"Of course then we'll probably never see him again," said Livvy. "Lucky girl, whoever she'll be."
Ty's brows drew together. "You're joking, right?" he said. "You don't mean we'll actually never see him again?"
"Definitely not," Emma said. When Ty was much younger, he'd been puzzled by the way people talked and the way they exaggerated to make a point. Phrases like "raining cats and dogs" had caused him annoyance--and sometimes a small amount of betrayal, since he liked cats and dogs a great deal more than he liked rain.
At some point Julian had begun a series of silly drawings for him, showing the literal meaning of phrases and then the figurative ones. Ty had giggled at the illustrations of cats and dogs falling out of the sky and people having their socks knocked off, as well as the bubble pictures of animals and people explaining what the idioms really meant. After that he was often to be found in the library, looking up expressions and their meanings, committing them to memory. Ty didn't mind having things explained to him, and he never forgot what he'd been taught, but he preferred teaching himself.
He still sometimes liked to be reassured that an exaggeration was an exaggeration, even if he was 90 percent sure of it. Livvy, who knew better than anyone the anxiety that imprecise language could cause her brother, scrambled to her feet and went over to him. She put her arms around him, her chin against his shoulder. Ty leaned against her, his eyes half-lidded. Ty liked physical affection when he was in the mood for it, as long as it wasn't too intense--he liked having his hair ruffled and his back patted or scratched. Sometimes he reminded Emma a bit of their cat, Church, when Church wanted an ear rub.
Light flared. Cristina had gotten up and flicked the witchlight back on. Brightness expanded to fill the room as Julian came back in and looked around; whatever composure he'd lost was back. "It's late," he said. "Bedtime. Especially for you, Tavvy."
"Hate bedtime," said Tavvy, who was sitting in Malcolm's lap, playing with a toy the warlock had given him. It was square and purple and sent off bright sparks.
"That's the spirit of the revolution," said Jules. "Malcolm, thanks. I'm sure we'll be needing your help again."
Malcolm set Tavvy gently aside and stood up, brushing pizza dust from his rumpled clothes. Picking up his discarded jacket, he headed out into the hallway, Emma and Julian following him. "Well, you know where to find me," he said, zipping the jacket up. "I was going to talk to Diana tomorrow about--"
"Diana can't know," Emma said.
Malcolm looked puzzled. "Can't know about what?"
"That we're looking into this," Julian said, cutting Emma off. "She doesn't want us involved. Says it's dangerous."
Malcolm looked disgruntled. "You could have mentioned that before," he said. "I don't like keeping things from her."
"Sorry," Julian said. His expression was smooth, faintly apologetic. As always, Emma was both impressed and a little frightened by his ability to lie. Julian was an expert liar when he wanted to be; no shadow of what he really felt would touch his face. "We can't go much further with this without help from the Clave and the Silent Brothers anyway."
"All right." Malcolm looked at them both closely; Emma did her best to match Julian's poker face. "As long as you talk to Diana about this tomorrow." He shoved his hands into his pockets, the light gleaming off his colorless hair. "There is one thing I didn't get a chance to tell you. Those markings around the body that Emma found, they weren't for a protective spell."
"But you said--" Emma started.
"I changed my mind when I got a closer look," Malcolm said. "They're not protective runes. They're summoning runes. Someone's using the energy of the dead bodies to summon."
"To summon what?" said Jules.
Malcolm shook his head. "Something to this world. A demon, an angel, I don't know. I'll look at the photos some more, ask around the Spiral Labyrinth discreetly."
"So if it was a summoning spell," Emma said, "was it successful or unsuccessful?"
"A spell like that?" Malcolm said. "If it was successful, believe me, you'd know."
Emma was woken up by a plaintive meow.
She opened her eyes to find a Persian cat sitting on her chest. It was a blue Persian, to be precise, very round, with tucked-in ears and large yellow eyes.
With a yelp Emma leaped to her feet. The cat went flying. The next few moments were chaos as she stumbled over her nightstand while the cat yowled. Finally she succeeded in turning on the light, to find the cat sitting by the door of her room, looking smug and entitled.
