“He was under the bed,” Diego said.

“Yes, but since Zara Dearborn is on her way to talk to Diego, this isn’t the safest room,” said Rayan. “And the Cohort suspects Diego’s loyalty to their cause, anyway.”

“They do,” said Divya. “We heard them talking.” She held out a hand to Kieran as if to help him up. He eyed it with surprise, then rose to his feet unassisted.

“I would not kill her if she was unarmed,” said Kieran. “I would challenge her to a fair fight.”

“Yeah, and then everyone would know you were here, including the Clave,” said Divya. She snapped her fingers. “Come on. Let’s go. Quit wasting time.”

Kieran looked slightly stunned. He cut his eyes sideways toward Diego, and Diego nodded. “It’ll be safer for both of us.”

“As you command, then,” Kieran said, and followed Rayan and Divya out of the room, the witchlight wavering over them all. They slipped into the shadows and were gone; Diego barely had time to get out of bed and shrug on a T-shirt before the door banged open.

Zara stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips, glowering. Diego wondered if he should thank her for knocking but decided that she probably didn’t understand sarcasm.

“I’m just about fed up with you,” she said.

Diego leaned back against the wardrobe and crossed his arms over his chest. Zara’s eyes skated over his biceps. She smirked.

“I really had hope for our alliance,” she said. “But you’d better straighten up and stop sympathizing with Downworlders, criminals, and ingrates.”

“Ingrates?” Diego echoed. “I’m only allowed to hang out with the grateful?”

Zara blinked. “What?”

“I’m not sure that word means what you think it means,” said Diego. “English is my second language, but . . .”

“The Blackthorns are ingrates,” she clarified. “You need to drop them and everyone associated with them.” Her eyes bored into him.

“If you mean Cristina, we are only friends—”

“I don’t care. The Blackthorns are awful. Mark’s a half-breed, Ty is a weird little recluse, Dru is fat and stupid, and Julian is like—like Sebastian Morgenstern.”

Diego burst out laughing. “He’s what?”

She flushed. “He raised the dead!”

“He didn’t, actually,” said Diego, though he knew it didn’t matter. The Cohort constantly changed the rules of the game when they were trying to make a point. They didn’t care too much whether their evidence was accurate, nor were they going to be interested in the difference between raising the dead and just associating with them.

“You’ll be sorry when he’s burning the world down,” she said darkly.

“I bet I will,” said Diego. “Look, do you have anything else to say? Because it’s the middle of the night and I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Remember why you agreed to get engaged to me in the first place,” she said, with a sharp little grin. “Maybe you should have thought of what the consequences would be if I had to break it off.”

She turned to go, and Diego saw her pause, as if she’d caught sight of something that surprised her. She shot a last glare at him and stalked off down the corridor.

There was no lock on the door. All Diego could do was kick it shut before flopping back down on his bed. He stared at the ceiling again, but this time it provided no distraction.

6

FROM A PROUD TOWER

Emma awoke with a pounding headache to a knocking on her bedroom door. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in all her clothes; her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks. She felt, and suspected she looked, like a shipwreck.

“Come in,” she called, and the door swung open. It was Julian.

She sat up. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Emma felt cold all over; he would notice her blotchy face, her rumpled clothes. Even if he didn’t love her, he would feel—

“You’d better get dressed and cleaned up,” he said. He wore jeans and a blue sweater and looked as if he’d slept fine. He looked good, even. Like a handsome stranger, someone she didn’t know.

There was nothing harsh in his voice, just a calm pragmatism. She hadn’t needed to worry he’d feel pity for her, she realized, or even guilt; he didn’t feel anything at all.

“Dane Larkspear just came by the house with a message,” he said. “The Inquisitor wants to see us right away.”

*

The moment Cristina opened the door to the kitchen, Helen popped up from behind the counter, holding a ladle and smiling brightly. “Good morning!”

