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For Jim Loma

I said: Pain and sorrow.

He said: Stay with it. The wound is the identify where the Calorie-free enters you.

--Rumi

PART ONE

Dreamland

Dream-Land

By Edgar Allan Poe

By a route obscure and alone,

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I accept reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule--

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of Space--out of Time.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan forest, With forms that no homo can discover

For the dews that drip all over;

Mountains toppling evermore

Into seas without a shore;

Seas that restlessly aspire,

Surging, unto skies of burn;

Lakes that incessantly outspread

Their lone waters--alone and dead,--

Their yet waters--still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.

Past the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,--

Their pitiful waters, sad and dank

With the snows of the lolling lily,--

By the mountains--almost the river

Murmuring lowly, murmuring e'er,--

By the gray woods,--by the swamp

Where the toad and the newt encamp,--

By the dismal tarns and pools

Where dwell the Ghouls,--

By each spot the most unholy--

In each nook most melancholy,--

There the traveller meets aghast

Sheeted Memories of the By--

Shrouded forms that starting time and sigh

As they pass the wanderer by--

White-robed forms of friends long given, In desperation, to the Earth--and Sky.

For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--

For the spirit that walks in shadow

'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!

Simply the traveller, travelling through it, May not--cartel not openly view it;

Never its mysteries are exposed

To the weak homo eye unclosed;

So wills its King, who hath forbid

The uplifting of the fringed chapeau;

And thus the lamentable Soul that hither passes Beholds it but through darkened spectacles.

By a road obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels just,

Where an Eidolon, named Night,

On a black throne reigns upright,

I take wandered dwelling but newly

From this ultimate dim Thule.

1

STILL WATERS

Kit had only recently institute out what a flail was, and now there was a rack of them hanging over his caput, shiny and sharp and mortiferous.

He had never seen anything similar the weapons room at the Los Angeles Plant before. The walls and floors were white-silver granite, and granite islands rose at intervals throughout the room, making the whole place expect like the arms and armor exhibit at a museum. There were staves and maces, cleverly designed walking sticks, necklaces, boots and padded jackets that concealed slim, flat blades for stabbing and throwing. Morning stars covered in terrible spikes, and crossbows of all sizes and types.

The granite islands themselves were covered with stacks of gleaming instruments carved out of adamas, the quartz-similar substance that Shadowhunters mined from the earth and that they lone knew how to turn into swords and blades and steles. Of more involvement to Kit was the shelf that held daggers.

It wasn't that he had whatsoever particular desire to learn how to use a dagger--nothing beyond the general interest he figured most teenagers had in deadly weapons, just even then, he'd rather be issued a machine gun or a flamethrower. Simply the daggers were works of art, their hilts inlaid with gold and argent and precious gems--bluish sapphires, cabochon rubies, glimmering patterns of thorns etched in platinum and black diamonds.

He could think of at least three people at the Shadow Market who'd buy them off him for good coin, no questions asked.

Maybe iv.

Kit stripped off the denim jacket he was wearing--he didn't know which of the Blackthorns it had belonged to originally; he'd woken up the morning later on he'd come to the Institute to find a freshly laundered pile of clothes at the pes of his bed--and shrugged on a padded jacket. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the far end of the room. Ragged blond hair, the final of fading bruises on his stake skin. He unzipped the inside pocket of the jacket and began to stuff it with sheathed daggers, picking the ones with the fanciest hilts.

The door to the weapons room swung open up. Kit dropped the dagger he was holding dorsum onto the shelf and turned effectually hastily. He idea he'd slipped out of his bedchamber without existence noticed, but if in that location was one thing he'd come up to realize during his brusque time at the Institute, information technology was that Julian Blackthorn noticed everything, and his siblings weren't far behind.

Just information technology wasn't Julian. It was a fellow Kit hadn't ever seen before, though something virtually him was familiar. He was tall, with tousled blond hair and a Shadowhunter's build--broad shoulders, muscular arms, the black lines of the runic Marks they protected themselves with peeking out from the collar and cuffs of his shirt.

