Ethna darted back, but she was laughing. “You Nephilim,” she sneered. “You call yourselves warriors, ringed round with your protective runes, your angel blades! Without them you would be nothing—and you will be without them soon enough! You will be nothing, and we will take everything from you! Everything you have! Everything!”

“Did you want to say that again?” Emma asked, evading a slice of Ethna’s sword with a twist of her body. She leaped up onto a boulder, looking down. “The everything part? I don’t think I got it the first time.”

Ethna snarled and leaped for her. And for a long series of moments it was only the battle, the glowing vapor of the rain, the sea crashing and thundering in the pools below the cliff, and everything slowing down as Emma knocked Ethna to the side and leaped for Airmed and Fal, her sword clanging against theirs.

They were good: better than good, fast and blindingly strong. But Cortana was like a live thing in Emma’s hands. Rage powered her, an electric current that shot through her veins, driving the sword in her hand, hammering the blade against those raised against hers, the clang of metal drowning out the sea. She tasted salt in her mouth, blood or ocean spray, she didn’t know. Her wet hair whipped around her as she spun, Cortana meeting the other swords of the faeries, blow after blow.

An ugly laugh cut through the violent dream that gripped her. She looked up to see that Fal had Julian backed up to the edge of the cliff. It fell away sheer behind him; he stood framed against the gray sky, his hair plastered darkly to his head.

Panic blasted through her. She pushed off from the side of a granite facing with a kick that connected solidly against Airmed’s body. The faerie fell back with a grunt, and Emma was racing, seeing Julian in her mind’s eye run through with a sword or toppled from the cliff’s edge to shatter on the rocks or drown in the maelstrom below.

Fal was still laughing. He had his sword out. Julian took another step backward—and ducked down, swift and nimble, to catch up a crossbow from where it had been hidden behind a tumble of rocks. He lifted it to his shoulder just as Emma collided with Fal, her sword out; she didn’t slow, didn’t pause, just slammed Cortana point-first between Fal’s shoulder blades.

It pierced his armor and slid home. She felt the point burst out of the other side of his body, slicing through the metal breastplate.

There was a shriek from behind Emma. It was Ethna. She had her head thrown back, her hands clawing at her hair. She was wailing in a language Emma didn’t know, but she could hear that Ethna was shrieking her brother’s name. Fal, Fal.

Ethna began to sink to her knees. Delan reach to catch her, his own face bone-white and shocked. With a roar, Airmed lifted his sword and lunged toward Emma, who was struggling to free Cortana from Fal’s limp body. She tensed and pulled; the sword came free in a gout of blood, but she had no time to turn—

Julian released the bolt from his crossbow. It whistled through the air, a softer sound than the rain, and struck the sword in Airmed’s hand, knocking it out of his grip. Airmed howled. His hand was scarlet.

Emma turned, planted her feet, raised her sword. Blood and rain ran down Cortana’s blade. “Who wants to try me?” she shouted, her words half-torn out of her mouth by wind and water. “Who wants to be next?”

“Let me kill her!” Ethna struggled in Delan’s grip. “She slew Fal! Let me cut her throat!”

But Delan was shaking his head, he was saying something, something about Cortana. Emma took a step forward—if they wouldn’t come to her to be killed, she would be happy enough to go to them.

Airmed raised his hand; she saw light flicker from his fingers, pale green in the gray air. His face was twisted into a sneer of concentration.

“Emma!” Jules caught her from behind before she could take another step, hauling her back and against him just as the rain exploded into the shapes of three horses, swirling creatures of wind and spray, snorting and pawing at the air between Emma and the rest of the Riders. Fal lay with his blood soaking into the Cornwall dirt as his brothers and sister vaulted onto the bare backs of their steeds.

Emma began to shiver violently. Only one of the Riders paused long enough to look back at her before their horses shot forward into the sky, losing themselves among the clouds and rain. It was Ethna. Her eyes were murderous, disbelieving.

You have slain an ancient and primitive thing, her gaze seemed to say. Be prepared for a vengeance just as ancient. Just as primitive.

* * *

“Run,” Livvy said.

It was the last thing Kit had expected. Shadowhunters didn’t run. That was what he’d always been told. But Livvy took off like a bullet out of a gun, flashing past the Rider on the path in front of her, and Ty followed.

Kit ran after them. They tore past the faeries and into the throng of pedestrians on the Thames Path. Kit pulled alongside Livvy and Ty, though he was breathing hard and they weren’t.

He could hear thunder behind him. Hoofbeats. We can’t outrun them, he thought, but he didn’t have the breath to say it. The leaden gray air felt heavy as he pulled it into his lungs. Livvy’s dark hair streamed on the wind as she flung herself over a gate set into the railing separating the path from the river.

For a moment she seemed to hang suspended in the air, her arms upraised, her coat flapping—and then she soared straight down, vanishing out of sight. And Ty followed her, vaulting sideways over the gate, disappearing as he fell.

Into the river? Kit thought hazily, but he didn’t pause; his muscles were already beginning the now-familiar burning, his mind tightening and focusing. He grabbed hold of the top of the gate and pushed himself up and over it.

He fell only a few feet to land in a crouch on a cement platform that stretched out into the Thames, surrounded by a low iron railing that was broken in several places. Ty and Livvy were already there, jackets yanked off to free their arms, seraph blades in hand. Livvy tossed a shortsword toward Kit as he straightened up, realizing why she’d run—not to get away, but to clear them some space to fight.

And hopefully to contact the Institute. Ty had his phone out in his hand, was thumbing at the keypad even as he raised his seraph blade, its light bursting dully against the clouds.

Kit turned just as the three Riders sailed over the gate to join them, flashing bronze and gold as they landed. Their swords whipped free with blinding speed.

“Stop him!” snarled Karn, and his two brothers launched themselves at Ty.

Livvy and Kit moved as one to throw themselves in front of Tiberius. The cold, hard blur of fighting was on Kit, but the Riders were faster than demons, and stronger, too. Kit whipped his shortsword toward Eochaid, but the faerie was no longer there: He’d leaped all the way to the far side of the platform. He laughed at the expression on Kit’s face, even as Etarlam slashed out with a blow that knocked the phone out of Ty’s hand. It skittered across the concrete and splashed into the river.

A shadow fell over Kit. He responded instantaneously, driving upward with his shortsword. He heard a gasp, and Karn fell back, dark drops of blood spattering on the ground at his feet. Kit flung himself up and forward, lunging for Eochaid, but Livvy and Ty were ahead of him, blurs of light as their seraph blades cut the air around the Riders.

But only the air. Kit couldn’t help but notice that the angel blades didn’t seem to be cutting through the Riders’ armor, or even slicing their skin as he’d managed to do with his shortsword. There was puzzlement on Ty’s face, rage on Livvy’s as she stabbed at Eochaid’s heart with her seraph blade.