City of Ashes

8 The Seelie Court

In the dream Clary was a child again, walking down the narrow strip of beach near the boardwalk at Coney Island. The air was thick with the smell of hot dogs and roasting peanuts, and with the shouts of children. The sea surged in the distance, its blue-gray surface alive with sunlight.

She could see herself as if from a distance, wearing oversize child's pajamas. The hems of the pajama bottoms dragged along the beach. Damp sand grated between her toes, and her hair hung heavily against the nape of her neck. There were no clouds and the sky was blue and clear, but she shivered as she walked along the perimeter of the water toward a figure she could see only dimly in the distance.

As she approached, the figure became suddenly clear, as if Clary had focused the lens of a camera. It was her mother, kneeling in the ruins of a half-built sand castle. She wore the same white dress Valentine had put her in at Renwick's. In her hand was a twisted bit of driftwood, silvery from long exposure to salt and wind.

"Have you come to help me?" her mother said, raising her head. Jocelyn's hair was undone and it blew free in the wind, making her look younger than she was. "There's so much to do and so little time."

Clary swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. "Mom—I've missed you, Mom."

Jocelyn smiled. "I've missed you, too, honey. But I'm not gone, you know. I'm only sleeping."

"Then how do I wake you up?" Clary cried, but her mother was looking out to sea, her face troubled. The sky had turned a twilight iron gray and the black clouds looked like heavy stones.

"Come here," said Jocelyn, and when Clary came to her, she said, "Hold out your arm."

Clary did. Jocelyn moved the driftwood over her skin. The touch stung like the burning of a stele, and left the same thick black line behind. The rune Jocelyn drew was a shape Clary had never seen before, but she found it instinctively soothing to her eye. "What does this do?"

"It should protect you." Clary's mother released her.

"Against what?"

Jocelyn didn't answer, just looked out toward the sea. Clary turned and saw that the ocean had drawn far out, leaving brackish piles of garbage, heaps of seaweed and flopping, desperate fish in its wake. The water had gathered itself into a huge wave, rising like the side of a mountain, like an avalanche ready to fall. The shouts of children from the boardwalk had turned into screams. As Clary stared in horror, she saw that the side of the wave was as transparent as a membrane, and through it she could see things that seemed to move under the surface of the sea, huge dark shapeless things pushing against the skin of the water. She threw up her hands—

And woke up, gasping, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs. She was in her bed in the spare room in Luke's house, and afternoon light was filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was plastered to her neck with sweat, and her arm burned and ached. When she sat up and flipped on the bedside light, she saw without surprise the black Mark that ran the length of her forearm.

When she went into the kitchen, she found Luke had left breakfast for her in the form of a Danish in a grease-spotted cardboard box. He'd also left a note stuck to the fridge. Gone to the hospital.

Clary ate the Danish on the way to meet Simon. He was supposed to be on the corner of Bedford by the L train stop at five, but he wasn't. She felt a faint tug of anxiety before she remembered the used record store on the corner of Sixth. Sure enough, he was sorting through the CDs in the new arrivals section. He wore a rust-colored corduroy jacket with a torn sleeve and a blue T-shirt bearing the logo of a headphone-wearing boy dancing with a chicken. He grinned when he saw her. "Eric thinks we should change the name of our band to Mojo Pie," he said, by way of greeting.

"What is it now? I forgot."

"Champagne Enema," he said, selecting a Yo La Tengo CD.

"Change it," Clary said. "By the way, I know what your T-shirt means."

"No you don't." He headed up to the front of the store to buy his CD. "You're a good girl."

Outside, the wind was cold and brisk. Clary drew her striped scarf up around her chin. "I was worried when I didn't see you at the L stop."

Simon pulled his knit cap down, wincing as if the sunlight hurt his eyes. "Sorry. I remembered I wanted this CD, and I thought—"

"It's fine." She waved a hand at him. "It's me. I panic way too easily these days."

"Well, after what you've been through, no one could blame you." Simon sounded contrite. "I still can't believe what happened to the Silent City. I can't believe you were there."

"Neither could Luke. He freaked out completely."

"I bet." They were walking through McCarren Park, the grass underfoot turning winter brown, the air full of golden light. Dogs were running off their leashes among the trees. Everything changes in my life, and the world stays the same, Clary thought. "Have you talked to Jace since it happened?" Simon asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"No, but I checked in with Isabelle and Alec a few times. Apparently he's fine."

"Did he ask to see you? Is that why we're going?"

"He doesn't have to ask." Clary tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as they turned onto Magnus's street. It was lined with low warehouse buildings that had been converted into lofts and studios for artistic—and wealthy—residents. Most of the cars parked along the shallow curb were expensive.

As they neared Magnus's building, Clary saw a lanky figure unfurl itself from where it had been sitting on the stoop. Alec. He was wearing a long black coat made of the tough, slightly shiny material Shadowhunters liked to use for their gear. His hands and throat were marked with runes, and it was evident from the faint shimmer in the air around him that he was glamoured into invisibility.

"I didn't know you were bringing the mundane." His blue eyes flicked uneasily over Simon.

"That's what I like about you people," said Simon. "You always make me feel so welcome."

"Oh, come on, Alec," said Clary. "What's the big deal? It's not like Simon hasn't been here before."

Alec heaved a theatrical sigh, shrugged, and led the way up the stairs. He unlocked the door to Magnus's apartment using a thin silver key, which he tucked back into the breast pocket of his jacket the moment he'd finished, as if he hoped to keep his companions from seeing it.

In daylight the apartment looked the way an empty nightclub might look during off hours: dark, dirty, and unexpectedly small. The walls were bare, spackled here and there with glitter paint, and the floorboards where faeries had danced a week ago were warped and shiny with age.

"Hello, hello." Magnus swept toward them. He was wearing a floor-length green silk dressing gown open over a silver mesh shirt and black jeans. A glittering red stone winked in his left ear. "Alec, my darling. Clary. And rat-boy." He swept a bow toward Simon, who looked annoyed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"We came to see Jace," Clary said. "Is he all right?"

"I don't know," Magnus said. "Does he normally just lie on the floor like that without moving?"

"What—," Alec began, and broke off as Magnus laughed. "That's not funny."

"You're so easy to tease. And yes, your friend is just fine. Well, except that he keeps putting all my things away and trying to clean up. Now I can't find anything. He's compulsive."

"Jace does like things neat," Clary said, thinking of his monk-like room at the Institute.

"Well, I don't." Magnus was watching Alec out of the corner of his eye while Alec stared off into the middle distance, scowling. "Jace is in there if you want to see him." He pointed toward a door at the end of the room.

"In there" turned out to be a medium-size den—surprisingly cozy, with smudged walls, velvet curtains drawn across the windows, and cloth-draped armchairs marooned like fat, colorful icebergs in a sea of nubbly beige carpeting. A hot-pink couch was made up with sheets and a blanket. Next to it was a duffel bag stuffed full of clothes. No light came through the heavy curtains; the only source of illumination was a flickering television screen, which glowed brightly despite the fact that the television itself was not plugged in.

"What's on?" Magnus inquired.

"What Not to Wear," came a familiar drawling voice, emanating from a sprawled figure in one of the armchairs. He sat forward and for a moment Clary thought Jace might get up and greet them. Instead, he shook his head at the screen. "High-waisted khaki pants? Who wears those?" He turned and glared at Magnus. "Nearly unlimited supernatural power," he said, "and all you do is use it to watch reruns. What a waste."

"Also, TiVo accomplishes much the same thing," pointed out Simon.

"My way is cheaper." Magnus clapped his hands together and the room was suddenly flooded with light. Jace, slumped in the chair, raised an arm to cover his face. "Can you do that without magic?"

"Actually," said Simon, "yes. If you watched infomercials, you'd know that."

Clary sensed the mood in the room was deteriorating. "That's enough," she said. She looked at Jace, who had lowered his arm and was blinking resentfully into the light. "We need to talk," she said. "All of us. About what we're going to do now."

"I was going to watch Project Runway," said Jace. "It's on next."

"No you're not," said Magnus. He snapped his fingers and the TV went off, releasing a small puff of smoke as the picture died. "You need to deal with this."

"Suddenly you're interested in solving my problems?"

"I'm interested in getting my apartment back. I'm tired of you cleaning all the time." Magnus snapped his fingers again, menacingly. "Get up."

"Or you'll be the next one to go up in smoke," said Simon with relish.

"There's no need to clarify my finger snap," said Magnus. "The implication was clear in the snap itself."

"Fine." Jace got up out of the chair. He was barefoot and there was a line of purplish silver skin around his wrist where his injuries were still healing. He looked tired, but not as if he were still in pain. "You want a round table meeting, we can have a round table meeting."

"I love round tables," said Magnus brightly. "They suit me so much better than square."

In the living room Magnus conjured up an enormous circular table surrounded by five high-backed wooden chairs. "That's amazing," Clary said, sliding into a chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. "How can you create something out of nothing like that?"

"You can't," said Magnus. "Everything comes from somewhere. These come from an antiques reproduction store on Fifth Avenue, for instance. And these"—suddenly five white waxed paper cups appeared on the table, steam rising gently from the holes in their plastic lids—"come from Dean & DeLuca on Broadway."

"That seems like stealing, doesn't it?" Simon pulled a cup toward him. He drew the lid back. "Ooh. Mochaccino." He looked at Magnus. "Did you pay for these?"

"Sure," said Magnus, while Jace and Alec snickered. "I make dollar bills magically appear in their cash register."

"Really?"

"No." Magnus popped the lid off his own coffee. "But you can pretend I did if it makes you feel better. So, first order of business is what?"

Clary put her hands around her own coffee cup. Maybe it was stolen, but it was also hot and full of caffeine. She could stop by Dean & DeLuca and drop a dollar in their tip jar some other time. "Figuring out what's going on would be a start," she said, blowing on her foam. "Jace, you said what happened in the Silent City was Valentine's fault?"

Jace stared down at his coffee. "Yes."

Alec put his hand on Jace's arm. "What happened? Did you see him?"

"I was in the cell," said Jace, his voice dead. "I heard the Silent Brothers screaming. Then Valentine came downstairs with—with something. I don't know what it was. Like smoke, with glowing eyes. A demon, but not like any I've ever seen before. He came up to the bars and he told me…"

"Told you what?" Alec's hand slid up Jace's arm to his shoulder. Magnus cleared his throat. Alec dropped his hand, red-faced, while Simon grinned into his undrunk coffee.

"Maellartach," Jace said. "He wanted the Soul-Sword and he killed the Silent Brothers to get it."

Magnus was frowning. "Alec, last night, when the Silent Brothers called for your help, where was the Conclave? Why was no one at the Institute?"

Alec looked surprised to be asked. "There was a Downworlder murder in Central Park last night. A faerie child was killed. The body was drained of blood."

"I bet the Inquisitor thinks I did that, too," said Jace. "My reign of terror continues."

Magnus stood up and went to the window. He pushed the curtain back, letting in just enough light to silhouette his hawklike profile. "Blood," he said, half to himself. "I had a dream two nights ago. I saw a city all of blood, with towers made of bone, and blood ran in the streets like water."

Simon slewed his eyes over to Jace. "Is standing by the window muttering about blood something he does all the time?"

"No," said Jace, "sometimes he sits on the couch and does it."

Alec shot them both a sharp glance. "Magnus, what's wrong?"

"The blood," said Magnus again. "It can't be a coincidence." He seemed to be looking down at the street. Sunset was coming on fast over the silhouette of the city in the distance: The sky was striped with bars of aluminum and rosy gold. "There have been several murders this week," he said, "of Downworlders. A warlock, killed in an apartment tower down by the South Street Seaport. His neck and wrists were cut and the body drained of blood. And a werewolf was killed at the Hunter's Moon a few days ago. The throat was cut in that case as well."

"It sounds like vampires," said Simon, suddenly very pale.

"I don't think so," Jace said. "At least, Raphael said it wasn't the Night Children's work. He seemed adamant about it."

"Yeah, 'cause he's trustworthy," muttered Simon.

"In this case I think he was telling the truth," said Magnus, drawing the curtain closed. His face was angular, shadowed. As he came back to the table, Clary saw that he was carrying a heavy book bound in green cloth. She didn't think he'd been holding it a few moments ago. "There was a strong demonic presence at both locations. I think someone else was responsible for all three deaths. Not Raphael and his tribe, but Valentine."

Clary's eyes went to Jace. His mouth was a thin line, but "Why do you say that?" was all he asked.

"The Inquisitor thought the faerie murder was a diversion," she said quickly. "So that he could plunder the Silent City without worrying about the Conclave."

"There are easier ways to create a diversion," said Jace, "and it is unwise to antagonize the Fair Folk. He wouldn't have murdered one of the clan of faerie if he didn't have a reason."

"He had a reason," said Magnus. "There was something he wanted from the faerie child, just as there was something he wanted from the warlock and the werewolf he killed."

"What's that?" asked Alec.

"Their blood," said Magnus, and opened the green book. The thin parchment pages had words written on them that glowed like fire. "Ah," he said, "here." He looked up, tapping the page with a sharp fingernail. Alec leaned forward. "You won't be able to read it," Magnus warned him. "It's written in a demon language. Purgatic."

"I can recognize the drawing, though. That's Maellartach. I've seen it before in books." Alec pointed at an illustration of a silver sword, familiar to Clary—it was the one she'd noticed was missing from the wall of the Silent City.

"The Ritual of Infernal Conversion," Magnus said. "That's what Valentine's trying to do."

"The what of what?" Clary frowned.

"Every magical object has an alliance," Magnus explained. "The alliance of the Soul-Sword is seraphic—like those angel knives you Shadowhunters use, but a thousand times more so, because its power was drawn from the Angel himself, not simply from the invocation of an angelic name. What Valentine wants to do is reverse its alliance—make it an object of demonic rather than angelic power."

"Lawful good to lawful evil!" said Simon, pleased.

"He's quoting Dungeons and Dragons," said Clary. "Ignore him."

"As the Angel's Sword, Maellartach's use to Valentine would be limited," said Magnus. "But as a sword whose demonic power is equal to the angelic power it once possessed—well, there is much it could offer him. Power over demons, for one. Not just the limited protection the Cup might offer, but power to call demons to him, to force them to do his bidding."

"A demon army?" said Alec.

"This guy is big on armies," observed Simon.

"Power even to bring them into Idris, perhaps," Magnus finished.

"I don't know why he'd want to go there," Simon said. "That's where all the demon hunters are, aren't they? Wouldn't they just annihilate the demon guys?"

"Demons come from other dimensions," said Jace. "We don't know how many of them there are. Their numbers could be infinite. The wardings keep most of them back, but if they all came through at once…"

Infinite, Clary thought. She remembered the Greater Demon, Abbadon, and tried to imagine hundreds more of it. Or thousands. Her skin felt cold and exposed.

"I don't get it," said Alec. "What does the ritual have to do with dead Downworlders?"

"To perform the Ritual of Conversion, you need to seethe the Sword until it's red-hot, then cool it four times, each time in the blood of a Downworld child. Once in the blood of a child of Lilith, once in the blood of a child of the moon, once in the blood of a child of the night, and once in the blood of a child of faerie," Magnus explained.

"Oh my God," said Clary. "So he's not done killing? There's still one more child to go?"

"Two more. He didn't succeed with the werewolf child. He was interrupted before he could get all the blood he needed." Magnus shut the book, dust puffing out from its pages. "Whatever Valentine's ultimate goal is, he's already more than halfway to reversing the Sword. He's probably able to garner some power from it already. He could already be calling on demons—"

"But you'd think if he were doing that, there'd be reports of disturbances, excess demon activity," Jace said. "But the Inquisitor said the opposite is true—that everything's been quiet."

"And so it might be," said Magnus, "if Valentine were calling all the demons to him. No wonder it's quiet."

The group stared at one another. Before anyone could think of a single thing to say, a sharp noise cut through the room, making Clary start. Hot coffee spilled onto her wrist and she gasped at the sudden pain.

"It's my mother," said Alec, checking his phone. "I'll be right back." He went over to the window, head down, voice too low to overhear.

"Let me see," said Simon, taking Clary's hand. There was an angry red blotch on her wrist where the hot liquid had scalded her.

"It's okay," she said. "No big deal."

Simon lifted her hand and kissed the injury. "All better now."