His eyes were an unusual night golden color. He wore a heavy silver band on one finger, every bit many of the Shadowhunters did. He raised an eyebrow at Kit.

"Similar weapons, do you?" he said.

"They're all right." Kit backed up a little toward i of the tables, hoping the daggers in his inside pocket didn't rattle.

The homo went over to the shelf Kit had been rifling through and picked up the dagger he'd dropped. "You lot picked a good i here," he said. "Run across the inscription on the handle?"

Kit didn't.

"It was fabricated by one of the descendants of Wayland the Smith, who made Durendal and Cortana." The human being spun the dagger between his fingers earlier setting it back on its shelf. "Nothing equally extraordinary as Cortana, simply daggers like that will e'er return to your paw after yous throw them. Convenient."

Kit cleared his throat. "It must be worth a lot," he said.

"I doubt the Blackthorns are looking to sell," said the man dryly. "I'm Jace, by the fashion. Jace Herondale."

He paused. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, which Kit was adamant not to requite him. He knew the name Herondale, all right. It felt similar it was the only word anyone had said to him in the past two weeks. But that didn't mean he wanted to give the man--Jace--the satisfaction he was conspicuously looking for.

Jace looked unmoved by Kit'due south silence. "And you lot're Christopher Herondale."

"How do you know that?" Kit said, keeping his voice flat and unenthusiastic. He hated the name Herondale. He hated the word.

"Family resemblance," said Jace. "We look akin. In fact, you wait like drawings of a lot of Herondales I've seen." He paused. "Likewise, Emma sent me a jail cell phone picture of you."

Emma. Emma Carstairs had saved Kit's life. They hadn't spoken much since, though--in the wake of the death of Malcolm Fade, the Loftier Warlock of Los Angeles, everything had been in anarchy. He hadn't been anyone's first priority, and as well, he had a feeling she thought of him as

a petty kid. "Fine. I'm Kit Herondale. People keep telling me that, simply it doesn't mean anything to me." Kit ready his jaw. "I'one thousand a Rook. Kit Rook."

"I know what your father told you. But you're a Herondale. And that does mean something."

"What? What does it mean?" Kit demanded.

Jace leaned dorsum against the wall of the weapons room, just nether a display of heavy claymores. Kit hoped 1 would fall on his head. "I know you're enlightened of Shadowhunters," he said. "A lot of people are, especially Downworlders and mundanes with the Sight. Which is what y'all thought y'all were, right?"

"I never thought I was a mundane," said Kit. Didn't Shadowhunters understand how it sounded when they used that word?

Jace ignored him, though. "Shadowhunter society and history--those aren't things near people who aren't Nephilim know about. The Shadowhunter world is made upwards of families, each of which has a name that they cherish. Each family has a history nosotros pass on to each successive generation. We bear the glories and the burdens of our names, the skilful and the bad our ancestors accept done, through all our lives. Nosotros endeavour to live up to our names, so that those who come subsequently united states of america will carry lighter burdens." He crossed his arms over his chest. His wrists were covered in Marks; in that location was one that looked like an open eye on the back of his left hand. Kit had noticed all Shadowhunters seemed to have that one. "Among Shadowhunters, your final name is securely meaningful. The Herondales have been a family who have shaped the destinies of Shadowhunters for generations. There aren't many of usa left--in fact, everyone idea I was the terminal. Only Jem and Tessa had organized religion you existed. They looked for you lot for a long time."

Jem and Tessa. Along with Emma, they had helped Kit escape the demons who had murdered his male parent. And they had told him a story: the story of a Herondale who had betrayed his friends and fled, starting a new life away from other Nephilim. A new life and a new family line.

"I heard near Tobias Herondale," he said. "So I'thou the descendant of a big coward."

"People are flawed," said Jace. "Not every fellow member of your family is going to be awesome. But when you run across Tessa again, and y'all will, she tin tell you lot about Will Herondale. And James Herondale. And me, of class," he added, modestly. "As far every bit Shadowhunters go, I'one thousand a pretty big bargain. Not to intimidate you."

