Rook flashed a grin. “There’s all the world,” he said. “It’s a messy place, Shadowhunter, and we don’t all get to keep our hands clean.”

“There’s a difference between dirt and blood,” Julian said. Emma shot him a quelling look, one that said: We’re here because we need something. She didn’t always have to write on his skin for him to know what she was thinking.

The curtains rustled, though there was no breeze. “Look, we’re not here to bother you,” Emma said. “We just want some information, and we’ll go.”

“Information isn’t free,” said Rook.

“I’ve got something good for you this time. Better than cash,” Emma said. Avoiding Julian’s eyes, she took a pale column of silvery-white stone from the inside of her jacket pocket. She flushed slightly, aware of Julian’s eyes on her as he realized what she was holding: an unnamed seraph blade.

“What is he going to do with adamas?” Julian demanded.

“Adamas that has been treated by the Iron Sisters goes for a high price at the Shadow Market,” said Rook, not taking his eyes off Emma’s prize. “But it still depends on what you want to know about.”

“The Midnight Theater and the Followers,” Emma said. “We want to know about them.”

Rook narrowed his eyes. “What do you want to know?”

Emma gave him a brief rundown of the events of the night before, leaving out Mark and how they’d found out about the Lottery in the first place. When she was done, Rook whistled.

“Casper Sterling,” he said. “I always thought that guy was a scumbag. Yakking on about how he was better than werewolves, better than humans, too. Can’t say I’m sorry his number came up.”

“Johnny,” Emma said severely. “They’re going to kill him.”

An odd expression flickered across Rook’s face, but it vanished quickly. “And you want me to do what about it? They’re a whole organization, Carstairs.”

“We need to know who their leader is,” said Julian. “Belinda called him the Guardian. He’s the one we need to find.”

“I don’t know,” said Rook. “I’m not sure pissing off the Followers is worth even adamas.” But his eyes clung to the silvery-white stuff longingly. Emma pressed the advantage.

“They’ll never know you had anything to do with it,” she said. “But I saw you flirting with Belinda at the Shadow Market. She’s got to know.”

Rook shook his head. “She doesn’t.”

“Huh,” Emma said. “Okay, which of them does?”

“None of them. The leader’s identity is totally secret. I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. The Guardian could be either, you know?”

“If I find out you’re hiding something you know from me, Johnny,” Emma said in a cold voice, “there will be consequences. Diana knows I’m here. You won’t be able to get me in trouble with the Clave. But I could get you in trouble. Serious trouble.”

“Emma, forget it,” Julian said in a bored voice. “He doesn’t know anything. Let’s take the adamas and go.”

“They get two days,” Rook said in a thin, angry voice. “When their numbers get picked. They get two days before the kill has to happen.” He glared at them both, as if somehow this was their fault. “It’s sympathetic magic. The energy of the death of a supernatural creature powers the spell that makes them all stronger. And the leader—he shows up for the kill. That much I know. If you’re there for the death, you’ll see him. Or her. Whoever it is.”

“The Guardian shows up at the murder?” Emma said. “To harvest the energy?”

“So if we shadow Sterling, if we wait for someone to attack him, we’ll see the Guardian?” Julian said.

“Yeah. That should work. I mean, you’re crazy to want to be there at some big dark-magic party, but I guess it’s your business.”

“I guess it is,” Julian said. His phone buzzed again. LIVVY WON’T TELL ME ANYTHING. SHE’S LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ROOM. HELP.

A tendril of worry uncurled in Julian’s stomach. He told himself he was being stupid. He knew he worried about his siblings too much. Ty had probably wandered off after an animal, was petting a squirrel or cuddling a stray cat. Or he might have shut himself away with a book, not wanting to socialize.

Julian thumbed out a response: GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK FOR HIM IN THE BACK GARDEN.

“Still texting?” said Rook, a mocking tone to his voice. “I’m guessing you have a pretty rich social life.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Julian. “My phone’s almost out of battery.”

The phone whirred again. HEADED OUTSIDE, it said, and then the screen went black. He shoved it into his pocket as an enormous crash sounded from downstairs, and after it, the sound of a bitten-off cry.

“What the hell?” said Rook.

The shock in his voice was real; Emma must have heard it too, because she was already moving toward the steps that led downstairs. Rook shouted after them, but Julian knew it would take him a moment to free himself from his protection circle. Without another glance at Rook, he darted after Emma.

Kit Rook pressed himself into the shadow of the stairwell. Voices filtered down from upstairs, along with dim sunlight. His father always sent him down into the cellar when they had visitors. Especially the kind of visitors that had him running for his chalk so he could draw a protection circle.

Kit could only see shadows moving upstairs, but he could hear two voices. Young voices, to his surprise. A boy’s and a girl’s.

He had a pretty good idea what they were, and it wasn’t Downworlders. He’d seen the look on his father’s face when they’d knocked on the door. Rook hadn’t said anything, but he wore that expression for only one thing: Shadowhunters.

Nephilim. Kit felt the slow burn of anger start in his stomach. He’d been sitting on the sofa watching TV and now he was crouched in the basement like a thief in his own home because Shadowhunters thought they had the right to legislate magic. To tell everyone what to do. To—

A figure hurtled at him out of the shadows. It hit him hard in the chest and he staggered back and slammed into the wall behind him, breath knocked out of his body. He gasped as light flared up around him—pale white light, held in the cup of a human hand.

Something sharp kissed the base of Kit’s throat. He sucked in air and raised his eyes.

He was staring right at a boy his own age. Ink-black hair and eyes the color of the edge of a knife, eyes that darted away from his as the boy scowled. He had a long, thin, black-clad body and pale skin Marked all over with the runes of the Nephilim.

Kit had never been this close to a Shadowhunter. The boy had one hand on his glowing light—it wasn’t a flashlight or anything electronic; Kit knew magic when he saw it—and the other gripped a dagger whose point rested against Kit’s throat.

Kit had imagined before what he’d do if a Nephilim ever grabbed him. How he’d stomp on their feet, break their bones, snap their wrists, spit in their faces. He did none of those things, thought of none of those things. He looked at the boy with the knife to his throat, the boy whose black eyelashes feathered down against his cheekbones as he glanced away from Kit, and he felt something like a shock of recognition pass through him.