Clary made a startled noise. He had never done anything like that before. Then again, that was the sort of thing boyfriends did, didn't they? Drawing her wrist back, she looked across the table and saw Jace staring at them, his golden eyes blazing. "You're a Shadowhunter," he said. "You know how to deal with injuries." He slid his stele across the table toward her. "Use it."

"No," Clary said, and pushed the stele back across the table at him.

Jace slammed his hand down on the stele. "Clary—"

"She said she doesn't want it," said Simon. "Ha-ha."

"Ha-ha?" Jace looked incredulous. "That's your comeback?"

Alec, folding his phone, approached the table with a puzzled look. "What's going on?"

"We seem to be trapped in an episode of One Life to Waste," Magnus observed. "It's all very dull."

Alec flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. "I told my mother about the Infernal Conversion."

"Let me guess," said Jace. "She didn't believe you. Plus, she blamed everything on me."

Alec frowned. "Not exactly. She said she'd bring it up with the Conclave, but that she didn't have the Inquisitor's ear right now. I get the feeling the Inquisitor has pushed Mom out of the way and taken over. She sounded angry." The phone in his hand rang again. He held up a finger. "Sorry. It's Isabelle. One sec." He wandered to the window, phone in hand.

Jace glanced over at Magnus. "I think you're right about the werewolf at the Hunter's Moon. The guy who found his body said someone else was in the alley with him. Someone who ran off."

Magnus nodded. "It sounds to me like Valentine was interrupted in the middle of doing whatever it is he does to get the blood he needs. He'll probably try again with a different lycanthrope child."

"I ought to warn Luke," Clary said, half-rising out of her chair.

"Wait." Alec was back, phone in hand, a peculiar expression on his face.

"What did Isabelle want?" Jace asked.

Alec hesitated. "Isabelle says the Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an audience with us."

"Sure," said Magnus. "And Madonna wants me as a backup dancer on her next world tour."

Alec looked puzzled. "Who's Madonna?"

"Who's the Queen of the Seelie Court?" said Clary.

"She is the Queen of Faerie," said Magnus. "Well, the local one, anyway."

Jace put his head in his hands. "Tell Isabelle no."

"But she thinks it's a good idea," Alec protested.

"Then tell her no twice."

Alec frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, just that some of Isabelle's ideas are world-beaters and some are total disasters. Remember that idea she had about using abandoned subway tunnels to get around under the city? Talk about giant rats—"

"Let's not," said Simon. "I'd rather not talk about rats at all, in fact."

"This is different," said Alec. "She wants us to go to the Seelie Court."

"You're right, this is different," said Jace. "This is her worst idea ever."

"She knows a knight in the Court," said Alec. "He told her that the Seelie Queen is interested in meeting with us. Isabelle overheard my conversation with our mother—and she thought if we could explain our theory about Valentine and the Soul-Sword to the Queen, the Seelie Court would side with us, maybe even ally with us against Valentine."

"Is it safe to go there?" Clary asked.

"Of course it's not safe," Jace said, as if she'd asked the stupidest question he'd ever heard.

She shot a glare at him. "I don't know anything about the Seelie Court. Vampires and werewolves I get. There are enough movies about them. But faeries are little-kid stuff. I dressed up as a faerie for Halloween when I was eight. My mom made me a hat shaped like a buttercup."

"I remember that." Simon had leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "I was a Transformer. Actually, I was a Decepticon."

"Can we get back to the point?" Magnus asked.

"Fine," Alec said. "Isabelle thinks—and I agree—that it's not a good idea to ignore the Fair Folk. If they want to talk, what harm can it do? Besides, if the Seelie Court were on our side, the Clave would have to listen to what we have to say."

Jace laughed without any humor. "The Fair Folk don't help humans."

"Shadowhunters are not human," Clary said. "Not really."

"We are not much better to them," said Jace.

"They can't be worse than vampires," Simon muttered. "And you did all right with them."

Jace looked at Simon as if he were something he'd found growing under the sink. "Did all right with them? By which I take it you mean we survived?"

"Well…"

"Faeries," Jace went on, as if Simon hadn't spoken, "are the offspring of demons and angels, with the beauty of angels and the viciousness of demons. A vampire might attack you, if you entered its domain, but a faerie could make you dance until you died with your legs ground down into stumps, trick you into a midnight swim and drag you screaming underwater until your lungs burst, fill your eyes with faerie dust until you gouged them out at the roots—"

"Jace!" Clary snapped, cutting him off mid-rant. "Shut up. Jesus. That's enough."

"Look, it's easy to outsmart a werewolf or a vampire," Jace said. "They're no smarter than anyone else. But faeries live for hundreds of years and they're as cunning as snakes. They can't lie, but they love to engage in creative truth-telling. They'll find out whatever it is you want most in the world and give it to you—with a sting in the tail of the gift that will make you regret you ever wanted it in the first place." He sighed. "They're not really about helping people. More about harm disguised as help."

"And you don't think we're smart enough to know the difference?" asked Simon.

"I don't think you're smart enough not to get turned into a rat by accident."

Simon glared at him. "I don't see that it matters what you think we should do," he said. "Considering that you can't go with us in the first place. You can't go anywhere."

Jace stood up, knocking his chair back violently. "You are not taking Clary to the Seelie Court without me and that is final!"

Clary stared at him with her mouth open. He was flushed with anger, teeth gritted, veins corded in his neck. He was also avoiding looking at her.

"I can take care of Clary," Alec said, and there was hurt in his voice—whether because Jace had doubted his abilities or because of something else, Clary wasn't sure.

"Alec," said Jace, his eyes locked with his friend's. "No. You can't."

Alec swallowed. "We're going," he said. He spoke the words like an apology. "Jace—a request from the Seelie Court—it would be stupid to ignore it. Besides, Isabelle's probably already told them we're coming."

"There is no chance I'm going to let you do this, Alec," Jace said in a dangerous voice. "I'll wrestle you to the ground if I have to."

"While that does sound tempting," said Magnus, flipping his long silk sleeves back, "there is another way."

"What other way? This is a directive from the Clave. I can't just weasel out of it."

"But I can." Magnus grinned. "Never doubt my weaseling abilities, Shadowhunter, for they are epic and memorable in their scope. I specifically enchanted the contract with the Inquisitor so that I could let you go for a short time if I desired, as long as another of the Nephilim was willing to take your place."

"Where are we going to find another—Oh," Alec said meekly. "You mean me."

Jace's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, now you don't want to go to the Seelie Court?"

Alec flushed. "I think it's more important for you to go than me. You're Valentine's son, I'm sure you're the one the Queen really wants to see. Besides, you're charming."

Jace glared at him.

"Maybe not at the moment," Alec amended. "But you're usually charming. And faeries are very susceptible to charm."

"Plus, if you stay here, I've got the whole first season of Gilligan's Island on DVD," Magnus said.

"No one could turn that down," said Jace. He still wouldn't look at Clary.

"Isabelle can meet you in the park by Turtle Pond," said Alec. "She knows the secret entrance to the Court. She'll be waiting."

"And one last thing," Magnus said, jabbing a ringed finger at Jace. "Try not to get yourself killed in the Seelie Court. If you die, I'll have a lot of explaining to do."

At that, Jace broke into a grin. It was an unsettling grin, less a flash of amusement than the gleam of an unsheathed blade. "You know," he said, "I have a feeling that that's going to be the case whether I get myself killed or not."

Thick tendrils of moss and plants surrounded the rim of Turtle Pond like a bordering of green lace. The surface of the water was still, rippled here and there in the wake of drifting ducks, or dimpled by the silvery flick of a fish's tail.

There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for someone to ride up and rescue her.

Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time. This made Isabelle a hard person to like, though Clary was trying.

"Izzy," said Jace, as they neared the pond, and she jumped up and spun around. Her smile was dazzling.

"Jace!" She flew at him and hugged him. Now that was the way sisters were supposed to act, Clary thought. Not all stiff and weird and peculiar, but happy and loving. Watching Jace hug Isabelle, she tried to school her features into a happy and loving expression.

"Are you all right?" Simon asked, with some concern. "Your eyes are crossing."

"I'm fine." Clary abandoned the attempt.

"Are you sure? You looked sort of… contorted."

"Something I ate."

Isabelle drifted over, Jace a pace behind her. She was wearing a long black dress with boots and an even longer cutaway coat of soft green velvet, the color of moss. "I can't believe you did it!" she exclaimed. "How did you get Magnus to let Jace leave?"

"Traded him for Alec," Clary said.

Isabelle looked mildly alarmed. "Not permanently?"

"No," said Jace. "Just for a few hours. Unless I don't come back," he added thoughtfully. "In which case, maybe he does get to keep Alec. Think of it as a lease with an option to buy."

Isabelle looked dubious. "Mom and Dad won't be pleased if they find out."

"That you freed a possible criminal by trading away your brother to a warlock who looks like a gay Sonic the Hedgehog and dresses like the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" Simon inquired. "No, probably not."

Jace looked at him thoughtfully. "Is there some particular reason that you're here? I'm not so sure we should be bringing you to the Seelie Court. They hate mundanes."

Simon rolled his eyes upward. "Not this again."

"Not what again?" said Clary.

"Every time I annoy him, he retreats into his No Mundanes Allowed tree house." Simon pointed at Jace. "Let me remind you, the last time you wanted to leave me behind, I saved all your lives."

"Sure," said Jace. "One time—"

"The faerie courts are dangerous," cut in Isabelle. "Even your skill with the bow won't help you. It's not that kind of danger."

"I can take care of myself," said Simon. A sharp wind had come up. It blew drying leaves across the gravel at their feet and made Simon shiver. He dug his hands into the wool-lined pockets of his jacket.

"You don't have to come," Clary said.

He looked at her, a steady, measured look. She remembered him back at Luke's, calling her my girlfriend with no measure of doubt or indecision. Whatever else you could say about Simon, he knew what he wanted. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

Jace made a noise under his breath. "Then I suppose we're ready," he said. "Don't expect any special consideration, mundane."

"Look on the bright side," said Simon. "If they need a human sacrifice, you can always offer me. I'm not sure the rest of you qualify anyway."

Jace brightened. "It's always nice when someone volunteers to be the first up against the wall."

"Come on," Isabelle said. "The door is about to open."

Clary glanced around. The sun had set completely and the moon was up, a wedge of creamy white casting its reflection onto the pond. It wasn't quite full, but shadowed at one edge, giving it the look of a half-lidded eye. Night wind rattled the tree branches, knocking them against one another with a sound like hollow bones.

"Where do we go?" Clary asked. "Where's the door?"

Isabelle's smile was like a whispered secret. "Follow me."

She moved down to the edge of the water, her boots leaving deep impressions in the wet mud. Clary followed, glad she was wearing jeans and not a skirt as Isabelle hiked her coat and dress up over her knees, leaving her slim white legs bare above her boots. Her skin was covered in Marks like licks of black fire.

Simon, behind her, swore as he slipped in the mud; Jace moved automatically to steady him as they all turned. Simon jerked his arm back. "I don't need your help."

"Stop it." Isabelle tapped a booted foot in the shallow water at the lake's edge. "Both of you. In fact, all three of you. If we don't stick together in the Seelie Court, we're dead."

"But I haven't—," Clary started.

"Maybe you haven't, but the way you let those two act…" Isabelle indicated the boys with a disdainful wave of her hand.

"I can't tell them what to do!"

"Why not?" the other girl demanded. "Honestly, Clary, if you don't start utilizing a bit of your natural feminine superiority, I just don't know what I'll do with you." She turned toward the pond, then spun around again. "And lest I forget," she added sternly, "for the love of the Angel, don't eat or drink anything while we're underground, any of you. Okay?"

"Underground?" said Simon worriedly. "Nobody said anything about underground."

Isabelle threw up her hands and splashed out into the pond. Her green velvet coat swirled out around her like an enormous lily pad. "Come on. We only have until the moon moves."

The moon what? Shaking her head, Clary stepped out into the pond. The water was shallow and clear; in the bright starlight, she could see the black shapes of tiny darting fish moving past her ankles. She gritted her teeth as she waded farther out into the pond. The cold was intense.

Behind her, Jace moved out into the water with a contained grace that barely rippled the surface. Simon, behind him, was splashing and cursing. Isabelle, having reached the center of the pond, paused there, up to her rib cage in water. She held out her hand toward Clary. "Stop."

Clary stopped. Just in front of her, the reflection of the moon glimmered atop the water like a huge silvery dinner plate. Some part of her knew that it didn't work like this; the moon was supposed to move away from you as you approached, ever receding. But here it was, hovering just on the surface of the water as if it were anchored in place.

"Jace, you go first," Isabelle said, and beckoned him. "Come on."

He brushed past Clary, smelling of wet leather and char. She saw him smile as he turned, and then he stepped backward into the reflection of the moon—and vanished.

"Okay," said Simon unhappily. "Okay, that was weird."

Clary glanced back at him. He was only hip-deep in water, but he was shivering, his hands hugging his elbows. She smiled at him and took a step backward, feeling a shock of icier cold when she moved into the shimmering silver reflection. She teetered for a moment, as if she'd lost her balance on the highest rung of a ladder—and then fell backward into darkness as the moon swallowed her up.

She hit packed earth, stumbled, and felt a hand on her arm, steadying her. It was Jace. "Easy does it," he said, and let her go.

She was soaking wet, rivulets of cold water running down the back of her shirt, her damp hair clinging to her face. Her drenched clothes felt as if they weighed a ton.

They were in a hollowed-out dirt corridor, illuminated by faintly glowing moss. A tangle of dangling vines formed a curtain at one end of the corridor and long, hairy tendrils hung like dead snakes from the ceiling. Tree roots, Clary realized. They were underground. And it was cold down here, cold enough to make her breath puff out in an icy mist when she exhaled.

"Cold?" Jace was soaking wet too, his light hair almost colorless where it stuck to his cheeks and forehead. Water ran from his wet jeans and jacket, and made the white shirt he was wearing transparent. She could see the dark lines of his permanent Marks through it and the faint scar on his shoulder.

She looked away quickly. Water clung to her lashes, blurring her vision like tears. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." He moved closer, and she could feel the warmth of him even through his wet clothes and hers, thawing her icy skin.

A dark shape hurtled by, just out of the corner of her eye, and hit the ground with a thud. It was Simon, also soaking wet. He rolled onto his knees and looked around frantically. "My glasses—"

"I've got them." Clary was used to retrieving Simon's glasses for him during soccer games. They always seemed to fall just under his feet, where they were inevitably stepped on. "Here you go."

He slid them on, scraping dirt off the lenses. "Thanks."

Clary could feel Jace watching them, feel his gaze like a weight on her shoulders. She wondered if Simon could too. He stood up with a frown, just as Isabelle dropped out of the heavens, landing gracefully on her feet. Water ran from her long, streaming hair and weighed down her heavy velvet coat, but she barely seemed to notice. "Oooh, that was fun."

"That does it," said Jace. "I'm going to get you a dictionary for Christmas this year."

"Why?" Isabelle said.

"So you can look up 'fun.' I'm not sure you know what it means."

Isabelle pulled the long heavy mass of her wet hair forward and wrung it out as if it were wet washing. "You're raining on my parade."

"It's a pretty wet parade already, if you hadn't noticed." Jace glanced around. "Now what? Which way do we go?"

"Neither way," said Isabelle. "We wait here, and they come and get us."

Clary was not impressed by this suggestion. "How do they know we're here? Is there a doorbell we have to ring or something?"

"The Court knows all that happens in their lands. Our presence won't go unnoticed."

Simon looked at her with suspicion. "And how do you know so much about faeries and the Seelie Court, anyway?"

Isabelle, to everyone's surprise, blushed. A moment later the curtain of vines was drawn aside and a faerie stepped through it, shaking back his long hair. Clary had seen some of the fey before at Magnus's party and had been struck by both their cold beauty and a certain wild unearthliness they possessed even when they were dancing and drinking. This faerie was no exception: His hair fell in blue-black sheets around a cool, sharp, lovely face; his eyes were green as vines or moss and there was the shape of a leaf, either a birthmark or tattoo, across one of his cheekbones. He wore an armor of a silvery brown like the bark of trees in winter, and when he moved, the armor flashed a multitude of colors: peat black, moss green, ash gray, sky blue.