"I don't feel intimidated," said Kit, wondering if this guy was for existent. In that location was a gleam in Jace's eye as he spoke that indicated that he might non have what he was proverb all that seriously, but it was difficult to be sure. "I feel like I want to be left solitary."

"I know information technology'southward a lot to digest," Jace said. He reached out to handclapping Kit on the back. "But Clary and I volition be here for as long every bit you demand us to--"

The clap on the back dislodged one of the daggers in Kit'due south pocket. It clattered to the ground between them, winking up from the granite floor similar an accusing eye.

"Right," Jace said into the ensuing silence. "So you're stealing weapons."

Kit, who knew the pointlessness of an obvious denial, said zero.

"Okay, wait, I know your dad was a crook, but you're a Shadowhunter now and--await, what else is in that jacket?" Jace demanded. He did something complicated with his left boot that kicked the dagger upward into the air. He defenseless it neatly, the rubies in the hilt scattering light. "Take information technology off."

Silently, Kit shucked off his jacket and threw it downwards on the tabular array. Jace flipped it over and opened the inside pocket. They both gazed silently at the gleam of blades and precious stones.

"And then," Jace said. "You were planning on running away, I take it?"

"Why should I stay?" Kit exploded. He knew he shouldn't, only he couldn't assist it--it was too much: the loss of his father, his hatred of the Institute, the smugness of the Nephilim, their demands that he have a terminal name he didn't care about and didn't want to care virtually. "I don't belong here. Y'all tin tell me all this stuff well-nigh my name, just it doesn't hateful annihilation to me. I'thou Johnny Rook's son. I've been training my whole life to be like my dad, not to be like you. I don't need y'all. I don't need whatever of yous. All I need is some start-up money, and I tin can fix my own booth at the Shadow Market."

Jace'south aureate eyes narrowed, and for the first fourth dimension Kit saw, under the arrogant, joking facade, the gleam of a precipitous intelligence. "And sell what? Your dad sold information. It took him years, and a lot of bad magic, to build up those connections. You want to sell your soul like that, so you can scratch out a living on the edges of Downworld? And what virtually what killed your dad? You saw him die, didn't you?"

"Demons--"

"Yeah, only somebody sent them. The Guardian might be expressionless, but that doesn't mean no one'southward looking for you lot. You're fifteen years one-time. Y'all might think you want to dice, but trust me--yous don't."

Kit swallowed. He tried to motion-picture show himself standing behind the counter of a booth at the Shadow Market, the fashion he had for the by few days. But the truth was he'd always been prophylactic at the Market place because of his dad. Because people were afraid of Johnny Rook. What would happen to him in that location without his dad's protection?

"But I'g non a Shadowhunter," Kit said. He glanced around the room, at the millions of weapons, the piles of adamas, the gear and torso armor and weapon belts. It was ridiculous. He wasn't a ninja. "I wouldn't even know how to outset to be one."

"Give information technology another week," Jace said. "Some other week here at the Institute. Requite yourself a chance. Emma told me how you fought off those demons who killed your dad. But a Shadowhunter could take done that."

Kit barely remembered battling the demons in his father's business firm, but he knew he'd washed information technology. His trunk had taken over, and he'd fought, and he'd even, in a small, strange, hidden way, enjoyed it.

"This is what you are," said Jace. "Yous're a Shadowhunter. You're part angel. Yous have the blood of angels in your veins. You're a Herondale. Which, by the way, means that not just are you office of a stunningly expert-looking family, but you're also part of a family that owns a lot of valuable holding, including a London town house and a manor in Idris, which you're probably entitled to office of. You know, if y'all were interested."

Kit looked at the band on Jace'south left hand. It was silver, heavy, and looked sometime. And valuable. "I'grand listening."

"All I am saying is give information technology a calendar week. Subsequently all"--Jace grinned--"Herondales can't resist a challenge."

*

"A Teuthida demon?" Julian said into the telephone, his eyebrows crinkling. "That's basically a squid, right?"

The answer was inaudible: Emma could recognize Ty'south voice, but not the words.

