“You killed for that?” Cristina demanded. “You made yourself a murderer?”

“I was a murderer from the second they picked my name in the Lottery,” said Sterling. “I had no choice.”

The sound of police sirens started up in the distance.

“We need to get out of here,” said Cristina, glancing toward Sterling’s wrecked car, the blood on the street. Emma raised Cortana, and was rewarded with a look of quivering fear on Sterling’s face.

“No,” he whimpered. “Don’t—”

“We can’t kill him,” Diego protested. “We need him. I’ve never caught one of them alive before. We must question him.”

“Relax, Perfect Diego,” Emma said, and slammed the handle of Cortana into Sterling’s temple. He dropped like a rock, out cold.

Carrying Sterling back to the car was awkward, since he wasn’t glamoured; they slung one of his arms over Diego’s shoulder, and he did his best to look as if he was helping a drunk friend home. Once they reached the Toyota, they tied Sterling’s wrists and ankles with electrum wire before bundling him into the back of the car, his head lolling, his body limp.

They’d discussed whether to race straight to the convergence, but decided to head to the Institute first to pick up more weapons and consult with the others. Emma especially was eager to talk to Julian—she’d called several times, but he hadn’t picked up. She told herself he was probably busy with the kids, but faint worry rankled at the back of her mind as she slid into the driver’s seat, Cristina beside her. Perfect Diego clambered in beside Sterling, his dagger out, pressed to Sterling’s throat.

Emma took off with a vicious screech of tires. She was filled with rage, at least half of it directed at herself. How could she not have figured out that Sterling wasn’t a victim, but a killer? How could they all not have known?

“It’s not your fault,” Perfect Diego said from the back of the car, as if he’d read her mind. “It made sense to assume that the Lottery was choosing victims, not killers.”

“And Johnny Rook lied to us,” Emma snarled. “Or at least—he let us believe it. That we were protecting someone.”

“We were protecting a killer,” said Cristina. She looked miserable, her hand clamped around her pendant.

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Perfect Diego, being perfect. “You’ve been investigating with no information. No help from the Silent Brothers or—anyone else.”

Cristina looked over her shoulder at him and glared. “How do you know all this?”

“What makes you think we’ve been investigating?” Emma demanded. “Just because you saw me and Julian at Wells’s place?”

“That was my first clue,” Perfect Diego said. “After that I asked around. Talked to a guy at the Shadow Market—”

“Johnny Rook again,” Emma said in disgust. “Is there anyone that guy won’t blab to?”

“He told me everything,” Perfect Diego said. “That you were looking into the murders without the Clave knowing. That it was a secret. I was scared for you, Cristina.”

Cristina snorted without turning around.

“Tina,” Perfect Diego said, and his voice was filled with longing. “Tina, please.”

Emma looked awkwardly out the windshield. They were almost in view of the ocean. She tried to concentrate on that and not the tension between the two other conscious occupants of the car.

Cristina clenched her medallion tighter, but said nothing.

“Rook said you were investigating because you believed the murders were tied to your parents’ death,” Perfect Diego said to Emma. “For what it is worth, I am sorry for your loss.”

“That was a long time ago.” Emma could see Perfect Diego in the rearview mirror. He had a delicate chain of runes that circled his neck, like a torque. His hair curled, not Julian’s waves but ringlets that fell over the tops of his ears.

He was hot. And he seemed nice. And he had some serious badass moves. He really was Perfect Diego, she thought wryly. No wonder Cristina had been so hurt.

“What are you doing here?” Cristina demanded. “Emma has a reason to be investigating the murders, but you?”

“You know I was at the Scholomance,” Perfect Diego said. “And you know Centurions are often sent to investigate matters that don’t fall strictly under Shadowhunter mandate—”

There was a hoarse yell. Sterling had jerked awake and was flailing in the backseat. Perfect Diego’s knife flashed in the darkness. Cars honked as Emma jerked the wheel to the right and they careened onto Ocean Avenue.

“Let me go!” Sterling jerked and flailed against the wire wrapping his wrists. “Let me go!”

He yelped in pain as Perfect Diego flung him hard against the backseat of the car, pressing the knife against his jugular. “Get off me,” Sterling yelled. “Goddammit, get off me—”

Sterling shrieked as Perfect Diego dug his knee into his thigh. “Settle,” Diego said in a flat, deadly voice, “down.”

They were still hurtling down Ocean. Palm trees fringed either side of the street like eyelashes. Emma cut wildly in front of the left-hand turn lane and shot down the ramp to the coast highway amid a furious chorus of blaring horns.

“Jesus Christ!” Sterling shouted. “Where’d you learn to drive?”

“Nobody asked you for commentary!” Emma yelled back as they hurtled into the moving traffic. Luckily it was late and the lanes were mostly empty.

“I don’t want to die on the Pacific Coast Highway!” Sterling wailed.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Emma’s voice dripped acid. “Is there a different highway you’d like to die on? BECAUSE WE CAN ARRANGE THAT.”

“Bitch,” Sterling hissed.

Cristina whirled around in her seat. There was a cracking sound like a gunshot; a second later, as they hurtled past a group of surfers walking along the highway’s edge, Emma realized she’d slapped Sterling across the face.

“Don’t you call my friend a bitch,” Cristina said. “You understand?”

Sterling rubbed his jaw. His eyes were slits. “You’ve got no right to touch me.” There was a whine in his voice. “Nephilim only deal with issues that break the Accords.”

“Wrong,” Perfect Diego said. “We deal with any issues we feel like.”

“But Belinda told us—”

“Yeah, about that,” Cristina said. “How did you end up joining that cult or whatever it is at the Midnight Theater?”

Sterling exhaled a shaky breath. “We’re sworn to secrecy,” he said finally. “If I tell you everything I know, are you going to protect me?”

“Maybe,” said Emma. “But you’re tied up and we’re all heavily armed. You really fancy your chances if you don’t tell?”

Sterling glanced at Perfect Diego, who was holding the dagger idly, as if it were a pen. Nevertheless, there was a sense of coiled power about him, as if he could explode into action in under a second. If Sterling had any brains he’d be terrified. “I got into it through a producer friend of mine. He said he’d found a way to guarantee that everything you touched turned to gold. Not literally,” Sterling hastened to add.