Isabelle gave a cry and jumped into his arms. "Meliorn!"

"Ah," said Simon, quietly and not without amusement, "so that's how she knows."

The faerie—Meliorn—looked down at her gravely, then detached her and set her gently aside. "This is not a time for affection," he said. "The Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an audience with the three Nephilim among you. Will you come?"

Clary put a protective hand on Simon's shoulder. "What about our friend?"

Meliorn looked impassive. "Mundane humans are not permitted in the Court."

"I wish someone had mentioned that earlier," said Simon, to no one in particular. "I take it I'm just supposed to wait out here until vines start growing on me?"

Meliorn considered. "That might offer significant amusement."

"Simon's not an ordinary mundane. He can be trusted," Jace said, startling them all, and Simon more than the rest. Clary could tell Simon was surprised because he stared at Jace without offering a single smart remark. "He has fought many battles with us."

"By which you mean one battle," muttered Simon. "Two if you count the one where I was a rat."

"We will not enter the Seelie Court without Simon," Clary said, her hand still on Simon's shoulder. "Your Queen requested this audience with us, remember? It wasn't our idea to come here."

There was a spark of dark amusement in Meliorn's green eyes. "As you wish," he said. "Let it not be said that the Seelie Court does not respect the desires of its guests." He spun on a perfectly booted heel and began to lead them down the corridor without pausing to see if they were following him. Isabelle hurried to walk alongside him, leaving Jace, Clary, and Simon to follow the two of them in silence.

"Are you allowed to date faeries?" Clary asked finally. "Would your—would the Lightwoods be cool with Isabelle and whatshisname—"

"Meliorn," put in Simon.

"—Meliorn going out?"

"I'm not sure they're going out," Jace said, weighting the last two words with a heavy irony. "I'd guess they mostly stay in. Or in this case, under."

"You sound like you disapprove." Simon pushed a tree root aside. They had moved from a dirt-walled corridor to one lined with smooth stones, only the occasional root snaking down between the stones from above. The floor was some kind of polished hard stuff, not marble but stone veined and flaked with lines of shimmering material like powdered jewels.

"I don't disapprove exactly," said Jace. "The faeries are known to dally with the occasional mortal, but they always end in abandoning them, usually the worse for wear."

His words sent a shiver down Clary's spine. At that moment Isabelle laughed, and Clary could see now why Jace had dropped his voice, because the stone walls threw Isabelle's voice back to them amplified and echoing so that Isabelle's laughter seemed to bounce off the walls.

"You're so funny!" She tripped as the heel of her boot caught between two stones, and Meliorn caught and righted her without changing expression.

"I do not understand how you humans can walk in shoes that are that tall."

"It's my motto," said Isabelle, with a sultry smile. " 'Nothing less than seven inches.' "

Meliorn gazed at her stonily.

"I'm talking about my heels," she said. "It's a pun. You know? A play on—"

"Come," the faerie knight said. "The Queen will be growing impatient." He headed down the corridor without giving Isabelle a second glance.

"I forgot," Isabelle muttered as the rest of them caught up to her. "Faeries have no sense of humor."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Jace. "There's a pixie nightclub downtown called Hot Wings. Not," he added, "that I have ever been there."

Simon looked at Jace, opened his mouth as if he intended to ask him a question, then seemed to think better of it. He closed his mouth with a snap just as the corridor opened out into a wide room whose floor was packed dirt and whose walls were lined with high stone pillars twined all over with vines and bright flowers bursting with color. Thin cloths were hung between the pillars, dyed a soft blue that was almost the exact hue of the sky. The room was filled with light, though Clary could see no torches, and the overall effect was of a summer pavilion in bright sunshine rather than a dirt and stone room underground.

Clary's first impression was that she was outside; her second was that the room was full of people. There was a strange sweet music playing, flawed with sweet-sour notes, a sort of aural equivalent of honey mixed with lemon juice, and there was a circle of faeries dancing to the music, their feet barely seeming to skim the floor. Their hair—blue, black, brown and scarlet, metal gold and ice white—flew like banners.

She could see why they were called the Fair Folk, for they were fair indeed with their pale lovely faces, their wings of lilac and gold and blue—how could she have believed Jace that they meant to harm her? The music that had jarred her ears at first now sounded only sweet. She felt the urge to toss her own hair and to move her own feet in the dance. The music told her that if she did that, she too would be so light that her feet would barely touch the earth. She took a step forward—

And was jerked back by a hand on her arm. Jace was glaring at her, his golden eyes bright as a cat's. "If you dance with them," he said in a low voice, "you'll dance until you die."

Clary blinked at him. She felt as if she'd been pulled out of a dream, groggy and half-awake. Her voice slurred when she spoke. "Whaaat?"

Jace made an impatient noise. He had his stele in his hand; she hadn't seen him take it out. He gripped her wrist and inscribed a quick, stinging Mark onto the skin of her inner arm. "Now look."

She looked again—and froze. The faces that had seemed so lovely to her were still lovely, yet behind them lurked something vulpine, almost feral. The girl with the pink and blue wings beckoned, and Clary saw that her fingers were made of twigs, budded with closed leaves. Her eyes were entirely black, without iris or pupil. The boy dancing next to her had poison green skin and curling horns twisting from his temples. When he turned in the dance, his coat fell open and Clary saw that beneath it, his chest was an empty rib cage. Ribbons were woven through his bare rib bones, possibly to make him look more festive. Clary's stomach lurched.

"Come on." Jace pushed her and she stumbled forward. When she regained her balance, she looked around anxiously for Simon. He was up ahead and she saw that Isabelle had a firm grip on him. This once, she didn't mind. She doubted Simon would have made it through the room on his own.

Skirting the circle of dancers, they made their way to the far end of the room and through a parted curtain of blue silk. It was a relief to be out of the room and into another corridor, this one carved from a glossy brown material like the outside of a nut. Isabelle let go of Simon and he stopped walking immediately; when Clary caught up to him, she saw that this was because Isabelle had tied her scarf across his eyes. He was fiddling with the knot when Clary reached him. "Let me get it," she said, and he went still while she untied him and handed the scarf back to Isabelle with a nod of thanks.

Simon pushed his hair back; it was damp where the scarf had held it down. "That was some music," he observed. "A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll."

Meliorn, who had paused to wait for them, frowned. "You didn't care for it?"

"I cared for it a little too much," Clary said. "What was that supposed to be, some kind of test? Or a joke?"

He shrugged. "I am used to mortals who are easily swayed by our faerie glamours; not so the Nephilim. I thought you had protections."

"She does," Jace said, meeting Meliorn's jade green gaze with his own.

Meliorn only shrugged and began walking again. Simon kept pace beside Clary for a few moments without speaking before he said, "So what did I miss? Naked dancing ladies?"

Clary thought of the male faerie's torn-open ribs and shuddered. "Nothing that pleasant."

"There are ways for a human to join the faerie revels," Isabelle, who had been eavesdropping, put in. "If they give you a token—like a leaf or a flower—to hold on to, and you keep it through the night, you'll be fine in the morning. Or if you go with a faerie for a companion…" She shot a glance at Meliorn, but he had reached a leafy screen set into the wall and paused there.

"These are the Queen's chambers," he said. "She's come from her Court in the north to see about the child's death. If there's to be war, she wants to be the one declaring it."

Up close, Clary could see that the screen was made of thickly woven vines, budded with amber droplets. He drew the vines apart and ushered them into the chamber on the other side.

Jace ducked through first, followed by Clary. She straightened up, looking around her curiously.

The room itself was plain, the earthen walls hung with pale fabric. Will-o'-the-wisps glowed in glass jars. A lovely woman reclined on a low couch surrounded by what must have been her courtiers—a motley assortment of faeries, from tiny sprites to what looked like lovely human girls with long hair… if you discounted their black, pupil-less eyes.

"My Queen," said Meliorn, bowing low. "I have brought the Nephilim to you."

The Queen sat up straight. She had long scarlet hair that seemed to float around her like autumn leaves in a breeze. Her eyes were clear blue as glass, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Three of these are Nephilim," she said. "The other is a mundane."

Meliorn seemed to shrink back, but the Queen didn't even look at him. Her gaze was on the Shadowhunters. Clary could feel the weight of it, like a touch. Despite her loveliness, there was nothing fragile about the Queen. She was as bright and hard to look at as a burning star.

"Our apologies, my lady." Jace stepped forward, putting himself between the Queen and his companions. His voice had changed its tone—there was something in the way he spoke now, something careful and delicate. "The mundane is our responsibility. We owe him protection. Therefore we keep him with us."

The Queen tilted her head to the side, like an interested bird. All her attention was on Jace now. "A blood debt?" she murmured. "To a mundane?"

"He saved my life," Jace said. Clary felt Simon stiffen beside her in surprise. She willed him not to show it. Faeries couldn't lie, Jace had said, and Jace wasn't lying, either—Simon had saved his life. That just wasn't why they'd brought him with them. Clary began to appreciate what Jace had meant by creative truth-telling. "Please, my lady. We had hoped you would understand. We had heard you were as kind as you were beautiful, and in that case—well," Jace said, "your kindness must be extreme indeed."

The Queen smirked and leaned forward, gleaming hair falling to shadow her face. "You are as charming as your father, Jonathan Morgenstern," she said, and gestured at the cushions scattered around the floor. "Come, sit beside me. Eat something. Drink. Rest yourselves. Talk is better with wet lips."

For a moment Jace looked thrown. He hesitated. Meliorn leaned over to him and spoke softly. "It would be unwise to refuse the bounty of the Queen of the Seelie Court."

Isabelle's eyes flicked toward him. Then she shrugged. "It won't hurt us just to sit down."

Meliorn led them over to a pile of silky cushions near the Queen's divan. Clary sat down cautiously, half-expecting there to be some kind of big sharp root just waiting to poke her in the behind. It seemed like the sort of thing the Queen would find amusing. But nothing happened. The cushions were very comfortable; she settled back with the others around her.

A pixie with bluish skin came toward them carrying a platter with four silver cups on it. They each took a cup of the gold-toned liquid. There were rose petals floating on the top.

Simon set his cup down beside him.

"Don't you want any?" the pixie asked.

"The last faerie drink I had didn't agree with me," he muttered.

Clary barely heard him. The drink had a heady, intoxicating scent, richer and more delicious than roses. She picked a petal out of the liquid and crushed it between her thumb and forefinger, releasing more of the scent.

Jace jostled her arm. "Don't drink any of it," he said under his breath.

"But—"

"Just don't."

She set the cup down, as Simon had done. Her finger and thumb were stained pink.

"Now," said the Queen. "Meliorn tells me you claim to know who killed our child in the park last night. Though I tell you now, it seems no mystery to me. A faerie child, drained of blood? Is it that you bring me the name of a single vampire? But all vampires are at fault here, for the breaking of the Law, and should be punished accordingly. Despite what may seem, we are not such a particular people."

"Oh, come on," said Isabelle. "It isn't vampires."

Jace shot her a look. "What Isabelle means to say is that we're almost certain that the murderer is someone else. We think he may be trying to throw suspicion on the vampires to shield himself."

"Have you proof of that?"

Jace's tone was calm, but the shoulder that brushed Clary's was tight with tension. "Last night the Silent Brothers were slaughtered as well, and none of them were drained of blood."

"And this has to do with our child, how? Dead Nephilim are a tragedy to Nephilim, but nothing to me."

Clary felt a sharp sting at her left hand. Looking down, she saw the tiny shape of a sprite darting away between the pillows. A red bead of blood had risen on her finger. She put the finger into her mouth with a wince. The sprites were cute, but they had a mean bite.

"The Soul-Sword was stolen as well," said Jace. "You know of Maellartach?"

"The sword that makes Shadowhunters tell the truth," said the Queen, with dark amusement. "We fey have no need of such an object."

"It was taken by Valentine Morgenstern," said Jace. "He killed the Silent Brothers to get it, and we think he killed the faerie as well. He needed the blood of a faerie child to effect a transformation on the Sword. To make it a tool he could use."

"And he won't stop," Isabelle added. "He needs more blood after that."

The Queen's high eyebrows were arched even higher. "More blood of the Folk?"

"No," Jace said, shooting a look at Isabelle that Clary couldn't quite interpret. "More Downworlder blood. He needs the blood of a werewolf, and a vampire—"

The Queen's eyes shone with reflected light. "That seems hardly our concern."

"He killed one of yours," Isabelle said. "Don't you want revenge?"

The Queen's gaze brushed her like a moth's wing. "Not immediately," she said. "We are a patient folk, for we have all the time in the world. Valentine Morgenstern is an old enemy of ours—but we have enemies older still. We are content to wait and watch."

"He's summoning demons to him," Jace said. "Creating an army—"

"Demons," said the Queen lightly, as her courtiers chattered behind her. "Demons are your charge, are they not, Shadowhunter? Is that not why you hold authority over us all? Because you are the ones who slay demons?"

"I'm not here to give you orders on behalf of the Clave. We came when you asked us because we thought that if you knew the truth, you'd help us."

"Is that what you thought?" The Queen sat forward in her chair, her long hair rippling and alive. "Remember, Shadowhunter, there are those of us who chafe under the rule of the Clave. Perhaps we are tired of fighting your wars for you."

"But it isn't our war alone," said Jace. "Valentine hates Downworlders more than he hates demons. If he defeats us, he'll go after you next."

The Queen's eyes bored into him.

"And when he does," said Jace, "remember that it was a Shadowhunter who warned you what was coming."

There was silence. Even the Court had fallen silent, watching their Lady. At last, the Queen leaned back on her cushions and took a swallow from a silver chalice. "Warning me about your own parent," she said. "I had thought you mortals capable of filial affection, at least, and yet you seem to feel no loyalty toward Valentine your father."

Jace said nothing. He seemed, for a change, lost for words.

Sweetly, the Queen went on, "Or perhaps this hostility of yours is the pretense. Love does make liars out of your kind."

"But we don't love our father," said Clary, as Jace remained frighteningly silent. "We hate him."

"Do you?" The Queen looked almost bored.

"You know how the bonds of family are, my lady," said Jace, recovering his voice. "They cling as tightly as vines. And sometimes, like vines, they cling tightly enough to kill." The Queen's lashes fluttered.

"You would betray your own father for the sake of the Clave?"

"Even so, Lady."

She laughed, a sound as bright and cold as icicles. "Who would have thought," she said, "that Valentine's little experiments would turn on him?"

Clary looked at Jace, but she could see by the expression on his face that he had no idea what the Queen meant. It was Isabelle who spoke. "Experiments?"

The Queen didn't even glance at her. Her gaze, a luminous blue, was fixed on Jace. "The Fair Folk are a people of secrets," she said. "Our own, and others'. Ask your father, when next you see him, what blood runs in your veins, Jonathan."

"I hadn't planned on asking him anything next time I see him," Jace said. "But if you desire it, my lady, it will be done."

The Queen's lips curved into a smile. "I think you are a liar. But what a charming one. Charming enough that I will swear you this: Ask your father that question, and I will promise you what aid is in my power, should you strike against Valentine." Jace smiled. "Your generosity is as remarkable as your loveliness, Lady." Clary made a gagging noise, but the Queen looked pleased. "And I think we're done here now," Jace added, rising from the cushions. He'd set his untouched drink down earlier, beside Isabelle's. They all rose after him. Isabelle was already talking to Meliorn in the corner, by the vine door. He looked slightly hunted.

"A moment." The Queen rose. "One of you must remain."

Jace paused halfway to the door, and turned to face her. "What do you mean?"

She stretched out one hand to indicate Clary. "Once our food or drink passes mortal lips, the mortal is ours. You know that, Shadowhunter."

Clary was stunned. "But I didn't drink any of it!" She turned to Jace. "She's lying."

"Faeries don't lie," he said, confusion and dawning anxiety chasing each other across his face. He turned back to the Queen. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lady."

"Look to her fingers and tell me she didn't lick them clean."

Simon and Isabelle were staring now. Clary glanced down at her hand. "Of blood," she said. "One of the sprites bit my finger—it was bleeding—" She remembered the sweet taste of the blood, mixed with the juice on her finger. Panicked, she moved toward the vine door, and stopped as what felt like invisible hands shoved her back into the room. She turned to Jace, stricken. "It's true."

Jace's face was flushed. "I suppose I should have expected a trick like that," he said to the Queen, his previous flirtatiousness gone. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?"

