The black dots were coming toward her. They were closer now, resolving, no longer dots. She could see them for what they were: riders. Four riders, cloaked in glimmering bronze. They hurtled through the sky like comets.

They were not the Wild Hunt. Emma knew that immediately, without knowing how she knew it. There were too few of them, and they were too silent. The Wild Hunt rode with a fierce clamor. The bronze riders glided silently toward Emma, as if they had been formed out of the clouds.

She could run back toward the cottage, she thought. But that would draw them toward Julian, and besides, they had angled themselves to cut her off from the path back toward Malcolm’s house. They were moving with incredible speed. In seconds, they would be on the cliff.

Her right hand closed on the hilt of Cortana. She drew it almost without conscious thought. The feel of it in her hand grounded her, slowed her heartbeat.

They soared overhead, circling. For a moment Emma was struck by their odd beauty—up close, the horses seemed barely real, as transparent as glass, formed out of wisps of cloud and moisture. They spun in the air and dove like gulls after their prey. As their hooves struck the solid earth of the cliff, they exploded into ocean whitecaps, each horse a spray of vanishing water, leaving the four riders behind.

And between Emma and the path. She was cut off, from everything but the sea and the small piece of cliff behind her.

The four Riders faced her. She braced her feet. The very top of the ridge was so narrow that her boots sank in on either side of the cliff’s spine. She raised Cortana. It flashed in the storm light, rain sliding off its blade. “Who’s there?” she called.

The four figures moved as one, reaching to push back the hoods of their bronze cloaks. Beneath was more shining stuff—they were three tall men and a woman, each of them wearing bronze half masks, with hair that looked like metallic thread wound into thick braids that hung halfway down their backs.

Their armor was metal: breastplates and gauntlets etched all over with the designs of waves and the sea. The eyes they fixed on her were gray and piercing.

“Emma Cordelia Carstairs,” said one of them. He spoke as if Emma’s name were in a foreign language, one his tongue had a hard time wrapping itself around. “Well met.”

“In your opinion,” Emma muttered. She kept a tight grip on Cortana—each of the faeries (for she knew they were faeries) that she was facing was armed with a longsword, hilts visible over their shoulders. She raised her voice. “What does a convoy from the Faerie Courts want from me?”

The faerie raised an eyebrow. “Tell her, Fal,” said one of the others, in the same accented voice. Something about the accent raised the hairs on Emma’s arms, though she couldn’t have said what it was.

“We are the Riders of Mannan,” said Fal. “You will have heard of us.”

It wasn’t a question. Emma desperately wished Cristina were with her. Cristina was the one with vast knowledge of faerie culture. If the words “Riders of Mannan” were supposed to mean something to Shadowhunters, Cristina would know it.

“Are you part of the Wild Hunt?” she asked.

Consternation. A low mutter vibrated among the four of them, and Fal leaned to the side and spat. A faerie with a sharply chiseled jaw and an expression of disdain replied for him.

“I am Airmed, son of Mannan,” he said. “We are the children of a god, you see. We are much older than the Wild Hunt, and much more powerful.”

Emma realized then what it was that she’d heard in their accents. It wasn’t distance or foreignness; it was age, a terrifying age that stretched back to the beginning of the world.

“We seek,” said Fal. “And we find. We are the searchers. We have been under the waves to search and above them. We have been in Faerie, and in the realms of the damned, and on battlefields and in the dark of night and the bright of day. In all our lives there has only been one thing we have sought and not found.”

“A sense of humor?” Emma suggested.

“She should shut her mouth,” said the female Rider. “You should shut it for her, Fal.”

“Not yet, Ethna,” said Fal. “We need her words. We need to know the location of what we seek.”

Emma’s hand felt hot and slippery on the hilt of Cortana. “What do you seek?”

“The Black Volume,” said Airmed. “We seek the same object you and your parabatai seek. The one taken by Annabel Blackthorn.”

Emma took an involuntary step back. “You’re looking for Annabel?”

“For the book,” said the fourth Rider, his voice harsh and deep. “Tell us where it is and we will leave you be.”

“I don’t have it,” Emma said. “Neither does Julian.”

“She is a liar, Delan,” said the woman, Ethna.

His lip curled. “They are all liars, Nephilim. Do not treat us as fools, Shadowhunter, or we will string your innards from the nearest tree.”

“Try it,” said Emma. “I’ll ram the tree down your throat until branches start poking out of your—”

“Ears?” It was Julian. He must have applied a Soundless rune, because even Emma hadn’t heard him approach. He was perched on a wet boulder by the side of the path toward the cottage as if he’d simply appeared there, summoned out of the rain and clouds. He was in gear, his hair wet, an unlit seraph blade in his hand. “I’m sure you were going to say ears.”

“Definitely.” Emma grinned at him; she couldn’t help it. Despite the fight they’d had, he was here, having her back, being her parabatai. And now they had the Riders hemmed in, pinned between the two of them.

Things were looking up.

“Julian Blackthorn,” drawled Fal, barely glancing at him. “The famous parabatai. I hear the two of you gave a most impressive performance at the Unseelie Court.”

“I’m sure the King couldn’t stop singing our praises,” Julian said. “Look, what makes you think we know where Annabel or the Black Volume are?”

“Spies are in every Court,” said Ethna. “We know the Queen sent you to find the book. The King must have it before the Queen possesses it.”

“But we have promised the Queen,” said Julian, “and a promise like that cannot be broken.”

Delan growled, his hand suddenly at the hilt of his sword. He had moved so fast it was a blur. “You are humans and liars,” he said. “You can break any promise you make, and will, when your necks are on the line. As they are now.” He jerked his chin toward the cottage. “We have come for the warlock’s books and papers. If you will not tell us anything, then give them to us and we will be gone.”

“Give them to you?” Julian looked puzzled. “Why didn’t you just . . .” His eyes met Emma’s. She knew what he was thinking: Why didn’t you break in and take them? “You can’t get in, can you?”

“The wards,” Emma confirmed.

The faeries said nothing, but she could tell by the angry set of their jaws that she was right.

“What will the Unseelie King give us in return for the book?” said Julian.

“Jules,” Emma hissed. How could he be scheming at a time like this?

Fal laughed. Emma noted for the first time that the clothes and armor of the faeries were dry, as if the rain didn’t fall on them. His glance toward Julian was full of contempt. “You have no advantage here, son of thorns. Give us what we have come for, or when we find the rest of your family, we shall put red-hot pokers through their eyes down to even the smallest child.”

Tavvy. The words went through Emma like an arrow. She felt the impact, felt her body jerk, and the cold came down over her, the cold ice of battle. She lunged for Fal, bringing Cortana down in a vicious overhand swipe.

Ethna screamed, and Fal moved faster than a current on the ocean, ducking Emma’s blow. Cortana whistled through the air. There was a clamor as the other faeries reached for their swords.

And a glow as Julian’s seraph blade burst into light, illuminating the rain. It wove around Emma like bright strings as she twirled, fending off a blow from Ethna, Cortana slamming into the faerie sword with enough force to send Ethna stumbling back.