“Neither is Mark,” said Julian. “If you think we’re afraid of you, you’re right. We’d be fools not to be. I know who you are, Gwyn—I know you once made a man eat his own father’s heart. I know you took the Hunt from Herne in a battle over Cadair Idris. I know things that would surprise you. But I am Mark’s brother. And I will not let him risk himself in Faerie again.”

“The Wild Hunt is a brotherhood as well,” Gwyn said. “If you cannot bring yourself to help Kieran out of love, Mark, do it out of friendship.”

“Enough,” Diana snapped. “We respect you here, Gwyn the Hunter, but this discussion is at an end. Mark will not be taken from us.”

Gwyn’s voice was a bass rumble. “What if he chooses to go?”

They all looked at Mark. Even Julian turned, dropping his hand slowly from Mark’s shoulder. Emma saw the fear in his eyes. She imagined it was echoed in her own. If Mark still loved Kieran—even a little bit—

“I do not choose it,” said Mark. “I do not choose it, Gwyn.”

Gwyn’s face tightened. “You have no honor.”

Light speared through gaps in the clouds overhead. The storm was moving toward the mountains. The gray illumination cast a film across Mark’s eyes, rendering them unreadable. “I thought you were my friend,” he said, and then he turned and stumbled back into the Institute, the door slamming shut behind him.

Gwyn began to dismount, but Diana raised her hand, palm out. “You know you cannot enter the Institute,” she said.

Gwyn subsided. For a moment, as he gazed at Diana, his face looked lined and old, though Emma knew he was ageless. “Kieran is not yet twenty,” he said again. “Only a boy.”

Diana’s face softened, but before she could speak, Gwyn’s horse reared up. Something flew from Gwyn’s hand and landed on the step below Diana’s feet. Gwyn leaned forward, and his horse exploded into motion, its mane and tail blurring into a single white flame. The flame shot toward the sky and vanished, disappearing into the night’s fretwork of clouds.

* * *

Julian shouldered the door of the Institute open. “Mark? Mark!”

The empty foyer swung around him as he turned. Fear for his brother was like pressure on his skin, tightening his veins, slowing his blood. It wasn’t a fear he could put a name to—Gwyn was gone; Mark was safe. It had been a request, not a kidnapping.

“Jules?” Mark appeared from the closet beneath the staircase, clearly having just hung up his jacket. His blond hair was tousled, his expression puzzled. “Did he leave?”

“He’s gone.” It was Emma, who had come in behind Julian. Diana, a step after her, was closing the front door. Mark went straight across the room to Emma without a pause and put his arms around her.

The jealousy that flared through Julian took his breath away.

He thought he had gotten used to seeing Emma and Mark like this. They weren’t a particularly demonstrative couple. They didn’t kiss or cuddle in front of other people. Emma wouldn’t, Julian thought. She wasn’t like that. She was determined, and she was matter-of-fact, and she would do what needed to be done. But she wasn’t cruel.

It was Mark who reached for her, usually—for the small, quiet things, the hand on the shoulder, the brushing away of a stray eyelash, a quick embrace. There was an exquisite pain in watching that, more than there would have been in seeing them passionately embracing. After all, when you were dying of thirst, it was the sip of water you dreamed about, not the whole reservoir.

But now—the feel of holding Emma was so close, the taste of her still on his mouth, her rose-water scent on his clothes. He would play back the scene of their kiss over and over in his head, he knew, until it faded and fragmented and came apart like a photograph folded and unfolded too many times.

But it was too close now, like a just-delivered wound. And seeing Emma in Mark’s arms was a sharp splash of acid on raw skin, a brutal reminder: He couldn’t afford to be sentimental, or to think of her as possibly his, even in an imaginary someday. To consider possibilities was to open yourself up to pain. Reality had to be his focus—reality and his responsibilities to his family. Otherwise he would go insane.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Emma drew back from Mark. Julian thought she cast him an anxious sideways glance, but he wasn’t sure. And there was no point wondering. He crushed his curiosity down, brutally.

“Gwyn?” said Mark. “No. I refused him. He won’t beg and he won’t return.”

“Are you sure?” Julian said.

Mark gave him a wry look. “Do not let Gwyn fool you,” he said. “If I do not help him, he will find someone else to do it, or he will do it himself. Kieran will come to no harm.”

Emma made a relieved noise. Julian said nothing—he was wondering about Kieran himself. He remembered how the faerie boy had gotten Emma whipped bloody, and broken Mark’s heart. He remembered also how Kieran had helped them defeat Malcolm. Without him they would have had no chance.

And he remembered what Kieran had said to him before the battle with Malcolm. You are not gentle. You have a ruthless heart.

If he could have saved Kieran by risking his own safety, he would have. But he would not risk his brother. If that made him ruthless, so be it. If Mark was right, Kieran would be fine anyway.

“Diana,” said Emma. Their tutor was leaning against the closed front door, looking down at her palm. “What did Gwyn throw at you?”

Diana held out her hand; glimmering on her brown skin was a small golden acorn.

Mark looked surprised. “That is a fair gift,” he said. “Should you crack open that acorn, Gwyn would be summoned to aid you.”

“Why would he give Diana something like that?” asked Emma.

The ghost of a smile touched Mark’s mouth as he began to mount the stairs. “He admired her,” he said. “It is rare I have seen Gwyn admire a woman before. I had thought perhaps his heart was closed to that sort of thing.”

“Gwyn has a crush on Diana?” Emma inquired, her dark eyes brightening. “I mean, not that you’re not very attractive, Diana, it just seems sudden.”

“Faeries are like that,” said Julian. He almost felt for Diana—he had never seen her look so rattled. She was worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, and Julian remembered that Diana really wasn’t very old—only twenty-eight or so. Not that much older than Jace and Clary.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “And besides, we have more important things to think about!”

She dropped the acorn into Mark’s hand just as the front door flew open and the Centurions poured in. They looked wind-tossed and soaking wet, every one of them drenched. Diana, seeming relieved to no longer be talking about her love life, went off to find blankets and towels (drying runes notoriously worked well to dry your skin, but didn’t do much for your clothes).

“Did you find anything?” Emma asked.

“I think we’ve located the likely spot where the body sank,” said Manuel. “But the sea was too rough for us to dive for it. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

“Manuel,” Zara said warningly, as if he’d revealed the secret passcode that would open the gates to Hell under their feet.