The Queen's voice was soft as spider's fur. "Perhaps I am only curious," she said. "It is not often I have young Shadowhunters so close within my purview. Like us, you trace your ancestry to heaven; that intrigues me."

"But unlike you," said Jace, "there is nothing of hell in us."

"You are mortal; you age; you die," the Queen said dismissively. "If that is not hell, pray tell me, what is?"

"If you just want to study a Shadowhunter, I won't be much use to you," Clary cut in. Her hand ached where the sprite had bitten it, and she fought the urge to scream or burst into tears. "I don't know anything about Shadowhunting. I hardly have any training. I'm the wrong person to pick." On, she added silently.

For the first time the Queen looked directly at her. Clary wanted to shrink back. "In truth, Clarissa Morgenstern, you are precisely the right person." Her eyes gleamed as she took in Clary's discomfiture. "Thanks to the changes your father worked in you, you are not like other Shadowhunters. Your gifts are different."

"My gifts?" Clary was bewildered.

"Yours is the gift of words that cannot be spoken," the Queen said to her, "and your brother's is the Angel's own gift. Your father made sure of it, when your brother was a child and before you were ever born."

"My father never gave me anything," Clary said. "He didn't even give me a name."

Jace looked as blank as Clary felt. "While the Fair Folk do not lie," he said, "they can be lied to. I think you have been the victim of a trick or joke, my lady. There is nothing special about myself or my sister."

"How deftly you downplay your charms," said the Queen with a laugh. "Though you must know you are not of the usual sort of human boy, Jonathan…" She looked from Clary to Jace to Isabelle—Isabelle closed her mouth, which had been wide open, with a snap—and back at Jace again. "Could it be that you do not know?" she murmured.

"I know that I will not leave my sister here in your Court," said Jace, "and since there is nothing to be learned from either her or myself, perhaps you could do us the favor of releasing her?" Now that you've had your fun? his eyes said, though his voice was polite and cool as water.

The Queen's smile was wide and terrible. "What if I told you she could be freed by a kiss?"

"You want Jace to kiss you?" Clary said, bewildered.

The Queen burst out laughing, and immediately, the courtiers copied her mirth. The laughter was a bizarre and inhuman mix of hoots, squeaks, and cackles, like the high shrieking of animals in pain.

"Despite his charms," the Queen said, "that kiss will not free the girl."

The four looked at each other, startled. "I could kiss Meliorn," suggested Isabelle.

"Nor that. Nor any one of my Court."

Meliorn moved away from Isabelle, who looked at her companions and threw up her hands. "I'm not kissing any of you," she said firmly. "Just so it's official."

"That hardly seems necessary," Simon said. "If a kiss is all…"

He moved toward Clary, who was frozen in surprise. When he took her by the elbows, she had to fight the urge to push him away. Not that she hadn't kissed Simon before, but this would have been a peculiar situation even if kissing him were something she was entirely comfortable doing, which it wasn't. And yet it was the logical answer, wasn't it? Without being able to help it, she cast a quick look over her shoulder at Jace and saw him scowl.

"No," said the Queen, in a voice like tinkling crystal. "That is not what I want either."

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the Angel's sake. Look, if there's no other way of getting out of this, I'll kiss Simon. I've done it before, it wasn't that bad."

"Thanks," said Simon. "That's very flattering."

"Alas," said the Queen of the Seelie Court. Her expression was sharp with a sort of cruel delight, and Clary wondered if it weren't a kiss she wanted so much as simply to watch them all squirm in discomfort. "I'm afraid that won't do either."

"Well, I'm not kissing the mundane," said Jace. "I'd rather stay down here and rot."

"Forever?" said Simon. "Forever's an awfully long time."

Jace raised his eyebrows. "I knew it," he said. "You want to kiss me, don't you?"

Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. "Of course not. But if—"

"I guess it's true what they say," observed Jace. "There are no straight men in the trenches."

"That's atheists, jackass," said Simon furiously. "There are no atheists in the trenches."

"While this is all very amusing," said the Queen coolly, leaning forward, "the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires." The cruel delight in her face and voice had sharpened, and her words seemed to stab into Clary's ears like needles. "Only that and nothing more."

Simon looked as if she had hit him. Clary wanted to reach out to him, but she stood frozen to the spot, too horrified to move.

"Why are you doing this?" Jace demanded.

"I rather thought I was offering you a boon."

Jace flushed, but said nothing. He avoided looking at Clary.

Simon said, "That's ridiculous. They're brother and sister."

The Queen shrugged, a delicate twitch of her shoulders. "Desire is not always lessened by disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn't desire his kiss, she won't be free."

Simon said something angrily, but Clary didn't hear him: Her ears were buzzing, as if a swarm of angry bees were trapped inside her head. Simon whirled around, looking furious, and said, "You don't have to do this, Clary, it's a trick—"

"Not a trick," said Jace. "A test."

"Well, I don't know about you, Simon," said Isabelle, her voice edged. "But I'd like to get Clary out of here."

"Like you'd kiss Alec," Simon said, "just because the Queen of the Seelie Court asked you to?"

"Sure I would." Isabelle sounded annoyed. "If the other option was being stuck in the Seelie Court forever? Who cares, anyway? It's just a kiss."

"That's right." It was Jace. Clary saw him, at the blurred edge of her vision, as he moved toward her and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. "It's just a kiss," he said, and though his tone was harsh, his hands were inexplicably gentle. She let him turn her, looked up at him. His eyes were very dark, perhaps because it was so dim down here in the Court, perhaps because of something else. She could see her reflection in each of his dilated pupils, a tiny image of herself inside his eyes. He said, "You can close your eyes and think of England, if you like."

"I've never even been to England," she said, but she shut her eyelids. She could feel the dank heaviness of her clothes, cold and itchy against her skin, and the cloying sweet air of the cave, colder yet, and the weight of Jace's hands on her shoulders, the only things that were warm. And then he kissed her.

She felt the brush of his lips, light at first, and her own opened automatically beneath the pressure. Almost against her will she felt herself go fluid and pliant, stretching upward to twine her arms around his neck the way that a sunflower twists toward light. His arms slid around her, his hands knotting in her hair, and the kiss stopped being gentle and became fierce, all in a single moment like tinder flaring into a blaze. Clary heard a sound like a sigh rush through the Court, all around them, a wave of noise, but it meant nothing, was lost in the rush of her blood through her veins, the dizzying sense of weightlessness in her body.

Jace's hands moved from her hair, slid down her spine; she felt the hard press of his palms against her shoulder blades—and then he pulled away, gently disengaging himself, drawing her hands away from his neck and stepping back. For a moment Clary thought she might fall; she felt as if something essential had been torn away from her, an arm or a leg, and she stared at Jace in blank astonishment—what did he feel, did he feel nothing? She didn't think she could bear it if he felt nothing.

He looked back at her, and when she saw the look on his face, she saw his eyes at Renwick's, when he had watched the Portal that separated him from his home shatter into a thousand irretrievable pieces. He held her gaze for a split second, then looked away from her, the muscles in his throat working. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. "Was that good enough?" he called, turning to face the Queen and the courtiers behind her. "Did that entertain you?"

The Queen had a hand across her mouth, half-covering a smile. "We are quite entertained," she said. "But not, I think, so much as the both of you."

"I can only assume," said Jace, "that mortal emotions amuse you because you have none of your own."

The smile slipped from her mouth at that.

"Easy, Jace," said Isabelle. She turned to Clary. "Can you leave now? Are you free?"

Clary went to the door and was not surprised to find no resistance barring her way. She stood with her hand among the vines and turned to Simon. He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"We should go," she said. "Before it's too late."

"It's already too late," he said.

Meliorn led them from the Seelie Court and deposited them back in the park, all without speaking a single word. Clary thought his back looked stiff and disapproving. He turned away after they'd splashed out of the pond, without even a good-bye for Isabelle, and disappeared back into the wavering reflection of the moon.

Isabelle watched him go with a scowl. "He is so broken up with."

Jace made a sound like a choked laugh and flipped the collar of his wet jacket up. They were all shivering. The cold night smelled like dirt and plants and human modernity—Clary almost thought she could scent the iron on the air. The ring of city surrounding the park sparked with fierce lights: ice blue, cool green, hot red, and the pond lapped quietly against its dirt shores. The moon's reflection had moved to the pond's far edge and quivered there as if it were afraid of them.

"We'd better get back." Isabelle drew her still-wet coat closer around her shoulders. "Before we freeze to death."

"It's going to take forever to get back to Brooklyn," Clary said. "Maybe we should take a taxi."

"Or we could just go to the Institute," suggested Isabelle. At Jace's look, she said quickly, "No one's there anyway—they're all in the Bone City, looking for clues. It'll just take a second to stop by and grab your clothes, change into something dry. Besides, the Institute is still your home, Jace."

"It's fine," Jace said, to Isabella's evident surprise. "There's something I need from my room there anyway."

Clary hesitated. "I don't know. I might just grab a cab back with Simon." Maybe if they spent a little time alone together, she could explain to him what had happened down in the Seelie Court, and that it wasn't what he thought.

Jace had been examining his watch for water damage. Now he looked at her, eyebrows raised. "That might be a little difficult," he said, "seeing that he left already."

"He what?" Clary whirled around and stared. Simon was gone; the three of them were alone by the pond. She ran a little way up the hill and shouted his name. In the distance, she could just see him, striding purposefully away along the concrete path that led out of the park and onto the avenue. She called out to him again, but he didn't turn around.

9 And Death Shall Have No Dominion

Isabelle had been telling the truth: The Institute was entirely deserted. Almost entirely, anyway. Max was asleep on the red couch in the foyer when they came in. His glasses were slightly askew and he clearly hadn't meant to fall asleep: There was a book open on the floor where he'd dropped it and his sneakered feet dangled over the couch's edge in a manner that looked as if it were probably uncomfortable.

Clary's heart went out to him immediately. He reminded her of Simon at the age of nine or ten, all glasses and awkward blinking and ears.

"Max is like a cat. He can sleep anywhere." Jace reached down and plucked the glasses from Max's face, setting them down on a squat inlaid table nearby. There was a look on his face Clary had never seen before—a fierce protective gentleness that surprised her.

"Oh, leave his stuff alone—you'll just get mud on it," said Isabelle crossly, unbuttoning her wet coat. Her dress clung to her long torso and water darkened the thick leather belt around her waist. The glitter of her coiled whip was just visible where the handle protruded from the edge of the belt. She was frowning. "I can feel a cold coming on," she said. "I'm going to take a hot shower."

Jace watched her disappear down the corridor with a sort of reluctant admiration. "Sometimes she reminds me of the poem. 'Isabelle, Isabelle, didn't worry. Isabelle didn't scream or scurry—' "

"Do you ever feel like screaming?" Clary asked him.

"Some of the time." Jace shrugged off his wet coat and hung it on the peg next to Isabelle's. "She's right about the hot shower, though. I could certainly use one."

"I don't have anything to change into," Clary said, suddenly wanting a few moments to herself. Her fingers itched to dial Simon's number on her cell phone, find out if he was all right. "I'll just wait for you here."

"Don't be stupid. I'll lend you a T-shirt." His jeans were soaked and hung low on his hipbones, showing a strip of pale, tattooed skin between the denim and the edge of his T-shirt.

Clary looked away. "I don't think—"

"Come on." His tone was firm. "There's something I want to show you, anyway."

Surreptitiously, Clary checked the screen on her phone as she followed Jace down the hall to his room. Simon hadn't tried to call. Ice seemed to crystallize inside her chest. Until two weeks ago, it had been years since she and Simon had had a fight. Now he seemed to be mad at her all the time.

Jace's room was just as she remembered it: neat as a pin and bare as a monk's cell. There was nothing about the room that told you anything about Jace: no posters on the walls, no books stacked on the night table. Even the duvet on the bed was plain white.

He went to the dresser and pulled a folded long-sleeved blue T-shirt out of a drawer. He tossed it to Clary. "That one shrank in the wash," he said. "It'll probably still be big on you, but…" He shrugged. "I'm going to shower. Yell if you need anything."

She nodded, holding the shirt across her chest as if it were a shield. He looked as if he were about to say something else, but apparently thought better of it; with another shrug, he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

Clary sank down onto the bed, the shirt across her lap, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She dialed Simon's number. After four rings, it went to voice mail. "Hi, you've reached Simon. Either I'm away from the phone or I'm avoiding you. Leave me a message and—"

"What are you doing?"

Jace stood in the open doorway of the bathroom. Water ran loudly in the shower behind him and the bathroom was half full of steam. He was shirtless and barefoot, damp jeans riding low on his hips, showing the deep indentations above his hipbones, as if someone had pressed their fingers to the skin there.

Clary snapped her phone closed and dropped it onto the bed. "Nothing. Checking the time."

"There's a clock next to the bed," Jace pointed out. "You were calling the mundane, weren't you?"

"His name is Simon." Clary wadded Jace's shirt into a ball between her fists. "And you don't have to be such a bastard about him all the time. He's helped you out more than once." Jace's eyes were lidded, thoughtful. The bathroom was rapidly filling with steam, making his hair curl more.

He said, "And now you feel guilty because he's run off. I wouldn't bother calling him. I'm sure he's avoiding you."

Clary didn't try to keep the anger out of her voice. "And you know this because you and he are so close?"

"I know it because I saw the look on his face before he took off," Jace said. "You didn't. You weren't looking at him. But I was."

Clary raked her still-dank hair out of her eyes. Her clothes itched where they clung to her skin, and she suspected she smelled like the bottom of a pond, and she couldn't stop seeing Simon's face when he'd looked at her in the Seelie Court—as if he hated her. "It's your fault," she said suddenly, rage gathering around her heart. "You shouldn't have kissed me like that."

He had been leaning against the door frame; now he stood up straight. "How should I have kissed you? Is there another way you like it?"

"No." Her hands trembled in her lap. They were cold, white, wrinkled by water. She laced her fingers together to stop the shaking. "I just don't want to be kissed by you."

"It didn't seem to me that either of us had a choice in the matter."

"That's what I don't understand!" Clary burst out. "Why did she make you kiss me? The Queen, I mean. Why force us to do—that? What pleasure could she possibly have gotten out of it?"

"You heard what the Queen said. She thought she was doing me a favor."

"That's not true."

"It is true. How many times do I have to tell you? The Fair Folk don't lie."

Clary thought of what Jace had said back at Magnus's. They'll find out whatever it is you want most in the world and give it to you—with a sting in the tail of the gift that will make you regret you ever wanted it in the first place. "Then she was wrong."

"She wasn't wrong." Jace's tone was bitter. "She saw the way I looked at you, and you at me, and Simon at you, and she played us like the instruments we are to her."

"I don't look at you," Clary whispered.

"What?"

"I said, I don't look at you." She released the hands that had been clasped together in her lap. There were red marks where her fingers had gripped each other. "At least I try not to."

His eyes were narrowed, just a glint of gold showing through the lashes, and she remembered the first time she had seen him and how he had reminded her of a lion, golden and deadly. "Why not?"

"Why do you think?" Her words were almost soundless, barely a whisper.

"Then why?" His voice shook. "Why all this with Simon, why keep pushing me away, not letting me near you—"

"Because it's impossible," she said, and the last word came out as a sort of wail, despite her efforts at control. "You know that as well as I do!"

"Because you're my sister," Jace said.

She nodded without speaking.

"Possibly," said Jace. "And because of that, you've decided your old friend Simon makes a useful distraction?"

"It's not like that," she said. "I love Simon."

"Like you love Luke," said Jace. "Like you love your mother."

"No." Her voice was as cold and pointed as an icicle. "Don't tell me what I feel."

A small muscle jumped at the side of his mouth. "I don't believe you."

Clary stood up. She couldn't meet his eyes, so instead she fixed her gaze on the thin star-shaped scar on his right shoulder, a memory of some old injury. This life of scars and killing, Hodge had said once. You have no part in it. "Jace," she said. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because you're lying to me. And you're lying to yourself." Jace's eyes were blazing, and even though his hands were stuffed into his pockets, she could see that they were knotted into fists.

Something inside Clary cracked and broke, and words came pouring out. "What do you want me to tell you? The truth? The truth is that I love Simon like I should love you, and I wish he was my brother and you weren't, but I can't do anything about that and neither can you! Or do you have some ideas, since you're so goddamned smart?"

