“Emma,” Cristina said warningly.

“Get up,” Emma said, reaching out a hand to Sterling. “Come with us. But if you call me ‘blondie’ again, I’ll rip your knees off and turn them into tiny hubcaps, ’kay?”

“Stop yelling at him, Emma,” said Cristina. “Casper—Mr. Sterling—we need to stay with you, all right? We know you’re in danger and we want to help you.”

“If you want to help me, you’ll get away from me,” Sterling shouted. “I need to be left alone!”

“So you can end up drowned and burned, covered in markings, with your fingerprints sanded off?” Emma said. “That’s what you want?”

Sterling gaped at her. “What?”

“Emma!” Emma realized Cristina was looking up. A shape was slipping along the roof—a man in dark clothes, a dangerous, familiar shadow. Emma’s heart thumped in her chest.

“Get up!” She grabbed Sterling’s hand, yanking him to his feet. He struggled, then sagged against her, his mouth open, as the dark shape on the roof leaped down, landing on a jutting balcony. Emma could see him more clearly now: a man in black, a dark hood pulled up to hide his face.

There was a crossbow in his right hand. He raised it. Emma gave Sterling a shove that almost knocked him off his feet.

“Run!” she shouted.

Sterling didn’t move. He was gaping at the figure in black, a look of total disbelief on his face.

Something whizzed by Emma’s ear—a crossbow bolt. Senses heightened, she heard the loud snick as Cristina’s butterfly knife snapped open, and the whir as it flew through the air. She heard the man in black yell, and the crossbow fell from his hand. It crashed into the alley, and a moment later the man in black followed, landing with a harsh thud on Sterling’s back.

Sterling went sprawling. The man in black, crouched over him, raised his hand; something silvery flashed between his fingers. A knife. He brought it down—

And Cristina careened into him, knocking him sideways. He went sprawling, and Sterling staggered to his feet and ran for his car. He half-fell into it, gasping. Emma raced after him, but the car was already gathering speed, hurtling down the alley.

She spun back around just as the man in black sprang up. Emma was on him in seconds, flinging him up against the stained wall of the apartment building.

He tried to pull away, but Emma had her fist knotted in the front of his sweatshirt. “You shot Julian,” she said. “I should kill you right here.”

“Emma.” Cristina was on her feet. Her gaze was fixed on the man in black. “Find out who he is first.”

Emma grabbed his hood with her free hand and yanked it down, revealing—

A boy. Not a man, she thought, jolted, definitely a boy—maybe a year older than her—with tangled dark hair. His jaw was set and his black eyes snapped with anger.

Cristina gasped. “Dios mío, ¡no puedo creer que seas tú!”

“What?” Emma demanded, looking from the boy to Cristina and back again. “What’s going on?”

“Emma.” Cristina looked stunned, as if she’d had the breath knocked out of her. “This is Diego. Diego Rocio Rosales, meet Emma Carstairs.”

The air outside the Institute was strong and bracing, smelling of sage and salt. Julian could hear the low hum of cicadas filling the air, softening the noise of Diana slamming the truck door shut. She came around the side of the truck and paused when she saw Julian standing on the front steps.

“Jules,” she said. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you that,” he said. “Are you leaving? Again?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears, but several curls escaped, caught by the escalating wind. She wore dark clothes, not gear but black jeans and gloves and boots. “I have to go.”

He took a step down. “How long will you be gone for?”

“I don’t know.”

“So we shouldn’t depend on you.” The heaviness in Julian’s chest felt like more than he could bear. He wanted to lash out, kick something. He wanted Emma, to talk to, to reassure him. But he couldn’t think about Emma.

“Believe it or not,” Diana said, “I’m doing my best for you.”

Julian looked down at his hands. His sea-glass bracelet glowed on his wrist. He remembered the gleam of it under the water the night before, as he swam down toward Emma. “What do you expect me to tell them?” he said. “If they ask me where you are.”

“Make something up,” Diana said. “You’re good at that.”

Anger surged up in him—if he was a liar, and a good one, it was because he had never had a choice.

“I know things about you,” Julian said. “I know you left for your travel year, went to Thailand, and didn’t come back until after your father died.”

Diana paused, one hand on the truck door. “Have you been investigating me, Julian?”

“I know things because I have to know them,” Julian said. “I need to be careful.”

Diana yanked the door open. “I came here,” she said, softly, “knowing it was a bad idea. Knowing that caring about you children was tying myself to a fate I couldn’t control. I did it because I saw how much you cared about each other, you and your brothers and sisters, and it meant something to me. Try to believe that, Julian.”

“I know you understand about brothers and sisters,” said Julian. “You had a brother. He died in Thailand. You never talk about him.”

She got into the truck, slammed the door shut after her, the window still open. “I don’t owe you answers, Julian,” she said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“It’s all right,” he said. He suddenly felt enormously tired. “They won’t ask where you are, anyway. They don’t really expect you to be around.”

He saw Diana cover her face with her hands. A moment later, the truck started up. Lights illuminated the front of the Institute, sweeping over the sandy grass as the truck rumbled down the hill.

Julian stood where he was for a long time. He wasn’t sure how long. Long enough for the sun to go down entirely, for the glow to fade from the hills. Long enough for him to turn to go back inside, straightening his shoulders, preparing himself.

That was when he heard the noise. He spun around and saw them: a vast crowd, coming up the road toward the Institute.

“Cristina,” Diego breathed, staring past Emma. “Pensé que eras tú, pero no estaba seguro. ¿Qué haces aquí? ¿Por qué estabas tratando de proteger a este hombre?”

“Diego?” Not understanding a word of what he’d said, Emma examined the boy again, noting the Marks that decorated his neck, disappearing down into the collar of his shirt. He was a Shadowhunter, all right. “This is Perfect Diego?”

“Emma,” Cristina said, her cheeks flushing. “Let him go.”

“I’m not letting him go.” Emma glared at Perfect Diego, who glared right back, his black eyes flaring. “He shot Julian.”

“I didn’t know you were Nephilim,” Perfect Diego snapped. “You were wearing long sleeves and jackets. I couldn’t see your runes.” His English was perfect, perhaps unsurprisingly, considering his nickname.