bring him here?” she said. “This is the Sanctuary, the heart of the Institute. Once the Nephilim find out what happened, they’ll burn his body.”

“There was no way to hide it from them,” said Lucie. “Too many people know. And we were never going to be able to raise him here in London. Malcolm and I talked at the Shadow Market, before today, and the only way to do it is to take him away from here, Grace.”

Grace had gone rigid. “Now?”

“Tonight,” said Lucie. “They will let his body remain here until morning, but tomorrow they’ll move him to Idris. And that will be that.”

“You didn’t ask me,” said Grace stiffly. “If it would be all right to take him.”

“This is his only chance,” said Malcolm. “If you truly wish me to attempt necromancy, I will not do it in the heart of the city. I must have space, and my instruments and books. And even then, I cannot promise.”

“But you have an arrangement,” said Grace, straightening. “With Lucie. An agreement. She has convinced you.”

“She has offered me an equitable exchange,” said Malcolm, buttoning his sweeping coat. “And in return, I will take your brother away from London, to a safe place, and do what I can for him. If you refuse that, I will do nothing.”

“No one knows you are here, Grace, do they?” said Lucie. “No one knows you’re part of this at all.”

“The Bridgestocks think I’m at their house. But I don’t see what that has—”

“You can come with us,” said Lucie.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. Even Grace looked stunned. “What?”

“I said you can come with us,” said Lucie. “No one would be expecting it, or trying to prevent you from departing. We leave tonight, with Jesse; you may join us or not. Otherwise, the matter is out of your hands now.”

James had intended to tell the truth, all of it, the moment he saw his father and mother. But things had not turned out quite that simply.

Like the others, he had been stunned by the destruction wrought on the Institute—the strange juxtaposition of the cloudless blue sky above, mundanes wandering by outside the gates, and the wreckage within. He had seen the distress on Lucie’s face as she hurried off to the Sanctuary with Malcolm: he could not blame her. The Institute had been the only home either of them had known.

Until these past weeks. The house on Curzon Street had rapidly become home to James, though he suspected that had less to do with the house and more to do with who shared it with him.

Charles was limping heavily, so James took his other arm to help Matthew guide him across the courtyard. They were nearly to the front doors when they opened, and Thomas, Christopher, and Anna poured out, followed by Charlotte and Gideon.

There was a confused babble of voices, of hugs and relief. James exclaimed at Thomas being out of prison; Thomas explained that he’d been tested by the Mortal Sword and found innocent.

“Though,” said Christopher, “Bridgestock was still complaining about it when the demon attacked. I doubt he’d get much support for tossing Tom back in prison now, though, after he distinguished himself in battle. He defeated a whole tentacle all by himself!”

“Indeed,” said Thomas. He grinned at James. “A whole tentacle.”

Charlotte had raced over to Matthew and Charles; she kissed Matthew fiercely on the cheek and exclaimed worriedly over Charles until Gideon came to take over from James and help Matthew bring his brother to the infirmary. They departed, Charlotte darting off to fetch Henry to Charles’s bedside.

“Henry was quite impressive with his staff,” said Anna. “The chains rather put my whip to shame.”

Thomas had taken Cordelia aside; James heard him say something about the battle, and the name Alastair, and he saw Cordelia brighten. So Alastair was all right; James realized he was relieved about it, and not just for Cordelia’s sake. Interesting. Ariadne, too, was fine, according to Anna and Christopher. There had been no deaths, and the most seriously injured were in the infirmary, being tended to by the Brothers.

Ariadne appeared at the top of the steps. Usually neat and put-together, she wore torn gear, a bandage around one arm. Her cheek was scratched, her hair tangled. Her eyes were alight. “Anna, is everything—?” She brightened at the sight of Cordelia and James. “Oh, lovely,” she said. “Mr. and Mrs. Herondale were just saying they were going to send to Curzon Street for you.”

James and Cordelia exchanged a look. “And where are my parents, exactly?” said James. “It’s best I talk to them as soon as possible.”

He was still planning to tell the whole truth, even as Ariadne led them all to the library. Thomas, Christopher, and Anna were describing the attack—Gabriel had nearly been badly hurt, but a group effort had freed him from Leviathan’s barbed tentacles—and Cordelia was still walking along in silence.

James wanted to put his arms around her, to hug her, to whisper comfort in her ear. But she was holding herself the way she had when her father died: still and careful, as if too spontaneous a movement might shatter her. He could not comfort her without exciting curiosity among the others, and he knew Cordelia did not want their sympathy. Not right now.

“You’ll be glad to know Uncle Jem and Magnus are back,” Anna said, glancing at James sideways as they reached the library door. “Apparently an Institute being attacked by a Prince of Hell is surprising enough news even to reach the Spiral Labyrinth. What happened to you lot, by the way? You were meant to be snug at home, but you look as if you’ve been through a war.”

“Would you believe it if I said parlor games gone terribly wrong?” said James.

Anna smiled; there was a quizzical turn to her mouth. “You seem different,” she said, but there was no time for her to expound: they had come into the library and it was absolutely packed full of Shadowhunters.

Will was there, sitting at the head of a long table. Tessa standing beside him. Many of the assembled Nephilim, like Catherine Townsend and Piers Wentworth, wore the marks of recent battle: bandages, torn clothes, and blood. Some, like the Bridgestocks and Pouncebys, were gathered into clusters, muttering and gesticulating. Others sat at the table with Will and Tessa. Sophie was there—Cecily and Alexander were likely in the infirmary with Gabriel—as was Alastair, who looked up as they came in. Seeing Cordelia, he got to his feet.