Jace sucked a breath in, and she realized he had never expected her to say what she'd just said, not in a million years. The look on his face said as much.

She scrambled to regain her composure. "Jace, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No. You're not sorry. Don't be sorry." He moved toward her, almost tripping over his feet—Jace, who never stumbled, never tripped over anything, never made an ungraceful move. His hands came up to cup her face; she felt the warmth of his fingertips, millimeters from her skin; knew she ought to pull away, but stood frozen, staring up at him. "You don't understand," he said. His voice shook. "I've never felt this way about anyone. I didn't think I could. I thought—the way I grew up—my father—"

"To love is to destroy," she said numbly. "I remember."

"I thought that part of my heart was broken," he said, and there was a look on his face as he spoke as if he were surprised to hear himself saying these words, saying my heart. "Forever. But you—"

"Jace. Don't." She reached up and covered his hand with hers, folding his fingers into her own. "It's pointless."

"That's not true." There was desperation in his voice. "If we both feel the same way—"

"It doesn't matter what we feel. There's nothing we can do." She heard her voice as if a stranger were speaking: remote, miserable. "Where would we go to be together? How could we live?"

"We could keep it a secret."

"People would find out. And I don't want to lie to my family, do you?"

His reply was bitter. "What family? The Lightwoods hate me anyway."

"No, they don't. And I could never tell Luke. And my mother, what if she woke up, what would we say to her? This, what we want, it would be sickening to everyone we care about—"

"Sickening?" He dropped his hands from her face as if she'd pushed him away. He sounded stunned. "What we feel—what I feel—it's sickening to you?"

She caught her breath at the look on his face. "Maybe," she said, in a whisper. "I don't know."

"Then you should have said that to begin with."

"Jace—"

But he was gone from her, his expression shut and locked like a door. It was hard to believe he'd ever looked at her another way. "I'm sorry I said anything, then." His voice was stiff, formal. "I won't be kissing you again. You can count on that."

Clary's heart did a slow, purposeless somersault as he moved away from her, plucked a towel off the top of the dresser, and headed back toward the bathroom. "But—Jace, what are you doing?"

"Finishing my shower. And if you've made me run through all the hot water, I'll be very annoyed." He stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Clary collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was as blank as Jace's face had been before he turned his back on her. Rolling over, she realized she was lying on top of his blue shirt: It even smelled like him, like soap and smoke and coppery blood. Curling around it like she'd once curled around her favorite blanket when she was very small, she closed her eyes.

In the dream, she looked down on shimmering water, spread out below her like an endless mirror that reflected the night sky. And like a mirror, it was solid and hard, and she could walk on it. She walked, smelling night air and wet leaves and the smell of the city, glittering in the far distance like a faerie castle wreathed in lights—and where she walked, spiderwebbing cracks fissured out from her footsteps and slivers of glass splashed up like water.

The sky began to shine. It was alight with points of fire, like burning match tips. They fell, a rain of hot coals from the sky, and she cowered, throwing up her arms. One fell just in front of her, a hurtling bonfire, but when it struck the ground it became a boy. It was Jace, all in burning gold with his gold eyes and gold hair, and white-gold wings sprouted from his back, wider and more thickly feathered than any bird's.

He smiled like a cat and pointed behind her, and Clary turned to see that a dark-haired boy—was it Simon?—was standing there, and wings spread from his back as well, feathered black as midnight, and each feather was tipped with blood.

Clary woke up gasping, her hands knotted in Jace's shirt. It was dark in the bedroom, the only light streaming from the one narrow window beside the bed. She sat up. Her head felt heavy and the back of her neck ached. She scanned the room slowly and jumped as a bright pinpoint of light, like a cat's eyes in the darkness, shone out at her.

Jace was sitting in an armchair beside the bed. He was wearing jeans and a gray sweater and his hair looked nearly dry. He was holding something in his hand that gleamed like metal. A weapon? Though what he might be guarding against, here in the Institute, Clary couldn't guess.

"Did you sleep well?"

She nodded. Her mouth felt thick. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I thought you could use the rest. Besides, you were sleeping like the dead. You even drooled," he added. "On my shirt."

Clary's hand flew to her mouth. "Sorry."

"It's not often you get to see someone drool," Jace observed. "Especially with such total abandon. Mouth wide open and everything."

"Oh, shut up." She felt around among the bedcovers until she located her phone and checked it again, though she knew what it would say. No calls. "It's three in the morning," she noted with dismay. "Do you think Simon's all right?"

"I think he's weird, actually," said Jace. "Though that has little to do with the time."

She shoved the phone into her jeans pocket. "I'm going to change."

Jace's white-painted bathroom was no bigger than Isabelle's, though it was considerably neater. There wasn't much variation among the rooms in the Institute, Clary thought, closing the door behind her, but at least there was privacy. She shucked off her wet shirt and hung it on the towel rack, splashed water over her face, and ran a comb through her wildly curling hair.

Jace's shirt was too big for her, but the material was soft against her skin. She rolled the sleeves up and went back into the bedroom, where she found Jace sitting exactly where he had been before, staring moodily down at the glinting object in his hands. She leaned on the back of the armchair. "What is that?"

Instead of answering, he turned it over so that she could see it properly. It was a jagged piece of broken glass, but instead of reflecting her own face, it held an image of green grass and blue sky and the bare black branches of trees.

"I didn't know you kept that," she said. "That piece of the Portal."

"It's why I wanted to come here," he said. "To get this." Longing and loathing were mixed in his voice. "I keep thinking maybe I'll see my father in a reflection. Figure out what he's up to."

"But he's not there, is he? I thought he was somewhere here. In the city."

Jace shook his head. "Magnus has been looking for him and he doesn't think so."

"Magnus has been looking for him? I didn't know that. How—"

"Magnus didn't get to be High Warlock for nothing. His power extends through the city and beyond. He can sense what's out there, to an extent."

Clary snorted. "He can feel disturbances in the Force?"

Jace slewed around in the chair and frowned at her. "I'm not joking. After that warlock was killed down in TriBeCa, he started looking into it. When I went to stay with him, he asked me for something of my father's to make the tracking easier. I gave him the Morgenstern ring. He said he'd let me know if he senses Valentine anywhere in the city, but so far he hasn't."

"Maybe he just wanted your ring," Clary said. "He sure wears a lot of jewelry."

"He can have it." Jace's hand tightened around the bit of mirror in his grasp; Clary noted with alarm the blood welling up around the jagged edges where they cut into his skin. "It's worthless to me."

"Hey," she said, and leaned down to take the glass out of his hand. "Easy there." She slid the piece of Portal into the pocket of his jacket where it hung on the wall. The edges of the glass were dark with blood, Jace's palms scored with red lines. "Maybe we should get you back to Magnus's," she said as gently as she could. "Alec's been there a long time, and—"

"I doubt he minds, somehow," Jace said, but he stood up obediently enough and reached for his stele, which was propped against the wall. As he drew a healing rune on the back of his bleeding right hand, he said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"And what's that?"

"When you got me out of the cell in the Silent City, how did you do it? How did you unlock the door?"

"Oh. I just used a regular Opening rune, and—"

She was interrupted by a harsh, tolling ring, and clapped her hand to her pocket before she realized that the sound she'd heard was much louder and sharper than any sound her phone could make. She looked around in confusion.

"That's the Institute's doorbell," Jace said, grabbing his jacket. "Come on."

They were halfway to the foyer when Isabelle burst out of her own bedroom door, wearing a cotton bathrobe, a pink silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, and a semi-dazed expression. "It's three in the morning!" she said to them, in a tone that suggested that this was all Jace's, or possibly Clary's, fault. "Who's ringing our doorbell at three in the morning?"

"Maybe it's the Inquisitor," Clary said, feeling suddenly cold.

"She could get in on her own," said Jace. "Any Shadowhunter could. The Institute is only closed to mundanes and Downworlders."

Clary felt her heart contract. "Simon!" she said. "It must be him!"

"Oh, for goodness' sake," yawned Isabelle, "is he really waking us up at this ungodly hour just to prove his love to you or something? Couldn't he have called? Mundane men are such twits." They had reached the foyer, which was empty; Max must have gone to bed on his own. Isabelle stalked across the room and toggled a switch on the far wall. Somewhere inside the cathedral a distant rumbling thump was audible. "There," Isabelle said. "Elevator's on its way."

"I can't believe he didn't have the dignity and presence of mind just to get drunk and pass out in some gutter," said Jace. "I must say, I'm disappointed in the little fellow."

Clary barely heard him. A rising sense of fear made her blood slow and thick. She remembered her dream: the angels, the ice, Simon with his bleeding wings. She shivered.

Isabelle looked at her sympathetically. "It is cold in here," she observed. She reached up and took down what looked like a blue velvet coat from one of the coat hooks. "Here," she said. "Put this on."

Clary slid the coat on and drew it close around her. It was too long, but it was warm. It had a hood, too, lined with satin. Clary pushed it back so she could see the elevator doors opening.

They opened on a hollow box whose mirrored sides reflected her own pale and startled face. Without a pause for thought, she stepped inside.

Isabelle looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"It's Simon down there," Clary said. "I know it is."

"But—"

Suddenly, Jace was beside Clary, holding the doors open for Isabelle. "Come on, Izzy," he said. With a theatrical sigh, she followed.

Clary tried to catch his eye as the three of them rode down in silence—Isabelle pinning up the last long coil of her hair—but Jace wouldn't look at her. He was looking at himself sidelong in the elevator mirror, whistling softly under his breath as he always did when he was nervous. She remembered the slight tremor in his touch as he had taken hold of her in the Seelie Court. She thought of the look on Simon's face—and then of him almost running to get away from her, vanishing into the shadows at the edge of the park. There was a knot of dread inside her chest and she didn't know why.

The elevator doors opened onto the nave of the cathedral, alive with the dancing light of candles. She pushed past Jace in her hurry to get out of the elevator and practically ran down the narrow aisle between the pews. She stumbled on the dragging edge of her coat and bunched it up impatiently in her hand before dashing to the wide double doors. On the inside they were barred with bronze bolts the size of Clary's arms. As she reached for the highest bolt, the bell rang through the church again. She heard Isabelle whisper something to Jace, and then Clary was hauling on the bolt, dragging it back, and she felt Jace's hand over hers, helping her pull the heavy doors open.

Night air swept in, guttering the candles in their brackets. The air smelled of city: of salt and fumes, cooling concrete and garbage, and underneath those familiar smells, the scent of copper, like the tang of a new penny.

At first Clary thought the steps were empty. Then she blinked and saw Raphael standing there, his head of black curls tousled by the night breeze, his white shirt open at the neck to show the scar in the hollow of his throat. In his arms he held a body. That was all Clary saw as she stared at him in bewilderment, a body. Someone very dead, arms and legs dangling like limp ropes, head fallen back to expose the mangled throat. She felt Jace's hand tighten around her arm like a vise, and only then did she look more closely and see the familiar corduroy jacket with its torn sleeve, the blue T-shirt underneath now stained and spotted with blood, and she screamed.

The scream made no sound. Clary felt her knees give and would have slid to the ground if Jace hadn't been holding her up. "Don't look," he said in her ear. "For God's sake, don't look." But she couldn't not look at the blood matting Simon's brown hair, his torn throat, the gashes along his dangling wrists. Black spots dotted her vision as she fought for breath.

It was Isabelle who snatched one of the empty candelabras from the side of the door and aimed it at Raphael as if it were an enormous three-pointed spear.

"What have you done to Simon?" For that moment, her voice clear and commanding, she sounded exactly like her mother.

"El no es muerto," Raphael said, in a flat and emotionless voice, and laid Simon down on the ground almost at Clary's feet, with a surprising gentleness. She had forgotten how strong he must be—he had a vampire's unnatural strength despite his slightness.

In the light of the candles that spilled through the doorway, Clary could see that Simon's shirt was soaked through at the front with blood.

"Did you say—," she began.

"He isn't dead," Jace said, holding her tighter. "He's not dead."

She pulled away from him with a hard jerk and went to her knees on the concrete. She felt no disgust at touching Simon's bloodied skin as she slid her hands under his head, pulling him up into her lap. She felt only the terrified childish horror she remembered from being five years old and having broken her mother's priceless Liberty lamp. Nothing, said a voice in the back of her head, will put these pieces hack together again.

"Simon," she whispered, touching his face. His glasses were gone. "Simon, it's me."

"He can't hear you," said Raphael. "He's dying."

Her head jerked up. "But you said—"

"I said he was not dead yet," said Raphael. "But in a few minutes—ten, perhaps—his heart will slow and stop. Already he is beyond seeing or hearing anything."

Her arms tightened around him involuntarily. "We have to get him to a hospital—or call Magnus."

"They can't do him any good," said Raphael. "You don't understand."

"No," said Jace, his voice as soft as silk tipped with needle-sharp points. "We don't. And perhaps you should explain yourself. Because otherwise I'm going to assume you're a rogue bloodsucker, and cut your heart out. Like I should have done last time we met."

Raphael smiled at him without amusement. "You swore not to harm me, Shadowhunter. Have you forgotten?"

"I didn't," said Isabelle, brandishing the candelabra.

Raphael ignored her. He was still looking at Jace. "I remembered that night you broke into the Dumort looking for your friend. It is why I brought him here"—and he gestured at Simon—"when I found him in the hotel, instead of letting the others drink him to death. You see, he broke in, without permission, and therefore was fair game for us. But I kept him alive, knowing he was yours. I have no wish for a war with the Nephilim."

"He broke in?" Clary said in disbelief. "Simon would never do anything that stupid and crazy."

"But he did," said Raphael, with the faintest trace of a smile, "because he was afraid he was becoming one of us, and he wanted to know if the process could be reversed. You might remember that when he was in the form of a rat, and you came to fetch him from us, he bit me."

"Very enterprising of him," said Jace. "I approved."

"Perhaps," said Raphael. "In any case, he took some of my blood into his mouth when he did it. You know that is how we pass our powers to each other. Through the blood."

Through the blood. Clary remembered Simon jerking away from the vampire film on TV, wincing at the sunlight in McCarren Park. "He thought he was turning into one of you," she said. "He went to the hotel to see if it was true."

"Yes," said Raphael. "The pity of it is that the effects of my blood would probably have faded over time had he done nothing. But now—" He gestured at Simon's limp body expressively.

"Now what?" said Isabelle, with a hard edge to her voice. "Now he'll die?"

"And rise again. Now he will be a vampire."

The candelabra tipped forward as Isabelle's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

Jace caught the makeshift weapon before it hit the floor. When he turned to Raphael, his eyes were bleak. "You're lying."

"Wait and see," said Raphael. "He will die and rise as one of the Night Children. That is also why I came. Simon is one of mine now." There was nothing in his voice, no sorrow or pleasure, but Clary could not help but wonder what hidden glee he might feel at having so opportunely lucked into an effective bargaining chip.

"There's nothing that can be done? No way to reverse it?" demanded Isabelle, panic tinging her voice. Clary thought distantly that it was strange that these two, Jace and Isabelle, who did not love Simon the way she did, were the ones doing all the talking. But perhaps they were speaking for her precisely because she couldn't bear to say a word.

"You could cut off his head and burn his heart in a fire, but I doubt that you will do that."

"No!" Clary's arms tightened around Simon. "Don't you dare hurt him."

"I have no need to," said Raphael.

"I wasn't talking to you." Clary didn't look up. "Don't you even think about it, Jace. Don't even think about it."

There was silence. She could hear Isabelle's worried intake of breath, and Raphael of course did not breathe at all. Jace hesitated a moment before he said, "Clary, what would Simon want? Is this what he'd want for himself?"

She jerked her head up. Jace was looking down at her, the three-pronged metal candelabra still in his hand, and suddenly an image flashed across her mental landscape of Jace holding Simon down and plunging the sharp end of it into his chest, making the blood splash up like a fountain. "Get away from us!" she screamed suddenly, so loudly that she saw the distant figures walking along the avenue in front of the cathedral turn and look behind them, as if startled at the noise.

Jace went white to the roots of his hair, so white that his wide eyes looked like gold disks, inhuman and weirdly out of place. He said, "Clary, you don't think—"

Simon gasped suddenly, arching upward in Clary's grasp. She screamed again and caught at him, pulling him up toward her. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified. He reached up. She wasn't sure if he was trying to touch her face or claw at her, not knowing who she was.

