Ty nodded. He turned the necklace over and over in his hand, then held it out, dangling the heron over the bed so that the sunlight caught the silver, and Irene batted it with her paw. Livvy thought of Kit sitting at the table in the kitchen, so carefully not asking her anything about Ty.

She reached over and caught the chain in her hand. Gently untangled it from Irene’s sharp claws. Holding the necklace still, Livvy said, “This belonged to Kit. You’ll have to write him. To say thank you. You’ll write him and give the letter to Magnus to take back when he goes.”

“Okay,” Ty said at last. “But he won’t write back.”

“Then you’ll keep on writing until he does,” Livvy said. “Necromancy is bad. We’re all agreed on that. But postcards are pretty harmless. You know. Something scenic on the front.” Dimmet Tarn flashed in front of her. That black nothingness. “Wish you were here. That kind of thing.”

She held the chain tighter. Rubbed the small links between her fingers. Maybe that was her future. Black nothingness. But right now she had Ty. She could choose the path that led away from Dimmet Tarn for as long as she could. She had an anchor. She would hold on as tightly as she could.

Forever Fallen

By Cassandra Clare and Sarah Rees Brennan

Awake, arise! Or be forever fallen.

—Milton

New York, 2013

Jem Carstairs and Kit Herondale came through the Portal together, from the black midnight velvet of the English woods into the orange-starred deep blue of a New York street in the evening. Kit eyed the silver stream of honking cars with the same expression he’d worn since Jem suggested going: a mixture of excitement and nerves.

“They didn’t, uh, exactly welcome me at the L.A. Shadow Market the last few times I went,” Kit said. “You’re sure this will be okay?”

“I am,” Jem assured him.

The yellow and red lights of cars played over the intricate scrollwork and arched windows of the abandoned theater. The Shadow Market on Canal Street was much like he remembered it from a decade ago and more, though Jem himself was so different. To a mundane, steel shutters and boards covered the entrance. To Jem and Kit, they were silver and wood beads, a curtain that chimed a song as they passed through.

A warlock woman paused when she saw them.

“Hello, Hypatia,” said Jem. “I think you know Kit?”

“I know that two Shadowhunters make even more trouble than one,” said Hypatia.

She rolled her starry eyes and passed on, but a werewolf Jem knew from the Paris Shadow Market stopped and chatted with them for a moment. He said it was a pleasure to meet Kit, and always a pleasure to see Jem.

“Congratulations, by the way,” he added.

Jem glowed. “Thank you.”