“Probably, though it would help if I knew the language.”

“It’s a very old language,” Emma said carefully. “Older than Nephilim.”

Malcolm sighed. “You’re not giving me much. Okay, old demony language, very ancient. I’ll check with the Spiral Labyrinth.”

“Be careful what you tell them,” Julian said. “Like we said—the Clave can’t know we’re investigating this.”

“Which means faerie involvement,” said Malcolm, amusement flickering across his face as he saw their horrified expressions. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. I don’t like the Cold Peace any more than any other Downworlder does.”

Julian was expressionless. He ought to take up a career playing poker, Emma thought. “How long do you think you’ll need?” he asked. “To translate?”

“Give me a few days.”

A few days. Emma tried to conceal her disappointment.

“Sorry I can’t do it any faster.” Malcolm sounded genuinely sorry. “Come on. I’ll walk you outside. I need some air.”

The sun had come out from behind the clouds and was blazing down on Malcolm’s front garden. The desert flowers shivered, silver-edged, in the wind from the canyons. A lizard darted out from behind a piece of shrubbery and stared at them. Emma stuck her tongue out at it.

“I’m worried,” Malcolm said abruptly. “I don’t like this. Necromantic magic, demon languages, a series of killings no one understands. Working without the Clave’s knowledge. It seems, dare I say it, dangerous.”

Julian stared off toward the distant hills, silent. It was Emma who answered.

“Malcolm, last year we fought off a battalion of Forneus demons with tentacles and no faces,” Emma said. “Don’t try to freak us out about this.”

“I’m just saying. Danger. You know, that thing most people avoid.”

“Not us,” Emma said cheerfully. “Tentacles, Malcolm. No faces.”

“Stubborn.” Malcolm sighed. “Just promise to call me if you need me or if you find out anything else.”

“Definitely,” said Julian. Emma wondered if the cold knot of guilt that she felt at hiding things from Malcolm also sat in his chest. The wind off the ocean had picked up. It caught the dust in the garden and blew it into swirls. Julian pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Thanks for helping,” he added. “We know we can depend on you.” He headed down the path, toward the steps to the bridge, which shimmered alive as he approached it.

Malcolm’s face had turned somber, despite the bright noon light reflecting off the ocean. “Don’t depend on me too much,” he said, so softly she wondered if he knew she would hear him.

“Why not?” She turned her face up to him in the sunlight, blinking. His eyes were the color of jacaranda blossoms.

“Because I’ll let you down. Everyone does,” Malcolm said, and went back inside his house.

Cristina sat on the floor outside Mark Blackthorn’s bedroom.

There had been no sound from inside for what felt like hours. The door was cracked open and she could see him, curled into a ball in a corner of the room like a trapped wild animal.

Faeries had been her area of study at home. She had always been fascinated by tales of the hadas, from the noble warriors of the Courts to the duendes who teased and bothered mundanes. She had not been in Idris for the declaration of the Cold Peace, but her father had, and the story sent a shiver through her. She had always wanted to meet Mark and Helen Blackthorn, to tell them—

Tiberius appeared in the hall, carrying a cardboard box. His twin sister was beside him, a patchwork quilt in her hand. “My mother made this for Mark when he was left with us,” she said, catching Cristina eyeing it. “I thought he might remember.”

“We couldn’t get into the storeroom, so we brought Mark some gifts. So he’d know we want him here,” said Ty. His gaze moved restlessly around the hall. “Can we go in?”

Cristina glanced into the bedroom. Mark was unmoving. “I don’t see why not. Just try to be quiet and not wake him.”

Livvy went in first, laying the quilt on the bed. Ty set the cardboard box on the floor, then wandered over to where Mark was lying. He picked up the quilt that Livvy had set down and knelt beside his brother. A little awkwardly, he laid the quilt on top of Mark.

Mark jerked upright. His blue-gold eyes flew open and he caught hold of Ty, who gave a sharp frightened cry like the cry of a seabird. Mark moved with incredible speed, flinging Ty to the ground. Livvy screamed and darted from the room, just as Cristina hurtled inside.

Mark was kneeling over Tiberius, pinning him to the ground with his knees. “Who are you?” Mark was saying. “What were you doing?”

“I’m your brother! I’m Tiberius!” Ty was wriggling madly, his headphones sliding off to hit the floor. “I was giving you a blanket!”

“Liar!” Mark was breathing hard. “My brother Ty is a little boy! He’s a child, my baby brother, my—”

The door rattled behind Cristina. Livvy burst back into the room, her brown hair flying. “Let him go!” A seraph blade appeared in her hand, already beginning to glow. She spoke to Mark through gritted teeth, as if she’d never met him. As if she hadn’t been carrying a patchwork quilt for him through the Institute only moments before. “If you hurt Tiberius, I’ll kill you. I don’t care if you’re Mark, I’ll kill you.”