"It's me," she said, gently pushing his hand down to his chest, lacing their fingers together. "Simon, it's me. It's Clary." Her hands slipped on his; when she looked down, she saw they were wet with blood from his shirt and from the tears that had slid down her face without her noticing. "Simon, I love you," she said.

His hands tightened on hers. He breathed out—a harsh, ratcheting sound—and then did not breathe in again.

I love you. I love you. I love you. Her last words to Simon seemed to echo in Clary's ears as he went limp in her grasp. Isabelle was suddenly next to her, saying something in her ear, but Clary couldn't hear her. The sound of rushing water, like an oncoming tidal wave, filled her ears. She watched as Isabelle tried gently to pry her hands away from Simon's, and couldn't. Clary was surprised. She didn't feel like she was holding on to him that tightly.

Giving up, Isabelle got to her feet and turned angrily on Raphael. She was shouting. Halfway through her tirade, Clary's hearing switched back on, like a radio that had finally found a station within range. "—and now what are we supposed to do?" Isabelle screamed.

"Bury him," said Raphael.

The candelabra swung up again in Jace's hand. "That's not funny."

"It isn't supposed to be," said the vampire, unfazed. "It is how we are made. We are drained, blooded, and buried. When he digs his own way out of a grave, that is when a vampire is born."

Isabelle made a faint sound of disgust. "I don't think I could do that."

"Some can't," said Raphael. "If no one is there to help them dig out, they stay like that, trapped like rats under the earth."

A sound tore its way out of Clary's throat. A sob that was as raw as a scream. She said, "I won't put him in the ground."

"Then he'll stay like this," said Raphael mercilessly. "Dead but not quite dead. Never waking."

They were all staring down at her. Isabelle and Jace as if they were holding their breaths, waiting on her response. Raphael looked incurious, almost bored.

"You didn't come into the Institute because you can't, isn't that right?" Clary said. "Because it's holy ground and you're unholy."

"That's not exactly—," Jace began, but Raphael cut him off with a gesture.

"I should tell you," said the vampire boy, "that there is not much time. The longer we wait before putting him into the ground, the less likely he'll be able to dig his own way back out of it."

Clary looked down at Simon. He really would look as if he were sleeping, if it weren't for the long gashes along his bare skin. "We can bury him," she said. "But I want it to be in a Jewish cemetery. And I want to be there when he wakes up."

Raphael's eyes glittered. "It will not be pleasant."

"Nothing ever is." She set her jaw. "Let's get going. We only have a few hours until dawn."

10 A Fine and Private Place

The cemetery was in the outskirts of Queens, where apartment buildings gave way to rows of orderly-looking Victorian houses painted gingerbread colors: pink, white, and blue. The streets were wide and mostly deserted, the avenue leading up to the cemetery unlit except by a single streetlight. It took them a short while with their steles to break in through the locked gates, and another while to find a spot hidden enough for Raphael to begin digging. It was at the top of a low hill, sheltered from the road below by a thick line of trees. Clary, Jace, and Isabelle were protected with glamour, but there was no way to hide Raphael, or to hide Simon's body, so the trees provided a welcome cover.

The sides of the hill not facing the road were thickly layered with headstones, many of them bearing a pointed Star of David at the top. They gleamed white and smooth as milk in the moonlight. In the distance was a lake, its surface pleated with glittering ripples. A nice place, Clary thought. A good place to come and lay flowers on someone's grave, to sit awhile and think about their life, what they meant to you. Not a good place to come at night, under cover of darkness, to bury your friend in a shallow dirt grave without the benefit of a coffin or a service.

"Did he suffer?" she asked Raphael.

He looked up from his digging, leaning on the handle of the shovel like the grave digger in Hamlet. "What?"

"Simon. Did he suffer? Did the vampires hurt him?"

"No. The blood death is not such a bad way to die," said Raphael, his musical voice soft. "The bite drugs you. It is pleasant, like going to sleep."

A wave of dizziness passed over her, and for a moment she thought she might faint.

"Clary." Jace's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Come on. You don't have to watch this."

He held out his hand to her. Looking past him, she could see Isabelle standing with her whip in her hand. They had wrapped Simon's body in a blanket and it lay on the ground at her feet, as if she were guarding it. Not it, Clary reminded herself fiercely. Him. Simon.

"I want to be here when he wakes up."

"I know. We'll come right back." When she didn't move, Jace took her unresisting arm and drew her away from the clearing and down the side of the hill. There were boulders here, just above the first line of graves; he sat down on one, zipping up his jacket. It was surprisingly chilly out. For the first time this season Clary could see her breath when she exhaled.

She sat down on the boulder beside Jace and stared down at the lake. She could hear the rhythmic thump-thump of Raphael's spade hitting the dirt and the shoveled dirt hitting the ground. Raphael wasn't human; he worked fast. It wouldn't take that long for him to dig a grave. And Simon wasn't all that big a person; the grave wouldn't have to be that deep.

A stab of pain twisted through her abdomen. She bent forward, hands splayed across her stomach. "I feel sick."

"I know. That's why I brought you out here. You looked like you were going to throw up on Raphael's feet."

She made a soft groaning noise.

"Might have wiped the smirk off his face," Jace observed reflectively. "There's that to consider."

"Shut up." The pain had eased. She tipped her head back, looking up at the moon, a circle of chipped silver polish floating in a sea of stars. "This is my fault."

"It's not your fault."

"You're right. It's our fault."

Jace turned toward her, exasperation clear in the lines of his shoulders. "How do you figure that?"

She looked at him silently for a moment. He needed a haircut. His hair curled the way vines did when they got too long, in looping tendrils, the color of white gold in the moonlight. The scars on his face and throat looked like they had been etched there with metallic ink. He was beautiful, she thought miserably, beautiful and there was nothing there in him, not an expression, not a slant of cheekbone or shape of jaw or curve of lips that bespoke any family resemblance to herself or her mother at all. He didn't even really look like Valentine.

"What?" he said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

She wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob at the exact same time that she wanted to pound on him with her fists. Instead, she said, "If it weren't for what happened in the faerie court, Simon would still be alive."

He reached down and savagely yanked a hunk of grass out of the ground. Dirt still clung to the roots. He tossed it aside. "We were forced to do what we did. It's not as if we did it for fun, or to hurt him. Besides," he said, with the ghost of a smile, "you're my sister."

"Don't say it like that—"

"What, 'sister'?" He shook his head. "When I was a little kid, I realized that if you say any word over and over fast enough, it loses all its meaning. I'd lie awake saying the words over and over to myself—'sugar,' 'mirror,' 'whisper,' 'dark.' 'Sister,' " he said, softly. "You're my sister."

"It doesn't matter how many times you say it. It'll still be true."

"And it doesn't matter what you won't let me say, that'll still be true too."

"Jace!" Another voice, calling his name. It was Alec, slightly out of breath from running. He was holding a black plastic bag in one hand. Behind him stalked Magnus, impossibly tall and thin and glowering in a long leather coat that flapped in the wind like a bat's wing. Alec came to a stop in front of Jace and held out the bag. "I brought blood," he said. "Like you asked."

Jace opened the top of the bag, peered in, and wrinkled his nose. "Do I want to ask you where you got this?"

"From a butcher shop in Greenpoint," said Magnus, joining them. "They bleed their meat to make it halal. It's animal blood."

"Blood is blood," said Jace, and stood up. He looked down at Clary and hesitated. "When Raphael said this wouldn't be pleasant, he wasn't lying. You can stay here. I'll send Isabelle down to wait with you."

She tipped her head back to look up at him. The moonlight cast the shadow of branches across his face. "Have you ever seen a vampire rise?"

"No, but I—"

"Then you don't really know, do you?" She stood up, and Isabelle's blue coat fell around her in rustling folds. "I want to be there. I have to be there."

She could see only part of his face in the shadows, but she thought he looked almost—impressed. "I know better than to tell you there's anything you can't do," he said. "Let's go."

Raphael was tamping down a large rectangle of dirt when they came back into the clearing, Jace and Clary a little ahead of Magnus and Alec, who seemed to be arguing about something. Simon's body was gone. Isabelle was sitting on the ground, her whip coiled at her ankles in a golden circle. She was shivering. "Jesus, it's cold," Clary said, pulling Isabelle's heavy coat close around her. The velvet was warm, at least. She tried to ignore the fact that the hem of it was stained with Simon's blood. "It's as if it turned to winter overnight."

"Be glad it isn't winter," said Raphael, setting the spade against the trunk of a nearby tree. "The ground freezes like iron in winter. Sometimes it is impossible to dig and the fledgling must wait months, starving underground, before it can be born."

"Is that what you call them? Fledglings?" said Clary. The word seemed wrong, too friendly somehow. It reminded her of ducklings.

"Yes," said Raphael. "It means the not-yet or newly born." He caught sight of Magnus then, and for a split second looked surprised before he wiped the expression carefully from his features. "High Warlock," he said. "I hadn't expected to see you here."

"I was curious," said Magnus, his cat eyes glittering. "I've never seen one of the Night Children rise."

Raphael glanced at Jace, who was lounging against a tree trunk. "You keep surprisingly illustrious company, Shadowhunter."

"Are you talking about yourself again?" asked Jace. He smoothed the churned dirt with the tip of a boot. "That seems boastful."

"Maybe he meant me," said Alec. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Alec so rarely made jokes. He smiled nervously. "Sorry," he said. "Nerves."

"There's no need for that," said Magnus, reaching to touch Alec's shoulder. Alec moved quickly out of range, and Magnus's outstretched hand fell to his side.

"So what do we do now?" Clary demanded, hugging herself for warmth. Cold seemed to have seeped into every pore of her body. Surely it was too cold for late summer.

Raphael, noticing her gesture, smiled minutely. "It is always cold at a rising," he said. "The fledgling draws strength from the living things that surround it, taking from them the energy to rise."

Clary glared at him resentfully. "You don't seem cold."

"I'm not living." He stepped back a little from the edge of the grave—Clary forced herself to think of it as a grave, since that's exactly what it was—and gestured to the others to do the same. "Make room," he said. "Simon can hardly rise if you are all standing on top of him."

They moved hastily backward. Clary found Isabelle clutching her elbow and turned to see that the other girl was white to the lips. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," Isabelle said. "Clary, maybe we should have just let him go—"

"Let him die, you mean." Clary jerked her arm out of Isabelle's grip. "Of course that's what you think. You think everyone who isn't just like you is better off dead anyway."

Isabelle's face was the picture of misery. "That isn't—"

A sound tore through the clearing, a sound unlike any Clary had ever heard before—a sort of pounding rhythm coming from deep underground, as if suddenly the heartbeat of the world had become audible.

What's happening? Clary thought, and then the ground buckled and heaved under her. She fell to her knees. The grave was roiling like the surface of an unsteady ocean. Ripples appeared in its surface. Suddenly it burst apart, clods of dirt flying. A small mountain of dirt, like an anthill, heaved itself upward. At the center of the mountain was a hand, fingers splayed, clawing at the dirt.

"Simon!" Clary tried to rush forward, but Raphael yanked her back.

"Let me go!" She tried to pull herself free, but Raphael's grip was like steel. "Can't you see he needs our help?"

"He should do this himself," Raphael said, without loosening his hold on her. "It is better that way."

"It's your way! It's not mine!" She jerked herself out of his grip and ran toward the grave, just as it heaved upward, hurling her back to the ground. A hunched shape was forcing itself out of the hastily dug grave, fingers like filthy claws sunk deep into the earth. Its bare arms were streaked black with dirt and blood. It tore itself free of the sucking earth, crawled a few feet, and collapsed onto the ground.

"Simon," she whispered. Because of course it was Simon, Simon, not an it. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward him, her sneakers sinking deep into the churned earth.

"Clary!" Jace shouted. "What are you doing?"

She stumbled, her ankle twisting as her leg sank into the dirt. She fell onto her knees next to Simon, who lay as still as if he really were dead. His hair was filthy and matted with clots of dirt, his glasses gone, his T-shirt torn down the side, blood on the skin that showed under it. "Simon," she said, and reached to touch his shoulder. "Simon, are you—"

His body tensed under her fingers, every muscle tightening, his skin hard as iron.

"—all right?" she finished.

He turned his head, and she saw his eyes. They were blank, lifeless. With a sharp cry he rolled over and sprang at her, swift as a striking snake. He struck her squarely, knocking her back into the dirt. "Simon!" she shouted, but he didn't seem to hear. His face was twisted, unrecognizable as he loomed up over her, his lips curling back, and she saw his sharp canines, the fang-teeth, gleam in the moonlight like white bone needles. Suddenly terrified, she kicked out at him, but he grabbed her shoulders and forced her back down into the dirt. His hands were bloody, the nails broken, but he was incredibly strong, stronger even than her own Shadowhunter muscles. The bones in her shoulders ground together painfully as he bent down over her—

And was plucked away and sent flying as if he weighed no more than a pebble. Clary shot to her feet, gasping, and met Raphael's grim gaze. "I told you to stay away from him," he said, and turned to kneel down by Simon, who had landed a short distance away and was curled, twitching, on the ground.

Clary sucked in a breath. It sounded like a sob. "He doesn't know me."

"He knows you. He doesn't care." Raphael looked over his shoulder at Jace. "He is starving. He needs blood."

Jace, who had been standing white-faced and frozen at the grave's edge, stepped forward and held out the plastic bag mutely, like an offering. Raphael snatched it and tore it open. A number of plastic packets of red fluid fell out. He seized one, muttering, and tore it open with sharp nails, spattering blood down the front of his dirt-stained white shirt.

Simon, as if scenting the blood, curled up and let out a piteous wail. He was still twitching; his broken-nailed hands gouged at the dirt and his eyes were rolled back to the whites. Raphael held out the blood packet, letting some of the red fluid drip onto Simon's face, streaking the white skin with scarlet. "There you go," he said, almost in a croon. "Drink, little fledgling. Drink."

And Simon, who had been a vegetarian since he was ten years old, who wouldn't drink milk that wasn't organic, who fainted at the sight of needles—Simon snatched the packet of blood out of Raphael's thin brown hand and tore into it with his teeth. He swallowed the blood in a few gulps and tossed the packet aside with another wail; Raphael was ready with a second one, and pressed it into his hand. "Do not drink too fast," he cautioned. "You will make yourself sick." Simon, of course, ignored him; he had managed to get the second packet open without help and was gulping greedily at the contents. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth, down his throat, and spattered his hands with fat red drops. His eyes were closed.

Raphael turned to look at Clary. She could feel Jace staring at her too, and the others, all with identical expressions of horror and disgust. "Next time he feeds," Raphael said calmly, "it will not be quite so messy."

Messy. Clary turned away and stumbled out of the clearing, hearing Jace call out for her but ignoring him, starting to run when she reached the trees. She was halfway down the hill when the pain hit. She went to her knees, gagging, as everything in her stomach came up in a wrenching flood. When it was over, she crawled a short distance away and collapsed against the ground. She knew she was probably lying on someone's grave, but she didn't care. She rested her hot face against the cool dirt and thought, for the first time, that maybe the dead weren't so unlucky after all.

11 Smoke and Steel

The critical care unit of Beth Israel hospital always reminded Clary of photos she'd seen of Antarctica: It was cold and remote-feeling, and everything was either gray, white, or pale blue. The walls of her mother's room were white, the tubes that snaked around her head and the endless beeping banks of instruments around the bed were gray, and the blanket pulled up around her chest was pale blue. Her face was white. The only color in the room was her red hair, flaring across the snowy expanse of pillow like a bright, incongruous flag planted at the south pole.

Clary wondered how Luke was managing to pay for this private room, where the money had come from and how he'd gotten it. She supposed she could ask him when he got back from buying vending machine coffee in the ugly little café on the third floor. The coffee from the machine down there looked like tar and tasted like it too, but Luke seemed addicted to the stuff.

The metal legs of the bedside chair squeaked across the floor as Clary pulled it out and sat down slowly, smoothing her skirt down over her legs. Whenever she came to see her mother in the hospital she felt nervous and dry-mouthed, as if she were about to get in trouble for something. Maybe because the only times she'd ever seen her mother's face like this, flat and without animation, was when her mother was about to explode with rage.