"Church," she wailed. "Seriously? Don't you have somewhere to be?"
It was clear from Church's expression that he didn't. Church was a cat who sometimes belonged to the Institute. He'd shown up on the front step four years ago, left in a box on the doorstep with a note addressed to Emma and a line of script underneath. Please take care of my cat. Brother Zachariah.
At the time Emma hadn't been able to figure out why a Silent Brother, even a former Silent Brother, had wanted her to take care of his cat. She'd called Clary, who'd said that the cat had once lived at the New York Institute but did truly belong to Brother Zachariah, and if Emma and Julian wanted the cat they should keep him.
His name was Church, she said.
Church turned out to be the kind of cat who didn't stay where he was put. He was endlessly escaping out open windows and disappearing for days or even weeks. At first Emma had been frantic every time he left, but he always came back looking sleeker and more self-satisfied than ever. When Emma turned fourteen, he'd begun to come back with presents for her tied to his collar: shells and pieces of sea glass. Emma had put the shells on her windowsill. The sea glass had become Julian's good-luck bracelet.
By then, Emma knew the presents were from Jem, but she had no way of reaching him to thank him. So she did her best to take care of Church. There was always dry cat food left out for Church in the entryway, and clean drinking water. They were happy to see him when he showed up, and not worried when he didn't.
Church meowed and scraped at the door. Emma was used to this: It meant he wanted her to follow him. With a sigh she pulled on a sweater over her leggings and tank top and shoved her feet into flip-flops.
"This better be good," she told Church, grabbing up her stele. "Or I'll make you into a tennis racket."
Church didn't appear worried. He led Emma through the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. The moon was high and bright, reflecting off the water in the distance. It made a path that Emma wandered toward, bemused, as Church kept up his trotting. She scooped him up as they crossed the highway, and deposited him on the beach when they reached the other side.
"Well, we're here," she said. "The world's biggest litter box."
Church gave her a look that suggested he wasn't impressed with her wit, and sauntered toward the shoreline. They wandered
along the edge of the water together. It was a peaceful night, the surf slow and shallow, quieter than the wind. Occasionally Church would make a run for a sand crab, but he always came back, trotting just ahead of Emma, toward the northern constellations. Emma was starting to wonder if he was actually leading her anywhere at all when she realized that they'd rounded the curve of rocks that hid her and Julian's secret beach, and that the beach wasn't uninhabited.
She slowed down. The sand was lit up with moonlight, and Julian was sitting in the middle of it, well up from the shoreline. She went toward him, her feet silent on the sand. He didn't look up.
She rarely had a chance to look at Julian when he didn't know she was watching. It felt strange, even a little unnerving. The moon was bright enough that she could see the color of his T-shirt--red--and that he was wearing old blue jeans, and that his feet were bare. His bracelet of sea glass seemed to glow. She rarely wished that she could draw, but she did now, just so that she could draw the way he was all one perfect single line, from the angle of his bent leg to the curve of his back as he leaned forward.
Only a few feet from him, she stopped. "Jules?"
He looked up. He didn't seem the least bit startled. "Was that Church?"
Emma glanced around. It took her a moment before she located the cat, perched on top of a rock. He was licking his paw. "He came back," she said, sitting down on the sand next to Jules. "You know, for a visit."
"I saw you coming around the rocks." He gave her a half smile. "I thought I was dreaming."
"Couldn't sleep?"
He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. His knuckles were splattered with paint. "You could say that." He shook his head. "Weird nightmares. Demons, faeries--"
"Pretty standard Shadowhunter stuff," Emma pointed out. "I mean, that just sounds like a Tuesday."
"Helpful, Emma." He flopped back down on the sand, his hair making a dark halo around his head.
"I'm all about being helpful." She flopped down next to him, looking up at the sky. Light pollution from Los Angeles spilled out to the beach, too, and the stars were dim but visible. The moon moved in and out behind clouds. A strange sense of peace had fallen over Emma, a sense that she was where she belonged. She hadn't felt it since Julian and the others had left for England.