Cristina had woken early, her body scrambled by the time difference between L.A. and Idris, and sleepwalked her way to the kitchen, meaning to throw together some toast and coffee. Helen’s energetic greeting made her want to lie down and nap on the table. She would never understand morning people, especially those who functioned without a caffeine injection.

“I’m making oatmeal,” Helen went on.

“Oh,” said Cristina. She didn’t really like oatmeal.

“Aline’s up in the office, trying to make sense of all the papers. It looks like the Centurions tore the place apart.” Helen grimaced.

“I know.” Cristina looked longingly at the coffeemaker. Would it be rude to push past Helen and grab for the coffee beans and filter?

“Don’t bother,” Helen said. “The Centurions left moldy coffee in the pot.” She gestured toward the sink, where the coffeepot was soaking.

Cristina instantly hated the Centurions even more than she had before. “Is there anything they don’t ruin?”

“They left laundry,” Mark said, coming in with his hair wet. He must have just showered. Cristina felt the immediate and uncontrollable spark of nerves in her stomach, and sat down on a counter stool. She could still see the healing weal of skin around Mark’s wrist, where the binding spell had cut him; she had one that matched. His eyes glowed in the morning sunlight, blue and gold as the heart of the ocean; she turned quickly away from looking at him and began studying a kitchen tile depicting Hector’s body being dragged around the walls of Troy. “So much laundry. Piles and piles of laundry.”

“I’ll do the laundry.” Helen had moved to the stove and was stirring a pot industriously. “I’m making oatmeal.”

“Oh,” said Mark. He met Cristina’s eyes briefly. A shared moment of oatmeal dislike passed between them.

More Blackthorns started piling into the kitchen: Ty, followed by Kit and then Dru and Tavvy. There was a babble of voices, and for a moment, things felt nearly normal. Nearly. Without Emma, she knew, the Institute would never be normal for her. Emma had been the first person she’d met in Los Angeles; Emma had befriended her instantly and without hesitation. Her introduction to L.A. had been going to all of Emma’s favorite places, her secret beaches and canyon trails; it had been driving in the car with her with the radio on and their hair down, hot dogs at Pink’s, pie at the Apple Pan at midnight.

It was hard not to feel anchorless now, an unmoored boat on the tide. But she clung to what Emma had said to her: They’ll need you. Mark will need you.

Ty grabbed a bag of potato chips off the counter and handed it to Kit, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had a way of communicating without words, almost like Emma and Julian did.

“You don’t need those,” Helen said. “I’m making oatmeal!” She pointed at the table with her spoon: She’d set it with matching bowls and even a vase with a sprig of wildflowers.

“Oh,” said Kit.

“I want pancakes,” announced Tavvy.

“We’re not staying for breakfast,” said Ty. “Kit and I are going to the beach. We’ll see you later.”

“But—” Helen began, but it was no use; they’d already left, Ty dragging Kit behind him with a firm grip on his wrist. Kit shrugged apologetically before disappearing through the door.

“I hate oatmeal,” said Dru. She sat down at the table, frowning.

“I hate oatmeal too,” said Tavvy, pushing in next to his sister. He frowned too, and for a moment the resemblance between them was almost comical.

“Well, oatmeal is what there is,” Helen said. “But I can make toast, too.”

“Not toast,” said Tavvy. “Pancakes.”

Helen shut the stove off. For a moment she stood staring down into the pot of cooling oatmeal. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.”

Cristina got hurriedly off her stool. “Helen, let me help you make some eggs and toast,” she said.

“Julian can make pancakes,” said Tavvy.

Helen had made room for Cristina at the counter by the stove. Cristina handed over bread; as Helen loaded up the toaster, Cristina saw that her hands were shaking.

“I really don’t want eggs for breakfast,” said Dru. She picked one of the flowers out of the vase on the table and plucked off its head. Petals showered down onto the table.

“Come on, both of you,” said Mark, going over to his younger brother and sister and ruffling their hair affectionately. “We just got back. Don’t give Helen a hard time.”