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Everything that wasn’t Ty vanished, like a light flicking off in a room, leaving a single glowing source of illumination. Kit’s senses narrowed to nothing but this small space, this one moment: the press of Ty’s mouth against his, the arch of Ty’s body as Kit’s hands slid under Ty’s jacket, his shirt; Kit’s palms pressed against the hollow of Ty’s back. The heat of Ty’s skin. The taste of the rain and their own shared breath.

It was desire, of course, but it was more than that. Ty had caught Kit off guard; he’d had no chance to throw up even a single wall to protect himself, and with Ty kissing him so frantically, his hands burying themselves in Kit’s drenched hair, Kit felt utterly, piercingly vulnerable. His heart beat and ached and hurt; his whole body hurt. His soul hurt.

He had never thought he could feel so much and he had no idea if Ty felt the same. He wanted to kiss Ty even harder, wanted to know with certainty what Ty wanted: what he would mind, what he would like, what would make him lose himself like Kit was lost. What would ensure that, whatever happened, Ty would never be able to forget him.

It had been gentle before, in the hotel room. Now Kit felt his hands curl against Ty’s back, his fingers digging into Ty’s skin, and Ty responded by pressing himself harder against Kit. And Kit didn’t understand: How could you hurt so much when you were kissing the only person you’d ever really wanted? How could you yearn for someone so much when they were right there in your arms? How could you feel so much pleasure and so much desperate sorrow, all at the same time?

Was it just the knowledge that followed all Shadowhunters? That death lived closer than any neighbor, that any life could end suddenly, that any kiss had to carry the weight of all the kisses that might never happen? Kit told himself to stop thinking, to shut up, and his hands slid farther up Ty’s back, the roughness of scars against his palms, and maybe Ty could want the same thing he wanted, Kit thought, maybe he had the same fierceness inside him, living beside his gentleness—and then Ty froze and pulled away, releasing his hold on Kit.

Ty was breathing hard, not looking at Kit, and there was a sound in Kit’s ears, a rushing noise, like waves crashing on the shore. He thought it was his own shock, the delirium that came from being so lost in someone else and having that contact suddenly severed—but, no, it was coming from something else. A rhythmic drumbeat noise, getting closer and closer.

“They found us,” Ty whispered.

The Riders.

Half concealed by mist and rain, they appeared without warning, some distance away where the street Kit and Ty were on crossed another, broader avenue. They were moving fast, great dark figures astride towering Faerie horses whose eyes gleamed red through the mist and drizzle.

But they were not as Kit remembered. Gone was the gleaming bronze armor, the shimmering reins, the hooves that seemed dipped in gold. There were only four of them now, not seven. And instead of glorious shining cloaks, the quartet wore ragged hooded tunics. Their hoods snapped in the damp wind, the fabric tattered, their faces hidden deep within shadow.

Unbidden, the image of the Wild Hunt came to Kit. Enchanted mounts tearing through a modern city slick with rain, past cafés with darkened windows and parked cars beaded with water. The ordinary world seemed to fade around them, as if to remind Kit that the mortal realm could not protect him. Not against the Riders.

Kit and Ty had pressed themselves back against the doors beneath the archway. Kit could feel Ty, rigid beside him, his arm wedged against Kit’s. The Riders might look bleak and ragged now, but they were still terrifying.

Don’t see us, Kit silently begged the Riders. Don’t look—

The four of them thundered past, cloaks snapping, horses’ breath steaming in the rain. The street filled with the sound of them and then, just as abruptly, emptied. The hoofbeats faded, echoing down the stone and into distance.

Only when the last sound was gone did Kit dare to breathe again. His hands curled into fists; he forced himself to stay still, to stay quiet.

“The potion worked,” Ty whispered, his back still flat against the doors. “They didn’t sense us. Didn’t see us.”

“No,” Kit said. “But they will.”

He could already imagine it—the way the magic would thin with time, fraying like a ribbon. The hours would pass, the effect of the potion would fade away, and the Riders would find them. They would bring Kit to the Seelie Queen, but Ty—Ty they would kill.

Terror pressed into him like a black knife against his throat. He wanted to grab Ty and drag him back to the hotel, lock them both in their room and pull the curtains. Hide there until all danger went away.

But that would not bring them closer to Dru and Clary. Or Tessa and Jem and Mina. And the danger would never really go away.

Ty laid a damp hand on Kit’s arm. “Kit. Listen.”

Kit forced himself to focus. The sound of a crash came in the distance and then again, louder: It sounded like trees being ripped up by the roots before they hit the earth.

“It’s the basilisk,” Ty said, a little breathless. “It has to be.”

Time to compartmentalize, time to shove down fear because they had to fight, they had no choice. “Let’s go.”

They took off running through the streets, following the noise. They passed the intersection where the Riders had been, where a lone streetlight flickered. They passed a few mundanes, hunched down into their clothes, moving slowly as if unsure why they were outside at all.

A massive public garden loomed in front of them, a sprawling green space in the middle of the city. Kit caught sight of a sign that said Englischer Garten, the English Garden. Faint crashing sounds came from inside the park, and Ty and Kit swerved to follow them.

Trees stretched out in all directions, their dark forms seeming to blur together in the mist, as the path before Kit and Ty wound deeper into the park. The lake in the center lay gray-black under the cloudy sky, its surface rippling gently. The air was filled with the smell of wet earth, leaves, and something far darker—the scent of something evil, a scent Kit could taste at the back of his throat.

As they approached the lake, Kit noticed that the ground around them was dotted with statues—figures frozen in poses of terror. Their eyes were wide, mouths open in silent screams. They had been petrified by the basilisk’s gaze.

He whipped around. He could see nothing but shadows, grass and trees, and in the distance, the lights of the city.

“Where is it?” Kit demanded, his voice tight.