Magnus was carrying two etched metal flasks and raised an eyebrow when he saw Mark’s expression. “I don’t know who you were waiting for, and I’m sorry I’m not it,” he said dryly. “But the antidote is ready.”

Cristina had expected a thrill of relief to go through her. Instead she felt nothing. She touched her left hand to her sore wrist and glanced toward Mark, who was staring at the floor.

“Don’t rush to thank me or anything,” said Magnus, handing them each a flask. “Profuse expressions of gratitude only embarrass me, though cash gifts are always welcome.”

“Thank you, Magnus,” Cristina said, blushing. She unscrewed the flask: A dark and bitter scent wafted from it, like the smell of pulque, a drink that Cristina had never liked.

Magnus held up a hand. “Wait until you’re in separate rooms to drink it,” he said. “In fact, you should spend at least a few hours apart so that the spell can settle properly. All the effects should be gone by tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Mark, and headed for the door. He paused there and looked back at Cristina. “I agree with you,” he said to her. “About Kieran. If there’s anything you can do to guarantee his safety—do it.”

He was gone noiselessly, with cat-soft footsteps. Magnus glanced at the cracked wall, and then at Cristina.

“Do I want to know?” he asked.

Cristina sighed. “Can a fire-message get outside the wards you put up?”

Magnus stared at the wall again, shook his head, and said, “You’d better give it to me. I’ll get it sent.”

She hesitated.

“I won’t read it, either,” he added irritably. “I promise.”

Cristina set down her flask, found paper, pen, and stele, and scribbled a message with a rune-signature before folding it and handing it to Magnus, who gave a low whistle when he saw the name of the recipient across the top. “Are you sure?”

She nodded with a resolution she didn’t feel. “Absolutely.”

27

ILL ANGELS ONLY

“Emma.” Julian rapped on her door with the back of his knuckles. At least he was fairly sure it was Emma’s door. He’d never been inside her room at the London Institute. “Emma, are you awake? I know it’s late.”

He heard her call for him to come in, her voice muffled through the thick wooden door. Inside, the room was much like his own, small with heavy blocks of Victorian-looking furniture. The bed was a solid four-poster with silk hangings.

Emma was lying on the covers, wearing an overwashed T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She rolled onto her side and grinned at him.

An overwhelming feeling of love hit him like a punch to the chest. Her hair was tied messily back and she was lying on a rumpled blanket with a plate of pastries next to her, and he had to stop in the middle of the room for a moment and catch his breath.

She waved a tart at him cheerily. “Banoffee,” she said. “Want some?”

He could have crossed the room in a few steps. Could have picked her up and swung her into his arms and held her. Could have told her how much he loved her. If they were any other couple, it would be that easy.

But nothing for them would ever be easy.

She was looking at him in puzzlement. “Is everything all right?”

He nodded, a little surprised at his own feelings. Usually he kept better control over himself. Maybe it was the conversation he’d had with Magnus. Maybe it had given him hope.

If there was one thing Julian’s life had taught him, it was that nothing was more dangerous than hope.

“Julian,” she said, setting the tart down and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “Would you please say something?”

He cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

She groaned and flopped back against her pillows. “Okay, not that.”

Julian sat down at the foot of her bed as she cleared off her covers, setting aside the food and a few things she’d been looking at—he saw an old photograph of a girl carrying a blade that looked like Cortana, and another one of four boys in Edwardian clothes by the side of a river.

When she was done, she brushed off her hands again and turned a set face to his.

“How soon do we have to separate?” she said. Her voice was shaking a little. “As soon as the meeting is over in Alicante? What will we tell the kids?”

“I talked to Magnus,” Julian said. “He said we should go to the Inquisitor.”

Emma made an incredulous noise. “The Inquisitor? As in, the Council leader who enforces Laws?”

“Pretty sure Magnus knows who the Inquisitor is,” said Julian. “He’s Alec’s dad.”

“Did he mean it as a sort of threat? Like, either we turn ourselves in to Robert Lightwood or he does it for us? But Magnus wouldn’t—I can’t see him doing that. He’s much too loyal.”

“That’s not it,” Julian said. “Magnus wants to help us. He remembers other parabatai like us and he—he pointed out that no parabatai have ever gone to the Clave for help.”

“Because it’s the Clave’s Law—!”

“But that’s not the problem,” said Julian. “We could handle the Law. It’s the curse, which is the reason the Law exists—even if the Clave doesn’t know it. But we know it.”

Emma only looked at him.

“Every other parabatai have feared the Law more than the curse,” Julian said. “They’ve always either separated, left the Clave, or hidden what was happening to them until they were caught or the curse killed them. Magnus said we’d be the first, and that would count for something with Robert. And he pointed out something else, too. Robert was exiled, because he was in the Circle years ago. The exile temporarily suspended his bond with his parabatai. Magnus said Alec told him about it—that it cut their bond enough that Robert didn’t even realize his parabatai was dead.”

“Exile?” Emma’s voice shook. “Exile means the Clave sends you away—you have no choice about it—”

“But the Inquisitor is the one who chooses terms of exile,” said Julian. “Robert is the one who decided Aline could stay with Helen when she was exiled; the Clave was against it.”

“If one of us has to be exiled, it’ll be me,” said Emma. “I’ll go be with Cristina in Mexico. You’re indispensable to the children. I’m not.”

Her voice was firm, but her eyes were glimmering with tears. Julian sensed the same wave of desperate love he’d felt before threatening to overwhelm him and forced it back.

“I hate the idea of being separated too,” Julian said, running his hand over the blanket, the rough texture comforting against his fingers. “The way I love you is fundamental to me, Emma. It’s who I am. No matter how far we are from each other.”

The glimmer in her eyes had become liquid. A tear spilled down her cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it away. “Then—?”

“Exile will deaden the bond,” he said. He tried to keep his voice steady. There was still a part of him that hated the idea of not being Emma’s parabatai, despite everything, and hated the thought of exile, too. “Magnus is sure of it. Exile will do something separation can’t, Emma, because exile is deep Shadowhunter enchantment. The ceremony of exile lessens some of your Nephilim abilities, your magic, and having a parabatai is part of that magic. It means the curse will be postponed. It means we can have time—and I can stay with the kids. I’d have to leave them otherwise. The curse doesn’t just hurt us, Emma, it hurts the people around us. I can’t stay near the kids thinking I might be some kind of threat to them.”

She nodded slowly. “So if it gives us time, then what?”

“Magnus has promised to bring everything he has to bear on figuring out how to break the bond or end the curse. One or the other.”

Emma raised her hand to rub at her wet cheek, and he saw the long scar on her forearm that had been there since he’d handed her Cortana in a room in Alicante, five years ago. How we have left our marks on each other, he thought.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate the idea of being away from you and the kids.”