"Mom," she said. She reached out and took her mother's left hand; there was a puncture mark on the wrist still, where Valentine had shoved one end of a tube. The skin of her mother's hand—always rough and chapped, spattered with paint and turpentine—felt like the dry bark of a tree. Clary folded her fingers around Jocelyn's, feeling a hard lump come into her throat. "Mom, I…" She cleared her throat. "Luke says you can hear me. I don't know if that's true or not. Anyway, I came because I needed to talk to you. It's okay if you can't say anything back. See, the thing is, it's…" She swallowed again and looked toward the window, the strip of blue sky visible at the edge of the brick wall that faced the hospital. "It's Simon. Something's happened to him. Something that was my fault."

Now that she wasn't looking at her mother's face, the story poured out of her, all of it: how she'd met Jace and the other Shadowhunters, the search for the Mortal Cup, Hodge's betrayal and the battle at Renwick's, the realization that Valentine was her father as well as Jace's. More recent events too: the nighttime visit to the Bone City, the Soul-Sword, the Inquisitor's hatred of Jace, and the woman with the silver hair. And then she told her mother about the Seelie Court, about the price the Queen had demanded, and what had happened to Simon afterward. She could feel tears burn her throat while she talked, but it was a relief to tell it, to unburden herself to someone, even someone who—probably—couldn't hear her.

"So, basically," she said, "I've screwed everything up royally. I remember you saying that growing up happens when you start having things you look back on and wish you could change. I guess that means I've grown up now. It's just that—that I—" I thought you'd be there when I did. She choked on tears just as someone behind her cleared his throat.

Clary wheeled around and saw Luke standing in the doorway, a Styrofoam cup in his hand. Under the hospital's fluorescent lights, she could see how tired he looked. There was gray in his hair, and his blue flannel shirt was rumpled.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," he said. "I brought you some coffee." He held out the cup but she waved it away.

"I hate that stuff. It tastes like feet."

At that he smiled. "How would you know what feet taste like?"

"I just know." She leaned forward and kissed Jocelyn's cold cheek before standing up. "Bye, Mom."

Luke's blue pickup was parked in the concrete lot under the hospital. They had pulled out onto the FDR highway before he spoke.

"I heard what you said back at the hospital."

"I thought you were eavesdropping." She spoke without anger. There was nothing in what she'd said to her mother that Luke couldn't know.

"What happened to Simon wasn't your fault."

She heard the words, but they seemed to bounce off her as if there were an invisible wall surrounding her. Like the wall Hodge had built around her when he'd betrayed her to Valentine, but this time she couldn't hear anything through it, couldn't feel anything through it either. She was as numb as if she'd been encased in ice.

"Did you hear me, Clary?"

"It's a nice thing to say, but of course it was my fault. Everything that happened to Simon was my fault."

"Because he was angry at you when he went back to the hotel? He didn't go back to the hotel because he was angry at you, Clary. I've heard of situations like this before. They call them 'darklings,' those who are half-turned. He would have felt drawn back to the hotel by a compulsion he couldn't control."

"Because he had Raphael's blood in him. But that would never have happened either if it weren't for me. If I hadn't brought him to that party—"

"You thought it would be safe there. You weren't putting him in any danger you hadn't put yourself in. You can't torture yourself like this," said Luke, turning onto the Brooklyn Bridge. The water slid by under them in sheets of silvery gray. "There's no point to it."

She slumped lower in her seat, curling her fingers into the sleeves of her knitted green hoodie. Its edges were frayed and the yarn tickled her cheek.

"Look," Luke went on. "In all the years I've known him, there's always been exactly one place Simon wanted to be, and he's always fought like hell to make sure he got there and stayed there."

"Where's that?"

"Wherever you were," said Luke. "Remember when you fell out of that tree on the farm when you were ten, and broke your arm? Remember how he made them let him ride with you in the ambulance on the way to the hospital? He kicked and yelled till they gave in."

"You laughed," said Clary, remembering, "and my mom hit you in the shoulder."

"It was hard not to laugh. Determination like that in a ten-year-old is something to see. He was like a pit bull."

"If pit bulls wore glasses and were allergic to ragweed."

"You can't put a price on that kind of loyalty," said Luke, more seriously.

"I know. Don't make me feel worse."

"Clary, I'm telling you he made his own decisions. What you're blaming yourself for is being what you are. And that's no one's fault and nothing you can change. You told him the truth and he made up his own mind what he wanted to do about that. Everyone has choices to make; no one has the right to take those choices away from us. Not even out of love."

"But that's just it," Clary said. "When you love someone, you don't have a choice." She thought of the way her heart had contracted when Isabelle had called to tell her Jace was missing. She'd left the house without a moment's thought or hesitation. "Love takes your choices away."

"It's a lot better than the alternative." Luke guided the truck onto Flatbush. Clary didn't reply; just gazed dully out the window. The area just off the bridge was not one of the prettier parts of Brooklyn; either side of the avenue was lined with ugly office buildings and auto body shops. Normally she hated it but right now the surroundings suited her mood. "So, have you heard from—?" Luke began, apparently deciding it was time to change the subject.

"Simon? Yes, you know I have."

"Actually, I was going to say Jace."

"Oh." Jace had called her cell phone several times and left messages. She hadn't picked up or called him back. Not talking to him was her penance for what had happened to Simon. It was the worst way she could think to punish herself. "No, I haven't."

Luke's voice was carefully neutral. "You might want to. Just to see if he's all right. He's probably having a pretty bad time of it, considering—"

Clary shifted in her seat. "I thought you checked in with Magnus. I heard you talking to him about Valentine and the whole reversing the Soul-Sword thing. I'm sure he'd tell you if Jace wasn't okay."

"Magnus can reassure me about Jace's physical health. His mental health, on the other hand—"

"Forget it. I'm not calling Jace." Clary heard the coldness in her own voice and was almost shocked at herself. "I have to be there for Simon right now. It's not like his mental health is so great either."

Luke sighed. "If he's having trouble coming to terms with his condition, maybe he should—"

"Of course he's having trouble!" She shot Luke an accusing look, though he was concentrating on traffic and didn't notice. "You of all people ought to understand what it's like to—"

"Wake up a monster one day?" Luke didn't sound bitter, just weary. "You're right, I do understand. And if he ever wants to talk to me, I'd be happy to tell him all about it. He will get through this, even if he thinks he won't."

Clary frowned. The sun was setting just behind them, making the rearview mirror shine like gold. Her eyes stung from the brightness. "It's not the same," she said. "At least you grew up knowing werewolves were real. Before he can tell anyone he's a vampire, he'll have to convince them that vampires exist in the first place."

Luke looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. "I'm sure you're right." They were in Williamsburg now, driving down half-empty Kent Avenue, warehouses rising above them on either side. "Still. I got him something. It's in the glove compartment. Just in case…"

Clary snapped the compartment open and frowned. She took out a shiny folded pamphlet, the kind they kept stacked in clear plastic stands in hospital waiting rooms. "How to Come Out to Your Parents," she read out loud. "LUKE. Don't be ridiculous. Simon's not gay, he's a vampire."

"I recognize that, but the pamphlet's all about telling your parents difficult truths about yourself they may not want to face. Maybe he could adapt one of the speeches, or just listen to the advice in general—"

"Luke!" She spoke so sharply that he pulled the truck to a stop with a loud screech of brakes. They were just in front of his house, the water of the East River glittering darkly on their left, the sky streaked with soot and shadows. Another, darker shadow crouched on Luke's front porch.

Luke narrowed his eyes. In wolf form, he'd told her, his eyesight was perfect; in human form, he remained nearsighted. "Is that…?"

"Simon. Yes." She knew him even as an outline. "I'd better go talk to him."

"Sure. I'll, ah, run some errands. I have things to pick up."

"What kind of things?"

He waved her away. "Food things. I'll be back in a half hour. Don't stay outside, though. Go in the house and lock up."

"You know I will."

She watched as the pickup sped away, then turned toward the house. Her heart was pounding. She'd talked to Simon on the phone a few times but she hadn't seen him since they'd brought him, groggy and blood-splattered, to Luke's house in the dark early hours of that horrible morning to clean up before driving him home. She'd thought he ought to go to the Institute, but of course that was impossible. Simon would never see the inside of a church or synagogue again.

She'd watched him walking up the path to his front door, shoulders hunched forward as if he were walking against a heavy wind. When the porch light came on automatically, he flinched away from it, and she knew it was because he had thought it was the light of the sun; and she started to cry, silently, in the backseat of the pickup, the tears splashing down onto the strange black Mark on her forearm.

"Clary," Jace had whispered, and he'd reached for her hand, but she'd recoiled from him just as Simon had recoiled from the light. She wouldn't touch him. She'd never touch him again. That was her penance, her payment for what she'd done to Simon.

Now, as she mounted the steps to Luke's porch, her mouth went dry and her throat swelled with the pressure of tears. She told herself not to cry. Crying would only make him feel worse.

He was sitting in the shadows at the corner of the porch, watching her. She could see the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. She wondered if they'd held that sort of light in them before; she couldn't remember. "Simon?"

He stood up in one single smooth graceful movement that sent a chill up her spine. There was one thing Simon had never been, and that was graceful. There was something else about him, something different—

"Sorry if I startled you." He spoke carefully, almost formally, as if they were strangers.

"It's all right, it's just—How long have you been here?"

"Not long. I can only travel after the sun starts going down, remember? I accidentally put my hand about an inch out the window yesterday and nearly charred off my fingers. Luckily I heal fast."

She fumbled for her key, unlocked the door, swung it open. Pale light spilled out onto the porch. "Luke said we should stay inside."

"Because the nasty things," Simon said, pushing past her, "they come out in the dark."

The living room was full of warm yellow light. Clary shut the door behind them and flipped the dead bolts closed. Isabelle's blue coat was still hanging on a hook by the door. She'd meant to take it to a dry cleaner to see if they could get the bloodstains out, but she hadn't had a chance. She stared at it for a moment, steeling herself, before turning to look at Simon.

He was standing in the middle of the room, hands awkwardly in the pockets of his jacket. He was wearing jeans and a frayed I ♥ new york T-shirt that had belonged to his dad. Everything about him was familiar to Clary, and yet he seemed like a stranger. "Your glasses," she said, belatedly realizing what had seemed strange to her out on the porch. "You're not wearing them."

"Have you ever seen a vampire wearing glasses?"

"Well, no, but—"

"I don't need them anymore. Perfect vision seems to come with the territory." He sat down on the couch and Clary joined him, sitting beside him but not too near. Up close she could see how pale his skin looked, blue traceries of veins apparent just beneath the surface. His eyes without the glasses looked huge and dark, the lashes like black ink strokes. "Of course I still have to wear them around the house or my mother would freak out. I'm going to have to tell her I'm getting contacts."

"You're going to have to tell her, period," Clary said, more firmly than she felt. "You can't hide your—your condition forever."

"I can try." He raked a hand through his dark hair, his mouth twisting. "Clary, what am I going to do? My mom keeps bringing me food and I have to throw it out the window—I haven't been outside in two days, but I don't know how much longer I can go on pretending I have the flu. Eventually she's going to bring me to the doctor, and then what? I don't have a heartbeat. He'll tell her that I'm dead."

"Or write you up as a medical miracle," said Clary.

"It's not funny."

"I know, I was just trying to—"

"I keep thinking about blood," Simon said. "I dream about it. Wake up thinking about it. Pretty soon I'll be writing morbid emo poetry about it."

"Don't you have those bottles of blood Magnus gave you? You're not running out, are you?"

"I have them. They're in my mini-fridge. But I've only got three left." His voice sounded thin with tension. "What about when I run out?"

"You won't. We'll get you some more," Clary said, with more confidence than she felt. She supposed she could always hit up Magnus's friendly local supplier of lamb's blood, but the whole business made her queasy. "Look, Simon, Luke thinks you should tell your mom. You can't hide it from her forever."

"I can damn well try."

"Think about Luke," she said desperately. "You can still live a normal life."

"And what about us? Do you want a vampire boyfriend?" He laughed bitterly. "Because I foresee many romantic picnics in our future. You, drinking a virgin piña colada. Me, drinking the blood of a virgin."

"Think of it as a handicap," Clary urged. "You just have to learn how to work your life around it. Lots of people do it."

"I'm not sure I'm people. Not anymore."

"You are to me," she said. "Anyway, being human is overrated."

"At least Jace can't call me mundane anymore. What's that you're holding?" he asked, noticing the pamphlet, still rolled up in her left hand.

"Oh, this?" She held it up. "How to Come Out to Your Parents."

He widened his eyes. "Something you want to tell me?"

"It's not for me. It's for you." She handed it to him.

"I don't have to come out to my mother," said Simon. "She already thinks I'm gay because I'm not interested in sports and I haven't had a serious girlfriend yet. Not that she knows about, anyway."

"But you have to come out as a vampire," Clary pointed out. "Luke thought maybe you could, you know, use one of the suggested speeches in the pamphlet, except use the word 'undead' instead of—"

"I get it, I get it." Simon spread the pamphlet open. "Here, I'll practice on you." He cleared his throat. "Mom. I have something to tell you. I'm undead. Now, I know you may have some preconceived notions about the undead. I know you may not be comfortable with the idea of me being undead. But I'm here to tell you that the undead are just like you and me." Simon paused. "Well, okay. Possibly more like me than you."

"SIMON."

"All right, all right." He went on. "The first thing you need to understand is that I'm the same person I always was. Being undead isn't the most important thing about me. It's just part of who I am. The second thing you should know is that it isn't a choice. I was born this way." Simon squinted at her over the pamphlet. "Sorry, reborn this way."

Clary sighed. "You're not trying."

"At least I can tell her you buried me in a Jewish cemetery," Simon said, abandoning the pamphlet. "Maybe I should start small. Tell my sister first."

"I'll go with you if you want. Maybe I can help make them understand."

He looked up at her, surprised, and she saw the cracks in his armor of bitter humor, and the fear that was underneath. "You'd do that?"

"I—," Clary began, and was cut off by a sudden deafening screech of tires and the sound of shattering glass. She leaped to her feet and raced to the window, Simon beside her. She yanked the curtain aside and stared out.

Luke's pickup truck was pulled up onto the lawn, its motor grinding, dark strips of burned rubber laid across the sidewalk. One of the truck's headlights was blazing; the other had been smashed and there was a dark stain across the front grille of the truck—and something humped, white and motionless lying underneath the front wheels. Bile rose in Clary's throat. Had Luke run someone over? But no—impatiently she scraped the glamour from her vision as if she were scraping dirt from a window. The thing under Luke's wheels wasn't human. It was smooth, white, almost larval, and it twitched like a worm pinned to a board.

The driver's side door of the truck burst open and Luke leaped out. Ignoring the creature pinned under his wheels, he dashed across the lawn toward the porch. Following him with her gaze, Clary saw that there was a dark shape sprawled in the shadows there. This shape was human—small, with light, braided hair—

"That's that werewolf girl. Maia." Simon sounded astonished. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Clary grabbed her stele off the top of a bookcase. They clattered down the steps, and dashed for the shadows where Luke crouched, his hands on Maia's shoulders, lifting her and propping her gently against the side of the porch. Up close, Clary could see that the front of her shirt was torn and there was a gash in her shoulder, leaking a slow pulse of blood.

Simon stopped dead. Clary, nearly crashing into him, gave a gasp of surprise and shot him an angry look before she realized. The blood. He was afraid of it, afraid of looking at it.

"She's all right," said Luke, as Maia's head rolled and she groaned. He slapped her cheek lightly and her eyes fluttered open. "Maia. Maia, can you hear me?"

She blinked and nodded, looking dazed. "Luke?" she whispered. "What happened?" She winced. "My shoulder—"

"Come on. I'd better get you inside." Luke hoisted her in his arms, and Clary remembered that she'd always thought he was surprisingly strong for someone who worked in a bookstore. She'd put it down to all that hauling around of heavy boxes. Now she knew better. "Clary. Simon. Come on."

They headed back inside, where Luke laid Maia down on the tattered gray velour couch. He sent Simon running for a blanket and Clary to the kitchen for a wet towel. When Clary returned, she found Maia propped up against one of the cushions, looking flushed and feverish. She was chattering rapidly and nervously to Luke, "I was coming across the lawn when—I smelled something. Something rotten, like garbage. I turned around and it hit me—"

"What hit you?" said Clary, handing Luke the towel.

