It wouldn’t have mattered if he could have covered them up, though. Shadowhunters seemed to bleed their angel heritage through their pores. Kit wondered if he himself did yet.

“I don’t see any gates,” Ty said, craning his head.

“The gates are—metaphysical. Not exactly real,” Kit explained. They were walking toward the section of the Market where potions and charms were sold. A booth covered in tumbling roses in shades of red and pink and white sold love charms. One with a green-and-white awning sold luck and good fortune, and a pearly gray stand hung with curtains of lace, providing privacy, sold more dangerous items. Necromancy and death magic were both forbidden at the Market, but the rules had never been strictly enforced.

A phouka was leaning against the post of a nearby streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. Behind him, the lanes of the Market looked like small, glowing streets, enticing Kit with calls of “Come buy!” Voices clamored, jewelry clinked and rattled, spice and incense perfumed the air. Kit felt a longing mixed with anxiety—he cut a quick sideways glance toward Ty. They hadn’t entered the Market yet; was Ty thinking about how much he’d hated the London Market, how it had made him sweat and panic with too much noise, too much light, too much pressure, too much everything?

He wanted to ask Ty if he was all right, but he knew the other boy wouldn’t want it. Ty was staring at the Market, tense with curiosity. Kit turned to the phouka.

“Gatekeeper,” he said. “We request entrance to the Shadow Market.”

Ty’s gaze snapped to attention. The phouka was tall, dark, and thin, with bronze and gold strands threaded through his long hair. He wore purple trousers and no shoes. The lamppost he leaned against was between two stalls, neatly blocking the way into the Market.

“Kit Rook,” said the phouka. “What a compliment it is, to still be recognized by one who has left us to dwell among the angels.”

“He knows you,” muttered Ty.

“Everyone in the Shadow Market knows me,” said Kit, hoping Ty would be impressed.

The phouka stubbed out his cigarette. It released a sickly sweet smell of charred herbs. “Password,” he said.

“I’m not saying that,” said Kit. “You think it’s funny to try to make people say that.”

“Say what? What’s the password?” Ty demanded.

The phouka grinned. “Wait here, Kit Rook,” he said, and melted back into the shadows of the Market.

“He’s going to get Hale,” said Kit, trying to hide the signs of his nerves.

“Can they see us?” Ty said. He was looking into the Shadow Market, where clusters of Downworlders, witches and other assorted members of the magical underworld, moved among the clamor. “Out here?”

It was like standing outside a lighted room in the dark, Kit thought. And though Ty might not express it that way, Kit suspected he felt the same.

“If they can, they’d never show it,” he said.

Ty turned toward him suddenly. His gaze slipped over Kit’s ear, his cheekbone, not quite meeting his eyes. “Watson—”

“Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn,” snapped a voice out of the shadows. It was Barnabas Hale, head of the Market. “Actually, I’m assuming you’re not actually Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn, because they’d never be stupid enough to show up here.”

“That seemed like a compliment,” said Ty, who looked honestly surprised.

“Sure, maybe it’s not us,” said Kit. “Maybe someone just got the specifications for the candygram you ordered wildly off.”

Hale frowned in annoyance. He looked as he always had: short and scaly-skinned, with a snake’s slit-pupiled eyes. He wore a pin-striped suit that Kit assumed must have been heavily altered to fit. Most humans weren’t three feet tall and three feet wide.

The phouka had returned with Hale. Silently, he leaned against the lamppost again, his dark eyes glittering.

“Prove you’re Kit Rook,” said Hale. “What’s the password?”

“I’m still not saying it. I’m never going to say it,” said Kit.

“What is it?” Ty demanded.

“Just let us in,” said Kit. “We don’t want any trouble.”

Hale barked a laugh. “You don’t want trouble? You two? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know what kind of mayhem you caused in London? You wrecked property, attacked vendors, and you”—he pointed at Ty—“destroyed a great deal of fey stock. I hate you both. Go away.”

