“Livvy,” Ty said. He tried to stand, but the cord of light around his ankle jerked him back down. He tumbled onto some moss.

The ghost of Livvy Blackthorn smiled. She came down into the hollow—not climbing or falling, but drifting, like a feather on the wind.

“What are you doing?” asked Ty as she knelt down beside him.

“I shouldn’t have been so angry with you last night,” said Livvy. “You meant well.”

“You came to apologize?” said Kit.

Livvy turned to look at him. The gold locket gleamed at her throat. It was strange to see two of it—the one Ty wore, real and shining, and the one that flickered on Livvy’s neck. A whisper of her memories? Death’s way of projecting an image of what people expected Livvy to look like?

“I forgot,” Livvy said. “You can see ghosts, Herondale.”

She sounded like Livvy. But not like Livvy. There was a cool distance in her tone, and real Livvy would have called him Kit.

Still, she bent to touch Ty’s ankle gently, and at her touch, Magnus’s chain of light flickered and vanished. Ty struggled to his knees. “Why did you do that? Because you’re sorry?”

“No,” said Livvy. “Ghosts don’t really do things because they’re sorry.” She touched Ty’s cheek, or at least she tried—her fingers passed through the outline of his body. Ty shivered but kept his gaze locked on her. “Julian and Mark and Helen and Emma are at the Imperishable Fields,” said Livvy, her eyes unfocused, as if she were seeing what was happening elsewhere. “You must go to help them. You must fight in the battle. They need you on their side.”

As if it were an afterthought, she turned and touched Kit’s chain. It vanished—and so did Livvy. She bent her head and was gone, not even a wisp of mist to show she had ever been there.

Devastation passed across Ty’s face and Kit felt a stab of pity. What would it be like for him, even if Livvy came and went as a ghost? She would never stay long, and there was no way to be sure that if she did go, she would return. It would be like losing her again and again and again.

Ty got to his feet. Kit knew he would say nothing about Livvy. “You don’t have to come to the battle,” Ty said. “You can stay here.”

He began to scramble out of the hollow. Wordlessly, Kit followed.

*

Cristina knew her Shadowhunter history better than most. As she raced across the green grass, she thought of the past: that here on the Imperishable Fields was where Jonathan Shadowhunter had battled a legion of demons. As she ran, slashing out with her sword, she followed in his footsteps.

Mark was at her side. He was armed with a bow, lighter and smaller than Alec’s, but capable of shooting with speed and precision. The Unseelie army surged toward them as they pushed their way toward Kieran, and Mark’s hand went to his bow over and over, felling trolls and ogres with elf-bolts to the throat and chest. Cristina swung at the smaller, faster redcaps, hacking and slashing, noting with a distant horror that their own blood vanished against their already bloodstained uniforms.

A roar went up from behind them. “What’s that?” Mark demanded, wiping blood and sweat from his eyes.

“Reinforcements coming to join Horace and the others,” Cristina said grimly. “They were on guard around the city.”

Mark swore under his breath. “We have to get to Kieran.”

Cristina imagined Mark was having the same panic she was—there was only one of Kieran, and a mass of redcaps and Unseelie foot soldiers, from kelpies to goblins, who had sworn loyalty to Oban. In whatever direction she glanced, she saw Unseelie folk locked in battle with Downworlders and Shadowhunters: Simon and Isabelle were holding off imps with sword and whip, Alec felling ogres one after another with his bow, Maia and Bat tearing at trolls with claws and teeth. In the distance, she saw Emma and Julian fighting back-to-back, and Jace, locked in a fight with Timothy Rockford—but why was Jace using the flat of his blade . . . ?

“There he is,” Mark said. They had crested a hill; down the slope was Kieran. He carried the sword Nene had given him and was facing off against a broad-shouldered redcap in massive iron boots. Mark swore. “They call him General Winter because he can wipe out a whole village faster than a deadly frost.”

“I remember him.” Cristina shivered—she recalled the fierce fighting of the redcaps in the throne room of the Unseelie Court. “But—he’ll kill Kieran. I’ve read about redcaps. Mark, this is bad.”

