Arthur frowned. “Are there dregs, leftovers, that could be analyzed?”

“I used every drop I could find two weeks ago.” Julian had drugged his uncle with a powerful cocktail of Malcolm’s medicine the last time Jace, Clary, and the Inquisitor had been at the Institute. He hadn’t dared take the chance that Arthur would be anything but steady on his feet and as clearheaded as possible.

Julian was fairly sure Jace and Clary would cover up Arthur’s condition if they knew it. But it was an unfair burden to ask them to bear, and besides—he didn’t trust the Inquisitor, Robert Lightwood. He hadn’t trusted him since the time five years ago when Robert had forced him to endure a brutal trial by Mortal Sword because he hadn’t believed Julian wouldn’t lie.

“You haven’t kept any of it, Arthur?” Diana asked. “Hidden some away?”

Arthur shook his head again. In the dim witchlight, he looked old—much older than he was, his hair salted with gray, his eyes washed out like the ocean in the early morning. His body under his straggling gray robe was skinny, the point of his shoulder bone visible through the material. “I didn’t know Malcolm would turn out to be what he was,” he said. A murderer, a killer, a traitor. “Besides, I depended on the boy.” He cleared his throat. “Julian.”

“I didn’t know about Malcolm either,” Julian said. “The thing is, we’re going to have guests. Centurions.”

“Kentarchs,” murmured Arthur, opening one of his desk drawers as if he meant to search for something inside. “That is what they were called in the Byzantine army. But a centurion was always the pillar of the army. He commanded a hundred men. A centurion could mete out punishment to a Roman citizen that the law usually protected them from. Centurions supersede the law.”

Julian wasn’t sure how much the original Roman centurions and the Centurions of the Scholomance had in common. But he suspected he got his uncle’s point anyway. “Right, so that means we’re going to have to be especially careful. With how you have to be around them. How you’re going to have to act.”

Arthur put his fingers to his temples. “I’m just so tired,” he murmured. “Can we not . . . If we could ask Malcolm for a bit more medicine . . .”

“Malcolm’s dead,” Julian said. His uncle had been told, but it didn’t seem to have quite sunk in. And it was exactly the sort of mistake he couldn’t make around strangers.

“There are mundane drugs,” said Diana, after a moment’s hesitation.

“But the Clave,” Julian said. “The punishment for seeking out mundane medical treatment is—”

“I know what it is,” Diana said, surprisingly sharply. “But we’re desperate.”

“But we’d have no idea about what dosage or what pills. We have no idea how mundanes treat sicknesses like this.”

“I am not ill.” Arthur slammed the drawer of the desk shut. “The faeries shattered my mind. I felt it break. No mundane could understand or treat such a thing.”

Diana exchanged a worried look with Julian. “Well, there are several paths we could go down. We’ll leave you alone, Arthur, and discuss them. We know how important your work is.”

“Yes,” Julian’s uncle murmured. “My work . . .” And he bent again over his papers, Diana and Julian instantly forgotten. As Julian followed Diana out of the room, he couldn’t help but wonder what solace it was that his uncle found in old stories of gods and heroes, of an earlier time of the world, one where plugging your ears and refusing to listen to the sound of the music of sirens could keep you from madness.

At the foot of the stairs, Diana turned to Julian and spoke softly. “You’ll have to go to the Shadow Market tonight.”

“What?” Julian was thrown. The Shadow Market was off-limits to Nephilim unless they were on a mission, and always off-limits to underage Shadowhunters. “With you?”

Diana shook her head. “I can’t go there.”

Julian didn’t ask. It was an unspoken fact between them that Diana had secrets and that Julian could not press her about them.

“But there’ll be warlocks,” she said. “Ones we don’t know, ones who’ll keep silent for a price. Ones who won’t know your face. And faeries. This is a faerie-caused madness after all, not a natural state. Perhaps they would know how to reverse it.” She was silent a moment, thinking. “Bring Kit with you,” she said. “He knows the Shadow Market better than anyone else we could ask, and Downworlders there trust him.”

“He’s just a kid,” Julian objected. “And he hasn’t been out of the Institute since his father died.” Was killed, actually. Ripped to pieces in front of his eyes. “It could be hard on him.”

“He’ll have to get used to things being hard on him,” said Diana, her expression flinty. “He’s a Shadowhunter now.”

3

WHERE DWELL THE GHOULS

Vicious traffic meant it took Julian and Kit an hour to get from Malibu to Old Pasadena. By the time they found parking, Julian had a pounding headache, not helped by the fact that Kit had barely said a word to him since they’d left the Institute.

Even so long after sunset, the sky in the west was touched with feather-strokes of crimson and black. The wind was blowing from the east, which meant that even in the middle of the city you could breathe in desert: sand and grit, cactus and coyotes, the burning scent of sage.

Kit leaped out of the car the minute Julian turned the engine off, as if he couldn’t stand spending another minute next to him. When they’d passed the freeway exit that went to the Rooks’ old house, Kit had asked if he could swing by to pick up some of his clothes. Julian had said no, it wasn’t safe, especially at night. Kit had looked at him as if Julian had driven a knife into his back.

Julian was used to pleading and sulks and protestations that someone hated you. He had four younger siblings. But there was a special artistry to Kit’s glaring. He really meant it.

Now, as Julian locked the car behind them, Kit made a snorting sound. “You look like a Shadowhunter.”

Julian glanced down at himself. Jeans, boots, a vintage blazer that had been a gift from Emma. Since glamour runes weren’t much use at the Market, he’d had to fall back on pulling down his sleeve to cover his Voyance rune and flipping up his collar to conceal the very edges of Marks that would otherwise have peeked out from his shirt.

“What?” he said. “You can’t see any Marks.”

“You don’t need to,” said Kit, in a bored voice. “You look like a cop. All of you always look like cops.”

Julian’s headache intensified. “And your suggestion?”

“Let me go in alone,” Kit said. “They know me, they trust me. They’ll answer my questions and sell me whatever I want.” He held out a hand. “I’ll need some money, of course.”

Julian looked at him in disbelief. “You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”

Kit shrugged and retracted his hand. “It could’ve worked.”

Julian started walking toward the alley that led to the entrance to the Shadow Market. He’d only been there once, years ago, but he remembered it well. Shadow Markets had sprung up in the aftermath of the Cold Peace, a way for Downworlders to do business away from the spotlight of the new Laws. “So, let me guess. Your plan was to take some money from me, pretend you were going to the Shadow Market, and hop a bus out of town?”

“Actually, my plan was to take some money from you, pretend I was going to the Shadow Market, and hop on the Metrolink,” said Kit. “They have trains that leave this city now. Major development, I know. You should try to keep track of these things.”

Julian wondered briefly what Jace would do if he strangled Kit. He considered voicing the thought aloud, but they’d reached the end of the alley, where a slight shimmer in the air was visible. He grabbed Kit by the arm, propelling them both through it at the same time.