“The battery’s dying anyway,” Livvy said, but there was something else in her voice, something that said it hurt to look at the pictures of a life that had been taken from her. “Ty grew up so handsome,” she added. “The girls must be all over him. Or the boys,” she added with a sideways smile that faded quickly. “Anyway. You take it.”

Emma put the phone into her pocket. As Livvy turned away, Emma thought she caught sight of the edge of a black Mark just under the collar of Livvy’s T-shirt. She blinked—weren’t there no Marks here?

It looked like the curlicue of a mourning rune.

Livvy flopped back down on the couch. “Well, there’s no point waiting here,” she said. “It’ll just make us tense. You guys go and get some sleep. If nothing happens by tomorrow afternoon, we can regroup.”

Emma and Julian made for the exit. At the door, Julian hesitated. “I was wondering,” he said. “Is this place any better by daylight?”

Livvy had been studying her hands, with their patterns of scars. She raised her eyes and for a moment they blazed, familiar Blackthorn blue.

“Just you wait,” she said.

*

Pajamas didn’t seem to be a thing in Thule. After showering, Julian sat on the bed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, staring at the painted metal window with its false silver stars. He was thinking of Mark. When Mark had been a captive of the Wild Hunt, every night he had counted out his brothers’ and sisters’ names on the points of light wheeling above.

In Thule you couldn’t see the stars. What had Livvy done? How had she remembered them all? Or had it been less painful to try to forget? Mark had thought his siblings were alive and happy without him. Livvy knew they were dead or in thrall. Which was worse?

“She didn’t ask,” he said as Emma came out of the bathroom in her tank top and a pair of boxer briefs. “Livvy—she didn’t ask about our world. Nothing at all.”

Emma sank onto the bed beside him. She had pulled her hair back in a braid; he could feel the warmth of her and smell the soap on her skin. His insides tightened. “Can you blame her? Our world’s not perfect. But it isn’t this. It isn’t a whole world of birthdays she missed, and growing up she didn’t get to see, and comfort she never got.”

“She’s alive here, though,” Julian said.

“Julian.” Emma touched his face lightly. He wanted to lean into the touch but held himself back with a body-tensing effort. “She’s surviving here.”

“And there’s a difference?”

She gave him a long look before dropping her hand and settling back against the pillows. “You know there is.”

She lay on her side, tendrils of pale hair escaping from her braid, gold against the white pillows. Her eyes were the color of polished wood, her body curved like a violin. Julian wanted to grab his sketch pad, to draw her, the way he always had when his feelings for her grew too intense. His heart exploding paint and colors because he could not speak the words.

“Do you want me to sleep on the floor?” he asked. His voice was husky. Nothing he could do about that.

She shook her head, still looking at him with those enormous eyes. “I was thinking,” she said. “If Shadowhunter magic is gone here . . . If seraph blades don’t work, or angelic magic . . .”

“Then our parabatai bond is probably broken,” he finished. “I thought of that too.”

“But we can’t be sure,” she said. “I mean, I guess we could try to do something, to make something happen, the way we burned that church. . . .”

“Probably not a good idea to experiment with arson.” Julian could feel his heart beating. Emma was leaning closer to him. He could see the smooth curve of her collarbone, the place where her tanned skin grew paler. He dragged his gaze away.

“We could try the other thing,” she said. “You know. Kissing.”

“Emma—”

“I feel it when we kiss.” Her pupils were enormous. “I know you do too. The bond.”

It was like having helium pumped into his blood. He felt light as air. “You’re sure? You absolutely want this?”

“Yeah.” She settled back farther into the pillows. She was looking up at him now, her stubborn chin tilted up, her elbows on the bed. Her legs sprawled out, long and glorious. He slid closer to her. He could see her pulse beating in her throat. Her lips parted, her voice low: “I want this.”

He moved over her, not touching her yet, his body a whisper from hers. He saw her eyes darken. She wriggled under him, her legs sliding against his.

“Emma,” he rasped. “What happened to that bra? You know, the enormous one?”

