“Thank you.” Zara laughed breathlessly, laying her hand on Diego’s arm. “Oh,” she said, with a sharply artificial enthusiasm. “Look!”

More Shadowhunters had entered the room. They were a mix of ages, from old to young. Some wore Centurion uniforms. Most wore gear or ordinary clothes. What was unusual about them was that they were carrying placards and signs. REGISTER ALL WARLOCKS. DOWNWORLDERS MUST BE CONTROLLED. PRAISE THE COLD PEACE. APPROVE THE REGISTRY. Among them was a stolid brown-haired man with a bland sort of face, the kind of face where you could never really remember the features later. He winked at Zara.

“My father,” she said proudly. “The Registry was his idea.”

“What interesting signs,” said Mark.

“How wonderful to see people expressing their political views,” said Zara. “Of course the Cold Peace has truly created a generation of revolutionaries.”

“It is unusual,” said Cristina, “for a revolution to call for fewer rights for people, not more.”

For a moment Zara’s mask slipped, and Cristina saw through the artifice of politeness, the breathy little-girl voice and demeanor. There was something cold behind it all, something without warmth or empathy or affection. “People,” she said. “What people?”

Diego took hold of her arm. “Zara,” he said. “Let’s go sit down.”

Mark and Cristina watched them go in silence.

*

“I hope Julian’s right,” Livvy said, staring at the empty dais.

“He usually is,” Ty said. “Not about everything, but about this sort of thing.”

Kit sat between the twins, which meant they were talking over him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in this position. Not that he minded or even noticed at the moment. He was stunned into near silence—something that never happened—by where he was: in Alicante, the heart of the Shadowhunters’ country, gazing at the legendary demon towers.

He’d fallen in love with Idris at first sight. He hadn’t expected that at all.

It was like walking into a fairy tale. And not the sort he’d grown used to at the Shadow Market, where faeries were another kind of monster. The kind he’d seen on TV and in books when he was little, a world of magnificent castles and lush forests.

Livvy winked at Kit. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“You’re impressed by Idris. Admit it, Mr. Nothing Impresses Me.”

Kit was going to do no such thing. “I like the clock,” he said, pointing up at it.

“There’s a legend about that clock.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “For a second, when it chimes the hour, the gates to Heaven open.” Livvy sighed; a rare wistfulness flashed across her face. “As far as I’m concerned, Heaven is just the Institute being ours again. And all of us going home.”

That surprised Kit; he’d been thinking of this trip to Idris as the end of their chaotic adventure. They’d return to Los Angeles and he’d start his training. But Livvy was right: Things weren’t that assured. He glanced over at Zara and her immediate circle, bristling with their ugly signs.

“There’s still the Black Volume, too,” said Ty. He looked formal and neat-haired in a way he didn’t usually; Kit was used to him being casual in his hoodies and jeans, and handsome, older-looking Ty left him a bit tongue-tied. “The Queen still wants it.”

“Annabel will give it to Jules. I believe in his ability to charm anything out of anyone,” Livvy said. “Or trick anything out of anyone. But yeah, I wish they didn’t have to actually meet with the Queen afterwards. I don’t like the sound of her.”

“I think there’s a saying about this,” said Kit. “Something about bridges and crossing them when you get there.”

Ty had gone rigid, like a hunting dog spotting a fox. “Livvy.”

His sister followed his gaze, and so did Kit. Coming toward them through the crowd was Diana, a smile breaking across her face, her koi fish tattoo shimmering across one dark cheekbone.

With her were two young women in their early twenties. One resembled Jia Penhallow more than a little; she also had dark hair and a decided chin. The other looked incredibly like Mark Blackthorn, down to the curling, pale blond hair and pointed ears. They were both bundled in unseasonably warm clothes, as if they’d come from a cold climate.

Kit realized who they were a moment before Livvy’s face lit like the sun. “Helen!” she screamed, and bolted into her sister’s arms.

*

The clock in the Council Hall was chiming through the Gard, signaling that all Nephilim were to gather for the meeting.

Robert Lightwood had insisted on leading Julian from his office to the room where Magnus, Kieran, and Annabel were waiting. Unfortunately for Emma, that meant she was stuck with Manuel as her escort to the Council Hall.

Emma had wished she could have a moment alone with Julian, but it wasn’t going to happen. They exchanged a wry look before going their separate ways.

“Looking forward to the meeting?” Manuel asked. He had his hands in his pockets. His dirty-blond hair was artfully tousled. Emma was surprised he wasn’t whistling.

“No one looks forward to meetings,” said Emma. “They’re a necessary evil.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say no one,” said Manuel. “Zara loves meetings.”

“She seems in favor of all forms of torture,” Emma muttered.

Manuel spun around, walking backward down the corridor. They were in one of the larger hallways that had been built after the Gard burned in the Dark War. “You ever thought about becoming a Centurion?” he said.

Emma shook her head. “They don’t let you have a parabatai.”

“I always figured that was kind of a pity thing, you and Julian Blackthorn,” said Manuel. “I mean, look at you. You’re hot, you’re skilled, you’re a Carstairs. Julian—he spends all his time with little kids. He’s an old man at seventeen.”

Emma wondered what would happen if she threw Manuel through a window. Probably it would delay the meeting.

“I’m just saying. Even if you don’t want to go to the Scholomance, the Cohort could use someone like you. We’re the future. You’ll see.” His eyes glittered. For a moment, they weren’t amused or joking. It was the glitter of real fanaticism, and it made Emma feel hollow inside.

They had reached the doors of the Council Hall. There was no one in view; Emma kicked her leg out and swept Manuel’s feet out from under him. He went over in a blur and hit the ground; he pushed up instantly on his elbows, looking furious. She doubted she’d hurt him, except maybe where his dignity was located—which had been the point.

“I appreciate your offer,” she said, “but if joining the Cohort means I have to spend my life stuck halfway up a mountain with a bunch of fascists, I’ll take living in the past.”

She heard him hiss something not very nice in Spanish as she stepped over him and walked into the Hall. She reminded herself to ask Cristina for a translation when she got a chance.

*

“You don’t need to be here, Julian,” said Jia firmly.

They were in a massive room whose picture window gave out onto views of Brocelind Forest. It was a surprisingly fancy room—Julian had always thought of the Gard as a place of dark stone and heavy wood. This room had brocade wallpaper and gilt furniture upholstered in velvet. Annabel sat in a wing-backed armchair, looking ill at ease. Magnus was leaning against a wall, seemingly bored. He looked exhausted, too—the shadows under his eyes were nearly black. And Kieran stood by the picture window, his attention fixed on the sky and the trees outside.

“I would like him to be with me,” said Annabel. “He is the reason I came.”

“We all appreciate that you’re here, Annabel,” said Jia. “And we appreciate that you had past bad experiences with the Clave.” She sounded calm. Julian wondered if she’d have sounded so calm if she’d seen Annabel rise from the dead, covered in blood, and stab Malcolm through the heart.

Kieran turned away from the window. “We know Julian Blackthorn,” he said to Jia. He sounded much more human to Julian than he had when they’d first met, as if his Faerie accent was fading. “We don’t know you.”