Mark didn’t disagree. He was gazing at Kieran with worried eyes. “Come on.”

They made their way down the slope, running past a number of Unseelie soldiers who were racing for the thick of the battle. Oban was still surrounded by a circle of goblins, protecting him: A few redcaps had formed a loose group around Winter and Kieran. They seemed to have congregated to enjoy the fight.

The redcaps cheered as Winter lunged with his swordstaff, landing a glancing blow against Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran’s white shirt was already striped with blood. His hair was white, the color of snow or ash, his cheekbones blazing with color. He parried the next blow of the swordstaff and lunged for Winter’s torso; the redcap general barely slid aside in time to avoid the thrust.

Winter laughed. “What a pity! You fight like a King,” he said. “In a hundred years you might have been good enough to face me.”

“Bastard,” Mark hissed. “Cristina—”

She was already shaking her head. “If we go for Winter now, the other guards will fall on us,” she said. “Quick—signal Gwyn. He’ll attack Oban. It might give us a chance.”

Mark’s eyes flashed with realization. He cupped a hand around his mouth and whistled, the low, humming, Wild Hunt whistle that seemed to vibrate inside Cristina’s bones.

A shadow passed across the sky. It wheeled and returned: Gwyn on the back of Orion. He flew low over the field; Cristina saw Diana turn and reach up her arms. A moment later Gwyn had swung her up beside him on Orion. They soared back up into the air, Diana and the leader of the Wild Hunt.

Together, they flew low over the goblins surrounding Oban. Diana, her dark hair flying behind her, bent low from the horse’s back, swinging her sword down, slicing across the chest of a goblin guard. The others yelled and began to scatter as Diana harried them from the sky, Gwyn grinning beneath his helmet.

But Kieran was still in desperate trouble. He was barely holding off Winter, whose swordstaff rang again and again against his blade. As Cristina watched in horror, one of Winter’s blows knocked Kieran to the ground; he rolled aside and sprang to his feet, barely missing a second, deadly strike.

Mark and Cristina took off running toward him, but a redcap guard who had been watching the fight swung around to block their path. At this close range, Mark’s bow was of less use; he drew a shortsword from his belt and flung himself at the guard, hacking fiercely at the redcap as he tried to reach Kieran. Another guard rose up in front of Cristina; she dispatched him with a slashing blow, rolling under the stabbing path of another spear. A metal boot crashed into her side and she cried out, feeling her ribs break. Agonizing pain seared through her as she crumpled to the ground.

Meanwhile, Oban’s goblin guard had had enough. Dropping their weapons in their haste to escape, they fled away from Oban into the thick of the battle, Diana and Gwyn following. Oban, abruptly alone in the field, looked around in furious panic before seizing up a goblin’s sword. “Come back, you bastards!” he shouted. “Come back here! I order you!”

Gasping in agony, Cristina tried to push herself to her feet. The sear of broken bones made her jackknife against the ground; she saw two redcaps above her and thought: This is the end.

They fell, one on either side of her, both dead. A blood-covered Mark leaned over her, his face white. “Cristina! Cristina!”

Cristina caught at Mark, gasping in pain. “Iratze.”

Mark fumbled for his stele as Winter shouted aloud. “King Oban!”

Cristina turned her head to the side. Winter stood over Kieran, who was crumpled on the ground, his sword lying shattered at his side. Cristina’s heart sank even as Mark drew a swift iratze on her skin.

She barely noticed the pain depart. Oh, Kieran.

“General Winter!” Oban cried, waving his hands at the redcap standing over Kieran as if he were swatting at a fly. Stained lace flew from his sleeves and his velvet breeches were crushed beyond repair. “I command you to kill the traitor!”

Winter shook his head slowly. He was a massive figure, his shoulders almost splitting the seams of his blood-dyed uniform. “You must do this, sire,” he said. “It is the only way to render your claim on the throne a true one.”

With a petulant frown, Oban, sword at his side, stalked forward, crossing the swatch of grass between himself and Kieran. Mark looked down at Cristina. She nodded, yes, and he thrust out a hand, raising her to her feet.