She grinned. “I went without.”

The air in the room felt suddenly superheated. Julian tried to breathe normally, despite knowing that if he slid his hands up under Emma’s tank top he would encounter only soft skin and bare curves.

But she hadn’t asked him to do that. She’d asked for a kiss. He propped himself over her, a hand on either side of her head. Slowly, he lowered himself: exquisitely slowly, until their mouths were an inch apart. He could feel her warm breath against his face. Still, their bodies were barely touching. She moved restlessly under him, her fingers digging into the coverlet.

“Kiss me,” she murmured, and he bent to brush his lips over hers—just a brush, the lightest of touches. She chased his lips with her own; he turned his face to the side, tracing the same warm, light touch along her jaw, her cheek. When he reached her mouth again she was gasping, her eyes half-closed. He drew her lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue along it, tracing the curve, the sensitive corners.

She gasped again, pressing her back deeper into the cushions, her body arching. He felt her breasts brush against his chest, sending a shot of heat directly to his groin. He dug his fingers into the mattress, willing himself to keep control. To give her only and exactly what she’d asked for.

A kiss.

He sucked and licked at her bottom lip, traced the bow shape of the upper. Licked along the seam of the two until her lips parted and he sealed his mouth to hers, all heat and wetness and the taste of her, mint and tea. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, arching up against him as they kissed on and on. Her body was soft and warm; she was moaning into his mouth, dragging her heels up the backs of his calves, her hands sliding to his shirt, fingers curling under—

She broke away. She was breathing as if she’d been running a marathon, her lips damp and pink from kissing, her cheeks flaming. “Holy f—” she began, then coughed and blushed. “Have you been practicing?”

“No,” Julian said. He was proud of himself for managing an entire syllable. He decided to try out a sentence. “I have not.”

“Okay,” Emma breathed. “Okay. No one’s on fire, no parabatai weirdness in evidence. That’s about as much testing as I’m up for right now.”

Julian rolled carefully onto his side. “But I can still sleep on the bed, right?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “I think you’ve earned that, yeah.”

“I can scooch all the way to the edge,” he offered.

“Don’t push it, Julian,” she said, and rolled against him, her body curling into his. He put his arms tentatively around her, and she burrowed closer, closing her eyes.

“Emma?” he said.

No answer.

He couldn’t believe it. She was asleep. Breathing softly and regularly, her small cold nose pressed into his collarbone. She was asleep, and he felt like his whole body was burning up. The shuddering waves of pleasure and desire that had rolled over him just from kissing her still stunned him.

That had felt good. Almost euphorically good. And not just because of what had bloomed inside his own cells, his own skin. It had been Emma, the noises she’d made, the way she’d touched him. It wasn’t the parabatai bond, but it was their bond. It was the pleasure he’d given her, mirrored back at him a thousandfold. It was everything he hadn’t been able to feel since the spell.

The Queen’s voice came, unwanted, silvery as a bell and flawed with malice:

You are in the cage, boy.

He shivered and drew Emma closer.

19

THE JEWELLED DEAD

Emma dreamed of fire and thunder, and was woken by the sound of splintering wood. At least, it sounded like the wood was splintering. When she sat up, groggy and confused, Julian’s arm still around her waist, she realized it was someone knocking very, very hard at the bedroom door.

Julian moved, groaning softly in his sleep; Emma extricated herself and padded over to throw the door open, expecting Cameron or Livvy.

It was Diana.

The sight of her acted like a shot of caffeine. She was all in black, from her black motorcycle boots to her leather pants and jacket. Her hair was secured in a tight, curly ponytail at the back of her head. She looked intimidating, but Emma didn’t care much: She gave a little yelp and threw her arms around Diana, who made a loud noise of surprise.

“Whoa there, stranger,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry.” Julian had appeared and gently peeled Emma away. “In our world, you’re our tutor.”

“Oh, right. Your alternate dimension. Livvy told me about it when I got back from my pharmacy run.” Diana raised her eyebrows. “Wild.”