If only the King had been any sort of father, if only he hadn’t thrown his son to the Hunt like a bone to a pack of hungry wolves, if only he hadn’t sat complacently by while Erec tortured Kieran . . .

How different would Kieran be? How much less afraid of losing love, how much less determined to hold on to it at all costs, even if it meant trapping Mark in the Hunt with him?

The King’s lip curled, as if he could read Mark’s thoughts. “When I looked into my son’s memories,” he said, “I saw you, Blackthorn. Lady Nerissa’s son.” His smile was malignant. “Your mother died of sorrow when your father left her. My son’s thoughts were half of you, of the loss of you. Mark, Mark, Mark. I wonder what it is in your bloodline that has the power to enchant our people and make fools of them?”

A small line had appeared between Kieran’s brows. The loss of you.

Kieran didn’t remember losing Mark. The cold fear in Mark’s stomach had spread to his veins.

“Those who cannot love do not understand it,” said Cristina. She turned toward Kieran. “We will protect you,” she said. “We won’t let him harm you for testifying at the Council.”

“Lies,” said the King. “Well-intentioned, perhaps, but still lies. If you testify, Kieran, there will be no place on this earth or in Faerie where you will be safe from me and from my warriors. I will hunt you forever, and when I find you, you will wish you had died for what you did to Iarlath, to Erec. There is no torment you can imagine that I will not visit on you.”

Kieran swallowed hard, but his voice was steady. “Pain is just pain.”

“Oh,” said his father, “there is all manner of pain, little dark one.” He did not move or make any gesture the way warlocks did when they cast spells, but Mark felt an increase in the weight of the atmosphere in the room, as if the air pressure had risen.

Kieran gasped and reeled back as if he’d been shot. He hit the bed, grasping at the footboard to keep himself from sliding to the floor. His hair fell over his eyes, changing from blue to black to white. “Mark?” He raised his face slowly. “I remember. I remember.”

“Kieran,” Mark whispered.

“I told Gwyn you had betrayed a law of Faerie,” said Kieran. “I thought they would only bring you back to the Hunt.”

“Instead they punished my family,” said Mark. He knew Kieran hadn’t meant it to happen, hadn’t anticipated it. But the words still hurt to say.

“That’s why you weren’t wearing your elf-bolt.” Kieran’s eyes fixed on a point below Mark’s chin. “You did not want me. You turned me away. You hated me. You must hate me now.”

“I didn’t hate you,” Mark said. “Kier—”

“Listen to him,” murmured the King. “Listen to him lie.”

“Then why?” Kieran said. He backed away from Mark, just a step. “Why did you lie to me?”

“Consider it, child,” said the King. He looked as if he were enjoying himself. “What did they want from you?”

Kieran breathed in hard. “Testimony,” he said. “Witnessing in front of the Council. You—you planned this, Mark? This deception? Does everyone in the Institute know? Yes, they must. They must.” His hair had gone black as oil. “And the Queen knows, too, I suppose. She planned to make a fool of me, with you?”

The agony on his face was too much; Mark couldn’t look at it, at Kieran. It was Cristina who spoke for him. “Kieran, no,” she said. “It wasn’t like that—”

“And you knew?” Kieran turned a look on her that was hardly less betrayed than the one he’d turned on Mark. “You knew as well?”

The King laughed. Rage went through Mark then, a blinding fury, and he seized up the poker from the fireplace. The King continued laughing as he stalked toward him, raised the poker, and swung it—

It slammed against the golden acorn where it lay on the hearth before the fireplace, shattering it into powder. The King’s laughter cut off abruptly; he turned a look of pure hatred on Mark and vanished.

“Why did you do that?” Kieran demanded. “Were you afraid of what else he’d tell me?”

Mark threw the poker against the grate with a loud clang. “He gave you back your memories, didn’t he?” he said. “Then you know everything.”

“Not everything,” said Kieran, and his voice cracked and broke; Mark thought of him hanging in the thorn manacles at the Unseelie Court, and how the same despair showed in his eyes now. “I don’t know how you planned this, when you decided you would lie to me to get me to do what you wanted. I don’t know how much it sickened you every time you had to touch me, to pretend to want me. I don’t know when you planned to tell me the truth. After I testified? Did you plan to mock me and laugh at me before all the Council, or wait until we were alone? Did you tell everyone what a monster I am, how selfish and how heartless—”

“You are not a monster, Kieran,” Mark interrupted. “There is nothing wrong with your heart.”

There was only hurt in Kieran’s eyes as he regarded Mark across the small space that separated them. “That cannot be true,” he said, “for you were my heart.”

“Stop.” It was Cristina, her voice small and worried, but firm. “Let Mark explain to you—”

“I am done with human explanations,” said Kieran, and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The last of the shimmering Portal disappeared. Julian and Magnus stood, almost shoulder to shoulder, watching Alec and the children until they vanished.

With a sigh, Magnus tossed the end of his scarf over his shoulder and stalked across the room to fill a glass from the decanter of wine that rested dustily on a table by the window. It was nearly dark outside, the sky over London the color of pansy petals. “Do you want some?” he asked Julian, recapping the decanter.

“I should probably stay sober.”

“Suit yourself.” Magnus picked up his wineglass and examined it; the light shining through it turned the liquid ruby red.

“Why are you helping us so much?” Julian asked. “I mean, I know we’re a likable family, but no one’s that likable.”

“No,” Magnus agreed, with a slight smile. “No one is.”

“Then?”

Magnus took a sip of the wine and shrugged. “Jace and Clary asked me to,” he said, “and Jace is Alec’s parabatai, and I have always had a fatherly feeling toward Clary. They’re my friends. And there is little I wouldn’t do for my friends.”

“Is that really all of it?”

“You might remind me of someone.”

“Me?” Julian was surprised. People rarely said that to him. “Who do I remind you of?”

Magnus shook his head without answering. “Years ago,” he said, “I had a recurring dream, about a city drowned in blood. Towers made of bone and blood running in the streets like water. I thought later that it was about the Dark War, and indeed the dream vanished in the years after the war was fought.” He drained his glass and set it down. “But lately I’ve been dreaming it again. I can’t help but think something is coming.”