“I heard you were selling secrets to Shadowhunters, Hale,” said Hypatia. “Look at that—caught with your hand in the bag.” She winked at Dru. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars.

“How could you?” demanded the vampire. “I thought it was all lies, Barnabas!” She sniffed and glanced at Dru. “You were really buying secrets off him? Who are you, anyway?”

“Drusilla,” said Dru. “Drusilla Blackthorn.”

“A Blackthorn?” said Barnabas, outraged.

“And he was definitely selling secrets,” said Dru. “For instance, he just told me he dug up a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic from under Johnny Rook’s booth as soon as he died. And he’s been keeping it to himself.”

“Is that true?” rumbled the werewolf. “And you call yourself the head of the Shadow Market?”

“You little—” Barnabas launched himself across the table at Dru. She slid out of the booth fast and collided with someone’s torso with an oomph. She looked up. It was Ty, a shortsword in his hand, pointed directly at Barnabas’s chest.

He put one arm protectively around Dru, his gaze never wavering from the warlock. “Leave my sister alone,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Kit. He waved from the next booth. “I forgot my weapons. But I do have this fork.” He wiggled it. “You are so forked,” he said to Barnabas.

“Oh, shut up,” Barnabas said. But he looked defeated; the werewolf had already grabbed him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hypatia was clearing the briefcase and money off the table.

She winked her starry eyes at Ty and Dru. “Time for you Shadowhunters to go,” she said. “This marks the end of your little Downworlder deal. And tell your new Inquisitor that we don’t want anything to do with him or his bigoted rules. We’ll go where we want, when we want.”

Ty lowered his sword slowly. Kit dropped his fork, and the three of them strode out of the diner. Once on the pavement, Dru took a deep, relieved breath of air—it was a warm night, and the moon was high and glowing over Franklin Avenue. She felt shivery with excitement—she’d done it! She’d tricked a famous warlock. Pulled off a con. She was a con woman now!

“I think Hypatia meant what she said to us,” Kit said, glancing back through the windows of the coffee shop. Hypatia and the other Downworlders were escorting a struggling Barnabas toward the back door. “All that stuff about telling the Inquisitor—that wasn’t part of the con. That was a real message.”

“As if we could get word to the Inquisitor,” said Ty. He touched his hand absently to the locket at his throat. “That was good. You did a really good job, Dru.”

“Yep. You kept your cool,” said Kit. He glanced up and down the street. “I’d suggest we go get milk shakes or something to celebrate, but this is kind of a scary neighborhood.”

“Shadowhunters don’t worry about scary neighborhoods,” said Dru.

“Have you learned nothing from the way Batman’s parents died?” said Kit, feigning shock.

Ty smiled. And for the first time since Livvy had died, Dru laughed.

* * *

With Aline and Tavvy’s help, Helen had set up a large table inside the Sanctuary. Two chairs sat behind it, and the table was covered in the accoutrements of bureaucracy: pens and blank forms that had been sent by the Clave, file folders and rubber stamps. It was all drearily mundane, in Helen’s opinion.

A long line of werewolves, warlocks, vampires, and faeries stretched through the room and out the front doors. They had set up their “Registry Station” atop the Angelic Power rune etched on the floor, blocking the doors that led into the Institute.

The first Downworlder to step up to their makeshift office was a werewolf. He had an enormous mustache that reminded Helen of seventies cop movies. He was glowering. “My name is Greg—”

“Your name is Elton John,” Aline said, writing it down.

“No,” said the werewolf. “It’s Greg. Greg Anderson.”

“It’s Elton John,” said Aline, grabbing a stamp. “You’re thirty-six and you’re a chimney sweep who lives in Bel Air.” She stamped the paper in red ink—REGISTERED—and handed it back.

The werewolf took the paper, blinking in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

“It means the Clave won’t be able to find you,” explained Tavvy, who was sitting under the table, playing with a toy car. “But you’re registered.”

“Technically,” said Helen, willing him to accept the ruse. If he didn’t, they’d have trouble with the others.

Greg looked at the paper again. “Just my opinion,” he said, “but the guy behind me looks like Humphrey Bogart.”

“Humphrey it is!” said Aline, waving her stamp. “Do you want to be Humphrey Bogart?” she asked the next Downworlder, a skinny, tall warlock with a sad face and poodle ears.

“Who doesn’t?” said the warlock.

Most of the Downworlders were wary as they worked their way through the rest of the line, but cooperative. There were even some smiles and thanks. They seemed to understand that Aline and Helen were attempting to undermine the system, if not why.

Aline pointed at a tall blond faerie in the line, wearing a gossamer dress. “That one’s Taylor Swift.”

Helen smiled as she handed a werewolf a stamped form. “How much trouble are we going to get into for this?”

“Does it matter?” said Aline. “We’re going to do it anyway.”

“True enough,” said Helen, and reached for another form.

* * *

Take me to him. Take me.

There was quiet and silence—and then light, and a thousand sharp, pricking pains. Cristina yelped and struggled free of what felt like a tangle of briars, tumbling sideways and thumping hard onto grassy earth.

She sat up, looking ruefully down at her hands and arms, dotted with dozens of tiny pinpricks of blood. She had landed in a rosebush, which was more than a little ironic.

She got to her feet, brushing herself off. She was still in Faerie, but it seemed to be daytime here. Golden sunlight burnished a thatched-roof cottage of pale yellow stone. A turquoise-blue river ran past the small house, lined with blue and purple lupin flowers.

Cristina wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this pastoral bliss. She dabbed gently at the blood on her hands and arms, gav

e up, and glanced up and down the small, winding trail that cut through the tall grass. It led from the front door of the cottage, across the meadow, and vanished into the hazy distance.

Cristina marched up to the cottage door and knocked firmly. “Adaon!” she called. “Adaon Kingson!”

The door swung open as if Adaon had been waiting on the other side. The last time Cristina had seen him, he had been decked out in the regalia of the Unseelie Court, with the broken crown insignia on his chest. Now he wore a plain linen tunic and breeches. His deep brown skin looked warm in the sunlight. It was the first time she had been able to see his resemblance to Kieran.

Maybe it was because he looked furious.

“How is it possible that you are here?” he demanded, looking around as if he couldn’t believe she had come alone.

“I sought help,” she said. “I was in Faerie—”

He narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be staring suspiciously at a bluebird. “Come inside immediately. It is not safe to speak outside.”

The moment she was inside the cottage, Adaon closed the door and set himself to fastening a number of intricate-looking, complicated locks. “Faerie is a dangerous place right now. There are all sorts of ways you could have been tracked or followed.”

They were inside a small wood-paneled entryway. An arched doorway led through to the rest of the cottage. Adaon was blocking it, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was glowering. After a moment’s hesitation, Cristina held out the artifact to him. “I could not have been tracked. I used this.”

If she’d hoped Adaon would look relieved, he didn’t. “Where did you get that?”

“It is a family heirloom,” Cristina said. “It was given freely as a gift by a family of hadas who an ancestor of mine aided.”

Adaon scowled. “It is a token of Rhiannon. Treat it with care.” He stalked out of the entryway and into a small living room, where a well-scrubbed wooden table stood in a shaft of sunlight pouring through wide, leaded windows. A small kitchen was visible: A vase on the table held a riot of colorful flowers and stacked bowls of painted pottery.

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