"Aye, we're at the pier," Julian went on. "We haven't seen anything yet, but we just arrived. Too bad they don't have designated parking spots for Shadowhunters hither . . . ."

Her heed only half on Julian's voice, Emma glanced effectually. The lord's day had just gone downwardly. She'd e'er loved the Santa Monica Pier, since she was a little girl and her parents had taken her there to play air hockey and ride the old-fashioned merry-go-round. She loved the junk food--burgers and milk shakes, fried clams and giant swirled lollipops--and Pacific Park, the run-down amusement park at the very end of the pier, overlooking the Pacific Sea.

The mundanes had poured millions of dollars into revamping the pier into a tourist allure over the years. Pacific Park was full of new, shiny rides; the old churro carts were gone, replaced past artisanal ice foam and lobster platters. But the boards nether Emma's feet were still warped and weathered by years of sun and common salt. The air still smelled like sugar and seaweed. The merry-go-round still spilled its mechanical music into the air. There were even so money-toss games where yous could win a behemothic stuffed panda. And at that place were even so dark spaces nether the pier, where aimless mundanes gathered and sometimes, more sinister things.

That was the thing about being a Shadowhunter, Emma idea, glancing toward the massive Ferris wheel decorated with gleaming LED lights. A line of mundanes eager to get on stretched downwards the pier; by the railings, she could glimpse the dark blue sea tipped with white where the waves broke. Shadowhunters saw the dazzler in the things mundanes created--the lights of the Ferris bicycle reflecting off the sea so brightly that information technology looked as i

f someone were setting off fireworks underwater: ruby, blue, green, purple, and gold--but they saw the darkness, as well, the danger and the rot.

"What's wrong?" Julian asked. He'd slid his phone into the pocket of his gear jacket. The air current--there was always air current on the pier, the air current that blew ceaselessly off the bounding main, smelling of salt and faraway places--lifted the soft waves of his brown hair, fabricated them kiss his cheeks and temples.

Dark thoughts, Emma wanted to say. She couldn't, though. One time Julian had been the person she could tell everything. Now he was the one person she couldn't tell anything.

Instead she avoided his gaze. "Where are Marker and Cristina?"

"Over in that location." He pointed. "By the ring toss."

Emma followed his gaze to the brightly painted stand up where people competed to meet who could toss a plastic ring and land it effectually the neck of one of a dozen lined-up bottles. She tried not to feel superior that this was apparently something mundanes found hard.

Julian's one-half brother, Mark, held three plastic rings in his hand. Cristina, her dark hair defenseless up in a dandy bun, stood beside him, eating caramel corn and laughing. Mark threw the rings: all three at once. Each spiraled out in a different management and landed around the neck of a bottle.

Julian sighed. "And so much for beingness inconspicuous."

A mixture of cheers and noises of atheism went up from the mundanes at the ring toss. Fortunately, at that place weren't many of them, and Marking was able to collect his prize--something in a plastic bag--and escape with a minimum of fuss.

He headed back toward them with Cristina at his side. The tips of his pointed ears peeked through the loops of his calorie-free hair, simply he was glamoured so that mundanes wouldn't see them. Mark was half-faerie, and his Downworlder claret showed itself in the delicacy of his features, the tips of his ears, and the angularity of his eyes and cheekbones.

"And so it'southward a squid demon?" Emma said, generally just to accept something to say to fill up the silence between her and Julian. There were a lot of silences betwixt her and Julian these days. Information technology had only been two weeks since everything had changed, simply she felt the difference profoundly, in her bones. She felt his altitude, though he had never been annihilation merely scrupulously polite and kind ever since she had told him nearly her and Marking.

"Manifestly," Julian said. Marker and Cristina had come up into earshot; Cristina was finishing her caramel corn and looking sadly into the pocketbook every bit if hoping more than would appear. Emma could relate. Mark, meanwhile, was gazing down at his prize. "It climbs up the side of the pier and snatches people--by and large kids, anyone leaning over the side taking a motion-picture show at night. It's been getting braver, though. Plainly someone spotted it inside the game area near the table hockey--is that a goldfish?"

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