She crossed the roof, with Clary following, to her favorite spot: a clear view of the ocean below, the highway folded into the hill below the Institute, mountains rising behind in shadowy peaks.

Emma sat down on the roof’s edge, knees drawn up, letting the desert air caress her skin, her hair. The moonlight silvered her scars, especially the thick one along the inside of her right forearm. She had gotten it in Idris, when she’d woken up there screaming for her parents, and Julian, knowing what she needed, had put Cortana into her arms.

Clary settled herself lightly beside Emma, her head cocked as if she were listening to the breathing roar of the ocean, its soft push-pull. “Well, you’ve definitely got the New York Institute beat in terms of views. All I can see from the roof there is Brooklyn.” She turned toward Emma. “Jem Carstairs and Tessa Gray send their regards.”

“Are they the ones who told you about Kit?” Emma asked. Jem was a very distant, very old relative of Emma’s—though he looked twenty-five, he was more like a hundred and twenty-five. Tessa was his wife, a powerful warlock in her own right. They had uncovered the existence of Kit and his father, just in time for Johnny Rook to be slaughtered by demons.

Clary nodded. “They’re off on a mission—they wouldn’t even tell me what they were looking for.”

“I thought they were looking for the Black Volume?”

“Could be. I know they were headed for the Spiral Labyrinth first.” Clary leaned back on her hands. “I know Jem wishes he was around for you. Someone you could talk to. I told him you could always talk to me, but you haven’t called since the night after Malcolm died—”

“He didn’t die. I killed him,” Emma interrupted. She kept having to remind herself that she had killed Malcolm, shoved Cortana through his guts, because it seemed so unlikely. And it hurt, the way brushing up suddenly against barbed wire hurt: a surprising pain out of nowhere. Though he had deserved it, it hurt nonetheless.

“I shouldn’t feel bad, right?” Emma said. “He was a terrible person. I had to do it.”

“Yes, and yes,” said Clary. “But that doesn’t always fix things.” She reached out and put her finger under Emma’s chin, turning Emma’s face toward her. “Look, if anyone’s going to understand about this, I will. I killed Sebastian. My brother. I put a knife in him.” For a moment Clary looked much younger than she was; for a moment, she looked Emma’s age. “I still think about it, dream about it. There was good in him—not much, just a tiny bit, but it haunts me. That tiny potential I destroyed.”

“He was a monster,” Emma said, horrified. “A murderer, worse than Valentine, worse than anyone. You had to kill him. If you hadn’t, he would have literally destroyed the world.”

“I know.” Clary lowered her hand. “There was never anything like a chance of redemption for Sebastian. But it doesn’t stop the dreams, does it? In my dreams, I still sometimes see the brother I might have had, in some other world. The one with green eyes. And you might see the friend you thought you had in Malcolm. When people die, our dreams of what they could be die with them. Even if ours is the hand that ends them.”

“I thought I would be happy,” Emma said. “For all these years, all I’ve wanted was revenge. Revenge against whoever killed my parents. Now I know what happened to them, and I’ve killed Malcolm. But what I feel is . . . empty.”

“I felt the same way, after the Dark War,” Clary said. “I’d spent so much time running and fighting and desperate. And then things were ordinary. I didn’t trust it. We get used to living one way, even if it’s a bad way or a hard one. When that’s gone, there’s a hole to fill. It’s in our nature to try to fill it with anxieties and fears. It can take time to fill it with good things instead.”

For a moment, Emma saw through Clary’s expression into the past, remembering the girl who’d chased her into a small room in the Gard, refused to leave her alone and grieving, who’d told her, Heroes aren’t always the ones who win. They’re the ones who lose, sometimes. But they keep fighting, they keep coming back. They don’t give up.

That’s what makes them heroes.

They were words that had carried Emma through some of the worst times of her life.

“Clary,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Nightshade,” Emma said. “The vampire, you know—”

Clary looked surprised. “The head vampire of L.A.? The one you guys discovered was using dark magic?”

“It was true, right? He really was using illegal magic?”

Clary nodded. “Yes, of course. Everything in his restaurant was tested. He certainly was. He wouldn’t be in prison now if he hadn’t been!” She put a hand lightly atop Emma’s. “I know the Clave sucks sometimes,” she said. “But there are a lot of people in it who try to be fair. Anselm really was a bad guy.”

Emma nodded, wordless. It wasn’t Anselm she’d been doubting, after all.

It was Julian.

Clary’s mouth curved into a smile. “All right, enough of the boring stuff,” she said. “Tell me something fun. You haven’t talked about your love life in ages. Are you still dating that Cameron Ashdown guy?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m—I’m dating Mark.”

“Mark?” Clary looked as if Emma had handed her a two-headed lizard. “Mark Blackthorn?”

“No, a different Mark. Yes, Mark Blackthorn.” A touch of defensiveness crept into Emma’s voice. “Why not?”

“I just—I never would have pictured you together.” Clary looked legitimately stunned.

“Well, who did you picture me with? Cameron?”

“No, not him.” Clary pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. “That’s just the thing,” she said. “I—I mean, who I pictured you with, it doesn’t make any sense.” She met Emma’s confused look with a lowering of her eyes. “I guess it was nothing. If you’re happy with Mark, I’m happy for you.”

“Clary, what are you not telling me?”

There was a long silence. Clary looked out toward the dark water. Finally she spoke. “Jace asked me to marry him.”

“Oh!” Emma had already begun opening her arms to hug the other girl when she caught sight of Clary’s expression. She froze. “What’s wrong?”

“I said no.”

“You said no?” Emma dropped her arms. “But you’re here—together—are you not still . . . ?”

Clary rose to her feet. She stood at the roof’s edge, looking out toward the sea. “We’re still together,” she said. “I told Jace I needed more time to think about it. I’m sure he thinks I’m out of my mind, or—well, I don’t know what he thinks.”

“Do you?” Emma asked. “Need more time?”

“To decide if I want to marry Jace? No.” Clary’s voice was tense with an emotion Emma couldn’t decipher. “No. I know the answer. Of course I want to. There’s never going to be anyone else for me. That’s just how it is.”

Something in the matter-of-factness of her voice sent a slight shiver through Emma. There’s never going to be anyone else for me. There was a recognition of kinship in that shiver, and a bit of fear, too. “Then why did you say it?”

“I used to have dreams,” Clary said. She was staring out at the path the moon left across the dark water, like a slash of white bisecting a black canvas. “When I was your age. Dreams of things that were going to happen, dreams of angels and prophecies. After the Dark War was over, they stopped. I thought they wouldn’t start again, but just these past six months, they have.”

Emma felt a bit lost. “Dreams?”

“They’re not as clear as they used to be. But there’s a sense—a knowing something awful is coming. Like a wall of darkness and blood. A shadow that spreads out over the world and blots out everything.” She swallowed. “There’s more, though. Not so much an image of something happening, but a knowledge.”

Emma stood up. She wanted to put a hand on Clary’s shoulder, but something held her back. This wasn’t Clary, the girl who’d comforted her when her parents had died. This was Clary who’d gone into the demon realm of Edom and killed Sebastian Morgenstern. Clary who’d faced down Raziel. “A knowledge of what?”