Nephilim. Kit felt the slow burn of anger start in his stomach. He’d been sitting on the sofa watching TV and now he was crouched in the basement like a thief in his own home because Shadowhunters thought they had the right to legislate magic. To tell everyone what to do. To—

A figure hurtled at him out of the shadows. It hit him hard in the chest and he staggered back and slammed into the wall behind him, breath knocked out of his body. He gasped as light flared up around him—pale white light, held in the cup of a human hand.

Something sharp kissed the base of Kit’s throat. He sucked in air and raised his eyes.

He was staring right at a boy his own age. Ink-black hair and eyes the color of the edge of a knife, eyes that darted away from his as the boy scowled. He had a long, thin, black-clad body and pale skin Marked all over with the runes of the Nephilim.

Kit had never been this close to a Shadowhunter. The boy had one hand on his glowing light—it wasn’t a flashlight or anything electronic; Kit knew magic when he saw it—and the other gripped a dagger whose point rested against Kit’s throat.

Kit had imagined before what he’d do if a Nephilim ever grabbed him. How he’d stomp on their feet, break their bones, snap their wrists, spit in their faces. He did none of those things, thought of none of those things. He looked at the boy with the knife to his throat, the boy whose black eyelashes feathered down against his cheekbones as he glanced away from Kit, and he felt something like a shock of recognition pass through him.

He thought, How beautiful.

Kit blinked. Though the other boy wasn’t looking directly at him, he seemed to note the movement. In a harsh whisper, he demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here? You’re too young to be Johnny Rook.”

His voice was lovely. Clear and low, with a rasp to it that made him sound older than he was. A rich boy’s voice.

“No,” said Kit. He felt dazed and puzzled, as if a bright camera flash had gone off in his eyes. “I’m not.”

The boy still wasn’t looking directly at Kit. As if Kit weren’t worth looking at. Kit’s dazed feeling was starting to fade, to be replaced by anger.

“Go on,” Kit said, challenging. “Figure it out.”

The boy’s expression clouded, then cleared. “You’re his son,” he said. “Johnny Rook’s son.”

And then his lip did curl, just the slightest curl of contempt, and anger boiled up in Kit. He jerked aside fast, away from the dagger, and kicked out. The other boy spun, but Kit caught him with a glancing blow. He heard a cry of pain. The light tumbled from the boy’s hand, winking out, and then Kit was being shoved up against the wall again, a hand scrabbling to fist itself in his shirt, and the dagger was back at his throat, and the other boy was whispering, “Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet,” and then the room was full of light.

The other boy froze. Kit looked up to see two other Shadowhunters standing on the cellar steps: a boy with blazing blue-green eyes and the blond girl he had seen at the Shadow Market the week before. They were both staring—not at him, but at the boy gripping his shirt.

The boy winced but held his ground, defiance chasing alarm across his face. Aha, Kit thought with dawning realization. You’re not supposed to be down here, are you?

“Tiberius Blackthorn,” said the boy with blue-green eyes. “What on earth are you doing?”

Emma stood and gawked at Ty, completely brought up short. It was as if the Institute had suddenly appeared in the middle of Johnny Rook’s cellar: The sight of Ty was familiar, and yet totally incongruous.

Ty looked rumpled and more frazzled than she’d seen him in years, though his grip on his dagger was steady. Diana would have been pleased. She would probably not have been pleased that he was pointing it at the throat of a mundane boy—he looked about fifteen, and oddly familiar. She’d seen him before, Emma realized, at the Shadow Market. His hair was a mass of blond tangles; his shirt was clean but ragged, his jeans worn to a faded pallor. And he looked ready to punch Ty in the face, which was unusual for a mundane in his position. Most of them were much more unsettled by a knife to the throat.

“Ty,” Julian said again. He looked furious—fury with an edge of panic. “Ty, let go of Johnny Rook’s son.”

The blond boy’s eyes widened. “How did you—how do you know who I am?” he demanded.

Julian shrugged. “Who else would you be?” He tilted his head to the side. “Maybe you know something about the Lottery at the Midnight Theater?”

“Jules,” Emma said. “He’s just a kid.”

“I’m not a kid!” the boy protested. “And my name is Kit.”

“We’re trying to help,” Julian said. The blond boy—Kit—scowled. Julian softened his voice. “We’re trying to save lives.”

“My father told me that’s what Shadowhunters always say.”

“Do you believe everything he says?”

“He was right this time, wasn’t he?” Kit pointed out. His gaze slid to Emma; she remembered noticing that he had the Sight. She’d thought he was Rook’s assistant, though, not his son. They looked nothing alike. “You said it.”

“I meant—” Julian began.

“I don’t know anything about a lottery,” Kit snapped. He glanced at Tiberius. What was odder, perhaps, was that Ty was looking at him. Emma remembered Ty, years ago, saying, Why do people say “look at me” when they mean “look at my eyes”? You could be looking at any part of a person and you’re still looking at them. But he was looking curiously at Kit’s eyes as if they reminded him of something.