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pierced with the spears of the Wild Hunt. I see little Dru and baby Tavvy ridden down. I see my Ty, ripped apart by their hounds. I cannot go until there is some way to go to them without bringing destruction down on them. I will not go. You go, and go fast.”
    Simon pulled Isabelle backward, toward the trees. She resisted, her eyes still on Mark, but she let him draw her away into concealing leaves as more faerie horses hurtled down, lightning amid the trees, shadows against the sun.
    “What trouble are you causing now, Shadowhunter?” asked a faerie on a roan horse, laughing as the steed whirled. “What is this word of more of your kind?”
    “No word,” said Mark.
    There were more horses joining the roan, more and more of the Wild Hunt. Simon saw Kieran, a white silent presence. The faerie on the roan turned his horse toward the place where Simon and Isabelle stood, and Simon saw the roan sniff the air like a dog.
    The rider pointed. “Why do I spy Shadowhunters, then, in our land and answerable to us? Should I ask them what they are about?”
    He rode forward, but he did not make it far. He was wearing a cloak embroidered with silver, showing the constellations, the silver enchanted to move as though time were sped up and planets spun fast enough for the eye to see. His horse stopped short, its rider almost falling, when his beautiful silvery cloak was suddenly pinned to a tree by a well-placed arrow.
    Mark lowered his bow. “I see nothing,” he said, pronouncing the lie with a certain satisfaction. “And nothing should go—now.”
    “Oh, boy, you will pay for this,” hissed the rider on the roan.
    The horses and the riders shrieked like pterodactyls, circling him, but Mark Blackthorn of the Los Angeles Institute stood his ground.
    “Run!” he shouted. “Get home safe! Tell the Clave that I have saved more Shadowhunter lives, that I will be a Shadowhunter and be damned to them, that I will be a faerie and curse them! And tell my family that I love them, I love them, and I will never forget. One day I will go home.”
    Simon and Isabelle ran.
    *   *   *
    George threw himself on Simon the instant he and Isabelle appeared in the grounds of the Academy, his arms strangling-tight. Beatriz and, to Simon’s amazement, even Julie flew at him only a second behind George, and both of them mercilessly pummeled his arms.
    “Ow,” said Simon.
    “We’re so glad you’re alive!” said Beatriz, punching him again.
    “Why must you hurt me with your love?” asked Simon. “Ow.”
    He disentangled himself from their grip, touched but also mildly bruised, then looked around for another familiar face. He felt a cold touch of fear.
    “Is Marisol all right?” he demanded.
    Beatriz snorted. “Oh, she’s better than all right. She’s in the infirmary with Jon waiting on her hand and foot. Because you mundanes can’t be healed with runes and she is milking that for all it’s worth. I’m not sure which has Jon more terrified, the thought of how fragile mundanes are, or the fact that she keeps threatening to explain X-ray machines to him.”
    Simon was very impressed that even elfshot could not slow down Marisol and all her evil.
    “We thought you might be dead,” said Julie. “The Fair Folk will do anything to vent their spite against Shadowhunters, those evil, treacherous snakes. They could have done anything to you.”
    “And it would have been my fault,” George said, pale-faced. “You were trying to stop me.”
    “It would have been the faeries’ fault,” said Julie. “But you were careless. You have to remember what they are, less human than sharks.”
    George was nodding humbly. Beatriz looked as if she was in full agreement.
    “You know what?” said Simon. “I’ve had enough.”
    They all stared at him in blank incredulity. But Isabelle glanced at him and smiled. He thought he finally understood the fire that burned in Magnus, what made him keep talking when the Clave would not listen.
    “I