Except that when she looked down, she didn’t see empty space; she saw what she feared much more. The deep darkness of the ocean, where her parents’ dead bodies had floated before they washed up on the shore. For years she had imagined them struggling, dying, underwater, miles of sea all around, totally alone. She knew more now about how they’d died, knew they’d been dead when Malcolm Fade had consigned their bodies to the sea. But you couldn’t speak to fear, couldn’t tell it the truth: Fear lived in your bones.

This far out, Emma would have expected the water to be so deep it was opaque. But the moonlight made it glow as if from within. She could gaze down into it as if into an aquarium.

She saw the fronds of seaweed, moving and dancing with the push and pull of the tides. The flutter of schools of fish. Darker shadows, too, bigger ones. Flickers of movement, heavy and enormous—a whale, perhaps, or something bigger and worse—water demons could grow to the size of football fields. She imagined the path breaking up suddenly, giving way, and all of them plunging into the darkness, the enormity all around them, cold and deathly and filled with blind-eyed, shark-toothed monsters, and the Angel knew what else rising up out of the deep . . . .

“Don’t look down.” It was Julian, approaching on the path. Cristina was a little behind them, looking around in wonder. “Look straight ahead at the horizon. Walk toward that.”

She raised her chin. She could feel Jules next to her, feel the warmth coming off his skin, raising the hair along her arms. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He said it flatly. “I know how you feel about the ocean.”

They were far out from shore now—it was a shining line in the distance, the highway a ribbon of moving lights, the houses and restaurants along the coastline glimmering. “Well, as it turns out, my parents didn’t die in the ocean.” She took a shuddering breath. “They didn’t drown.”

“Knowing that doesn’t wipe out years of bad dreams.” Julian glanced toward her. The wind blew soft tendrils of his hair against his cheekbones. She remembered what it felt like to have her hands in that hair, how holding him had anchored her not just to the world, but to herself.

“I hate feeling like this,” she said, and for a moment even she wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “I hate being afraid. It makes me feel weak.”

“Emma, everyone’s afraid of something.” Julian moved slightly closer; she felt his shoulder bump hers. “We fear things because we value them. We fear losing people because we love them. We fear dying because we value being alive. Don’t wish you didn’t fear anything. All that would mean is that you didn’t feel anything.”

“Jules—” She started to turn toward him in surprise at the intensity in his voice, but paused when she heard Cristina’s footsteps quicken, and then her voice, raised in recognition, calling:

“Mark!”

8

NEAR THE RIVER

Emma saw Mark immediately. A shadow out on the gleaming path before them, the moonlight sparking off his pale hair. He didn’t seem to have noticed them yet.

Emma began to run, Cristina and Jules at her heels. Though the path surged and dipped under her, she was used to running on the beach where the soft sand gave way under her feet. She could see Mark clearly now: He’d stopped walking, and turned to face them, looking astonished.

His gear was gone. He was wearing clothes similar to the ones he’d come to the Institute in, though clean and undamaged: linen and soft, tanned hide, high laced boots and a duffel bag slung over his back. Emma could see the stars reflected in his wide eyes as she drew closer to him.

He dropped the duffel bag at his feet, looking accusingly at his three pursuers. “What are you doing here?”

“Seriously?” Julian kicked Mark’s duffel bag aside, grabbing hold of his brother’s shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

Julian was taller than Mark, a fact that always struck Emma as odd—Mark had been taller for so many years. Taller and older. But he was neither now. He looked like a slim pale blade in the darkness, against Julian’s more solid strength and height. He looked as if he might at any moment turn into moonlight on the waves and vanish.

He turned his gaze to Cristina. “You got my fire-message.”

She nodded, tendrils of her dark hair, caught in a jeweled clip at the back of her head, curling around her face. “We all read it.”

Mark closed his eyes. “I had not thought you could follow me on the moon’s road.”

“But we did.” Julian tightened his hands on Mark’s shoulders. “You’re not going anywhere in Faerie, much less alone.”

“It’s for Kieran,” Mark said simply.

“Kieran betrayed you,” said Julian.

“They will kill him, Jules,” said Mark. “Because of me. Kieran killed Iarlath because of me.” He opened his eyes to gaze into his brother’s face. “I should not have tried to leave without telling you. That was unfair of me. I knew you would try to stop me, and I knew I had little time. I will never forgive Kieran for what happened to you and Emma, but I will not leave him to death and torture, either.”

“Mark, the Fair Folk aren’t fond of you,” said Julian. “They were forced to give you back, and they hate giving back anything they take. If you go into Faerie, they’ll keep you there if they can, and it won’t be easy, and they will hurt you. I won’t let that happen.”

“Then you will be my jailer, brother?” Mark held out his hands, palms up. “You will bind my wrists in cold iron, my ankles with thorns?”

Julian flinched. It was too dark to see Mark’s Blackthorn features, his blue-green eye, and in the dimness the brothers seemed only a Shadowhunter and a faerie, eternally at odds. “Emma,” Julian said, removing his hands from Mark’s shoulders. There was a desperate bitterness in his voice. “Mark loves you. You convince him.”

Emma felt Julian’s bitterness like thorns under her skin, and heard Mark’s anguished words again: Will you be my jailer? “We aren’t going to stop you from going. We’re going to go with you.”

Even in the moonlight, she could see Mark’s face lose color. “No. You’re obviously Nephilim. You’re in gear. Your runes aren’t hidden. Shadowhunters are not well-loved in the Land Under the Hill.”

“Apparently only Kieran is,” said Julian. “He’s lucky to have your loyalty, Mark, since we don’t.”

At that, Mark flushed and turned toward his brother, his eyes glittering angrily. “All right, stop—stop,” Emma said, taking a step toward them. The shimmering water bent and flexed beneath her feet. “Both of you—”

“Who walks the path of moonlight?”

A figure approached, its voice a deep boom above the waves. Julian’s hand went to the hilt of the dagger at his waist. Emma’s seraph blade was out; Cristina had her balisong in hand. Mark’s fingers had reached for the place where the elf-bolt Kieran had given him had once rested in the hollow of his throat. It was gone now. His face tightened before relaxing into recognition.

“It’s a phouka,” he said under his breath. “Mostly, they’re harmless.”