“Hear me out,” Kit said. “Remember when that faerie burned half the Market down and was welcomed back the next year because she had a bumper crop of hen’s teeth? Remember the werewolf and the llama and how that turned out? And he wasn’t banned, because he had a line on a supply of yin fen.”

“What’s your point?” said Hale. He sighed. “God, I wish I had a cigar. Had to quit.”

“The spirit of the Market is simple,” said Kit. “Everything’s okay as long as you make a profit. Right?”

“Sure,” said Hale. “And that’s why we tolerated Johnny Rook. We tolerated you because the Shadowhunters hadn’t found you yet. But now they have and it’s a hop, skip, and a jump until you find out who you really are—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ty. The wind had picked up and was blowing his dark hair like streamers.

“Nothing for free,” Hale said, with the annoyance of a man who’d said too much, and who also wanted a cigar and couldn’t have one. “Besides, your money is no good here, Rook.” He waved a hand in Ty’s direction. “I might be able to get something in exchange for your skinny friend in the right circles, but not enough.”

“Theoretically, how much?” asked Ty with interest.

Hale looked grim. “Not as good a price as I could get for Emma Carstairs—even more for just her head.”

Ty blanched. Kit felt it, Ty’s recollection that the Market was, in fact, truly dangerous. That it was all truly dangerous.

Kit felt the situation was getting away from him. “No heads. Look, my father didn’t trust anyone, Mr. Hale. You know that. He hid his most precious items all over Los Angeles, buried in places he thought no one would ever find them.”

“I’m listening,” said Hale.

Kit knew this was the risky part. “One is right here in the Shadow Market. A ruby-encrusted copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic.”

The phouka whistled, long and low.

“Not only will I give it to you, I’ll give it to you for free,” said Kit. “All you have to do is let us back into the Shadow Market. Free trade.”

Hale shook his head in regret. “Now I really wish I had a cigar, so I could celebrate,” he said. “I already found that, you stupid brat. We dug up your dad’s stall after the Mantids killed him.” He turned away, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder. The moonlight seemed to bounce off his white, scaled skin. “You’re out of your depth, kids. Get out of Downworld before someone kills you. That person could even be me.”

A forked tongue shot from between his teeth and licked his lips. Kit started back, revolted, as Hale melted into the Market and was swallowed up by the crowds.

Kit couldn’t look at Ty. He felt as if the air had been knocked out of him, shock and shame warring for an equal chance to turn his stomach. “I . . . ,” he began.

“You should have just given the password,” said the phouka.

Out of patience, Kit slowly raised his middle finger. “Here’s the password.”

Ty muffled a laugh and grabbed Kit’s sleeve. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

*

“I am proud to announce,” said Horace Dearborn, “that the proposed Downworld Registry is ready to become a reality.”

The sound that went through the rows of Nephilim seated in the Council Hall was hard to decipher. To Diana it sounded like the roar of an animal driving another hungry beast away from its prey.

Horace stood with his hands folded behind his back, a toneless smirk on his face. At his left stood Zara, in full Centurion regalia, her hair braided in a crown around her head. At his right was Manuel, his expression carefully blank, his eyes dancing with malice. They looked like a horrible mockery of a family portrait.

“All Institutes will have a short amount of time to register their local Downworlders,” said Horace. “The heads of Institutes must meet a quota of registrations, based on our knowledge of local Downworld populations, in the first weeks this Law takes effect.”

Diana sat, letting the words wash over her in waves of horror. She couldn’t help but look at Jia, who occupied a tall wooden seat at the edge of the dais. Her face was a strained mask. Diana couldn’t help but wonder if this was more extreme even than what Jia had feared Horace might propose.

“And if Downworlders refuse?” called someone from the audience.

“Then they will have their protections under the Accords stripped from them,” Zara said, and Diana went cold all over. No Accords protection meant a Shadowhunter could kill a Downworlder in the street for no reason, and there would be no consequences. “We understand this will be a great burden of work on Institutes, but it is important that everyone cooperate, for the good of all Shadowhunters.”