Maia frowned. "I didn't see it. It knocked me over and then—I tried to kick it off, but it was too fast—"

"I saw it," said Luke, his voice flat. "I was driving up to the house and I saw you crossing the lawn—and then I saw it following you, in the shadows at your heels. I tried to yell out the window to you, but you didn't hear me. Then it knocked you down."

"What was following her?" asked Clary.

"It was a Drevak demon," said Luke, his voice grim. "They're blind. They track by smell. I drove the car up onto the lawn and crushed it."

Clary glanced out the window at the truck. The thing that had been twitching under the wheels was gone, unsurprisingly—demons always returned to their home dimensions when they died. "Why would it attack Maia?" She dropped her voice as a thought occurred to her: "Do you think it was Valentine? Looking for werewolf blood for his spell? He got interrupted the last time—"

"I don't think so," Luke said, to her surprise. "Drevak demons aren't bloodsuckers and they definitely couldn't cause the kind of mayhem you saw in the Silent City. Mostly they're spies and messengers. I think Maia just got in its way." He bent to look at Maia, who was moaning softly, her eyes closed. "Can you pull your sleeve up so I can see your shoulder?"

The werewolf girl bit her lip and nodded, then reached over to roll up the sleeve of her sweater. There was a long gash just below her shoulder. Blood had dried to a crust on her arm. Clary sucked her breath in as she saw that the jagged red cut was lined with what looked like thin black needles poking grotesquely out of the skin.

Maia stared down at her arm in obvious horror. "What are those?"

"Drevak demons don't have teeth; they have poisonous spines in their mouths," Luke said. "Some of the spines have broken off in your skin."

Maia's teeth had begun to chatter. "Poison? Am I going to die?"

"Not if we work fast," Luke reassured her. "I'm going to have to pull them out, though, and it's going to hurt. Do you think you can handle it?"

Maia's face was contorted into a grimace of pain. She managed to nod. "Just… get them out of me."

"Get what out?" asked Simon, coming into the room with a rolled-up blanket. He dropped the blanket when he saw Maia's arm, and took an involuntary step back. "What are those?"

"Squeamish about blood, mundane?" Maia said, with a small, twisted smile. Then she gasped. "Oh. It hurts—"

"I know," Luke said, gently wrapping the towel around the lower part of her arm. From his belt he drew a thin-bladed knife. Maia took a look at the knife and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Do what you have to," she said in a small voice. "But—I don't want the others watching."

"I understand." Luke turned to Simon and Clary. "Go in the kitchen, both of you," he said. "Call the Institute. Tell them what's happened and have them send someone. They can't send one of the Brothers, so preferably someone with medical training, or a warlock." Simon and Clary stared at him, paralyzed by the sight of the knife and Maia's slowly purpling arm. "Go!" he said, more sharply, and this time they went.

12 The Hostility of Dreams

Simon watched Clary as she leaned against the refrigerator, biting her lip like she always did when she was upset. Often he forgot how small she was, how light-boned and fragile, but at times like this—times when he wanted to put his arms around her—he was restrained by the thought that holding her too hard might hurt her, especially now when he no longer knew his own strength.

Jace, he knew, didn't feel that way. Simon had watched with a sick feeling in his stomach, unable to look away, as Jace had taken Clary in his arms and kissed her with such force Simon had thought one or the both of them might shatter. He'd held her as if he wanted to crush her into himself, as if he could fold the two of them into one person.

Of course Clary was strong, stronger than Simon gave her credit for. She was a Shadowhunter, with all that entailed. But that didn't matter; what they had between them was still as fragile as a flickering candle flame, as delicate as eggshell—and he knew that if it shattered, if he somehow let it break and be destroyed, something inside him would shatter too, something that could never be fixed.

"Simon." Her voice brought him back down to earth. "Simon, are you listening to me?"

"What? Yes, I am. Of course." He leaned against the sink, trying to look as if he'd been paying attention. The tap was dripping, which momentarily distracted him again—each silvery drop of water seemed to shimmer, tear-shaped and perfect, just before it fell. Vampire sight was a strange thing, he thought. His attention kept getting caught by the most ordinary things—the glitter of water, the flowering cracks in a bit of pavement, the sheen of oil on a road—as if he'd never seen them before.

"Simon!" Clary said again, exasperated. He realized she was holding something pink and metallic out to him. Her new cell phone. "I said I want you to call Jace."

That snapped him back to attention. "Me call him? He hates me."

"No, he doesn't," she said, though he could tell from the look in her eyes that she only half-believed that. "Anyway, I don't want to talk to him. Please?"

"Fine." He took the phone from her and scrolled through to Jace's number. "What do you want me to say?"

"Just tell him what happened. He'll know what to do."

Jace picked up the phone on the third ring, sounding out of breath. "Clary," he said, startling Simon until he realized that of course Clary's name would have popped up on Jace's phone. "Clary, are you all right?"

Simon hesitated. There was a tone in Jace's voice he'd never heard before, an anxious concern devoid of sarcasm or defense. Was that how he spoke to Clary when they were alone? Simon glanced at her; she was watching him with wide green eyes, biting unselfconsciously on her right index fingernail.

"Clary." Jace again. "I thought you were avoiding me—"

A flash of irritation shot through Simon. You're her brother, he wanted to shout down the phone line, that's all. You don't own her. You've got no right to sound so—so—

Brokenhearted. That was the word. Though he'd never thought of Jace as having a heart to break.

"You were right," he said finally, his voice cold. "She still is. This is Simon."

There was such a long silence that Simon wondered if Jace had dropped the phone.

"Hello?"

"I'm here." Jace's voice was crisp and cool as autumn leaves, all vulnerability gone. "If you're calling me up just to chat, mundane, you must be lonelier than I thought."

"Believe me, I wouldn't be calling you if I had a choice. I'm doing this because of Clary."

"Is she all right?" Jace's voice was still crisp and cool but with an edge to it now, autumn leaves frosted with a sheen of hard ice. "If something's happened to her—"

"Nothing's happened to her." Simon fought to keep the anger out of his voice. As briefly as he could, he gave Jace a rundown of the night's events and Maia's resultant condition. Jace waited until he was done, then rapped out a set of short instructions. Simon listened in a daze and found himself nodding before realizing that of course Jace couldn't see him. He began to speak and realized he was listening to silence; the other boy had hung up. Wordlessly, Simon flipped the phone shut and handed it to Clary. "He's coming here."

She sagged against the sink. "Now?"

"Now. Magnus and Alec will be with him."

"Magnus?" she said dazedly, and then, "Oh, of course. Jace would have been at Magnus's. I was thinking he was at the Institute, but of course he wouldn't have been there. I—"

A harsh cry from the living room cut her off. Her eyes widened. Simon felt the hair on his neck stand up like wires. "It's all right," he said, as soothingly as he could. "Luke wouldn't hurt Maia."

"He is hurting her. He has no choice," Clary said. She was shaking her head. "That's how it always is these days. There's never any choice." Maia cried out again and Clary gripped the edge of the counter as if she were in pain herself. "I hate this!" she burst out. "I hate all of it! Always being scared, always being hunted, always wondering who's going to get hurt next. I wish I could go back to the way things used to be!"

"But you can't. None of us can," Simon said. "At least you can still go out in daylight."

She turned to him, lips parted, her eyes wide and dark. "Simon, I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." He backed away, feeling as if there were something caught in his throat. "I'm going to go see how they're doing." For a moment he thought she might follow him, but she let the kitchen door fall shut between them without protest.

All the lights were on in the living room. Maia lay gray-faced on the couch, the blanket he had brought pulled up to her chest. She was holding a wad of cloth against her right arm; the cloth was partly soaked through with blood. Her eyes were shut.

"Where's Luke?" Simon said, then winced, wondering if his tone was too harsh, too demanding. She looked awful, her eyes sunken into gray hollows, her mouth tight with pain. Her eyes fluttered open and fixed on him.

"Simon," she breathed. "Luke went outside to move the car off the lawn. He was worried about the neighbors."

Simon glanced toward the window. He could see the sweep of the headlights grazing the house as Luke swung the car into the driveway. "How about you?" he asked. "Did he get those things out of your arm?"

She nodded dully. "I'm just so tired," she whispered through cracked lips. "And—thirsty."

"I'll get you some water." There was a pitcher of water and a stack of glasses on the sideboard next to the dining room table. Simon poured a glass full of the tepid liquid and brought it to Maia. His hands were shaking slightly and some of the water spilled as she took the glass from him. She was lifting her head, about to say something—Thank you, probably—when their fingers touched and she jerked back so hard that the glass went flying. It hit the edge of the coffee table and shattered, splashing water across the polished wood floor.

"Maia? Are you all right?"

She shrank away from him, her shoulders pressed against the back of the sofa, her lips pulled away from bared teeth. Her eyes had gone a luminous yellow. A low growl came from her throat, the sound of a cornered dog at bay.

"Maia?" Simon said again, appalled.

"Vampire," she snarled.

He felt his head rock back as if she had slapped him. "Maia—"

"I thought you were human. But you're a monster. A bloodsucking leech."

"I am human—I mean, I was human. I got turned. A few days ago." His mind was swimming; he felt dizzy and sick. "Just like you were—"

"Don't ever compare yourself to me!" She had struggled up into a sitting position, those ghastly yellow eyes still on him, scouring him with their disgust. "I'm still human, still alive—you're a dead thing that feeds on blood."

"Animal blood—"

"Just because you can't get human, or the Shadowhunters will burn you alive—"

"Maia," he said, and her name in his mouth was half fury and half a plea; he took a step toward her and her hand whipped out, nails shooting out like talons, suddenly impossibly long. They raked his cheek, sending him staggering back, his hand clapped to his face. Blood coursed down his cheek, into his mouth. He tasted the salt of it and his stomach rumbled.

Maia was crouched on the sofa's arm now, her knees drawn up, clawed fingers leaving deep gouges in the gray velveteen. A low growl poured from her throat and her ears were long and flat against her head. When she bared her teeth, they were sharply jagged—not needle-thin like his own, but strong, whitely pointed canines. She had dropped the bloody cloth that had wrapped her arm and he could see the punctures where the spines had gone in, the glimmer of blood, welling, spilling—

A sharp pain in his lower lip told him that his fangs had slid from their sheaths. Some part of him wanted to fight her, to wrestle her down and puncture her skin with his teeth, to gulp her hot blood. The rest of him felt as if it were screaming. He took a step back and then another, his hands out as if he could hold her back.

She tensed to spring, just as the door to the kitchen flew open and Clary burst into the room. She leaped onto the coffee table, landing lightly as a cat. She held something in her hand, something that flashed a bright white-silver when she raised her arm. Simon saw that it was a dagger as elegantly curved as a bird's wing; a dagger that whipped past Maia's hair, millimeters from her face, and sank to the hilt in gray velveteen. Maia tried to pull away and gasped; the blade had gone through her sleeve and pinned it to the sofa.

Clary yanked the blade back. It was one of Luke's. The moment she'd cracked the kitchen door and gotten a look at what was going on in the living room, she'd made a beeline for the personal weapons stash he kept in his office. Maia might be weakened and sick, but she'd looked mad enough to kill, and Clary didn't doubt her abilities.

"What the hell is it with you?" As if from a distance, Clary heard herself speaking, and the steel in her own voice astonished her. "Werewolves, vampires—you're both Downworlders."

"Werewolves don't hurt people, or each other. Vampires are murderers. One killed a boy down at the Hunter's Moon just the other day—"

"That wasn't a vampire." Clary saw Maia blanch at the certainty in her voice. "And if you could stop blaming each other all the time for every bad thing that happens Downworld, maybe the Nephilim would start taking you seriously and actually do something about it." She turned to Simon. The vicious cuts across his cheek were already healing to silvery red lines. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." His voice was barely audible. She could see the hurt in his eyes, and for a moment she wrestled the urge to call Maia a number of unprintable names. "I'm fine."

Clary turned back to the werewolf girl. "You're lucky he's not as much of a bigot as you are, or I'd complain to the Clave and make the whole pack pay for your behavior." With a sharp tug, she yanked the knife loose, freeing Maia's T-shirt.

Maia bristled. "You don't get it. Vampires are what they are because they're infected with demon energies—"

"So are lycanthropes!" Clary said. "I may not know much, but I do know that."

"But that's the problem. The demon energies change us, make us different—you can call it a sickness or whatever you want, but the demons who created vampires and the demons who created werewolves came from species who were at war with each other. They hated each other, so it's in our blood to hate each other too. We can't help it. A werewolf and a vampire can never be friends because of it." She looked at Simon. Her eyes were bright with anger and something else. "You'll start hating me soon enough," she said. "You'll hate Luke, too. You won't be able to help it."

"Hate Luke?" Simon was ashen, but before Clary could reassure him, the front door banged open. She looked around, expecting Luke, but it wasn't Luke. It was Jace. He was all in black, two seraph blades stuck through the belt that circled his narrow hips. Alec and Magnus were just behind him, Magnus in a long, swirling cape that looked as if it were decorated with bits of crushed glass.

Jace's golden eyes, with the precision of a laser, fixed immediately on Clary. If she'd thought he might look apologetic, concerned, or even ashamed after all that had happened, she was wrong. All he looked was angry. "What," he said, with a sharp and deliberate annoyance, "do you think you're doing?"

Clary glanced down at herself. She was still perched on the coffee table, knife in hand. She fought the urge to hide it behind her back. "We had an incident. I took care of it."

"Really." Jace's voice dripped sarcasm. "Do you even know how to use that knife, Clarissa? Without poking a hole in yourself or any innocent bystanders?"

"I didn't hurt anyone," Clary said between her teeth.

"She stabbed the couch," said Maia in a dull voice, her eyes falling shut. Her cheeks were still flushed red with fever and rage, but the rest of her face was alarmingly pale.

Simon looked at her worriedly. "I think she's getting worse."

Magnus cleared his throat. When Simon didn't move, he said, "Get out of the way, mundane," in a tone of immense annoyance. He flung his cloak back as he stalked across the room to where Maia lay on the couch. "I take it you're my patient?" he inquired, gazing down at her through glitter-crusted lashes.

Maia stared up at him with unfocused eyes.

"I'm Magnus Bane," he went on in a soothing tone, stretching out his ringed hands. Blue sparks had begun to dance between them like bioluminescence dancing in water. "I'm the warlock who's here to cure you. Didn't they tell you I was coming?"

"I know who you are, but…" Maia looked dazed. "You look so … so … shiny."

Alec made a noise that sounded very much like a laugh stifled by a cough as Magnus's thin hands wove a shimmering blue curtain of magic around the werewolf girl.

Jace wasn't laughing. "Where," he asked, "is Luke?"

"He's outside," Simon said. "He was moving the truck off the lawn."

Jace and Alec exchanged a quick look.

"Funny," Jace said. He didn't sound amused. "I didn't see him when we were coming up the stairs."

A thin tendril of panic unfurled like a leaf inside Clary's chest. "Did you see his pickup?"

"I saw it," Alec said. "It was in the driveway. The lights were off."

At that even Magnus, intent on Maia, looked up. Through the net of enchantment he had woven around himself and the werewolf girl, his features seemed blurred and indistinct, as if he were looking at them through water. "I don't like it," he said, his voice sounding hollow and far away. "Not after a Drevak attack. They roam in packs."

Jace's hand was already reaching for one of his seraph blades. "I'll go check on him. Alec, you stay here, keep the house secure."

Clary jumped down from the table. "I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not." He headed for the door, not glancing behind him to see if she was following.

She put on a burst of speed and threw herself between him and the front door. "Stop."

For a moment she thought he was going to keep right on going even if he had to walk through her, but he paused, just inches from her, so close she could feel his breath stir her hair when he spoke. "I will knock you down if I have to, Clarissa."

"Stop calling me that."

"Clary," he said in a low voice, and the sound of her name in his mouth was so intimate that a shudder ran up her spine. The gold in his eyes had turned hard, metallic. She wondered for a moment if he might actually spring at her, what it would be like if he struck her, knocked her down, grabbed her wrists even. Fighting to him was like sex to other people. The thought of him touching her like that brought the blood to her cheeks in a hot flood.

She spoke around the breathless catch in her voice. "He's my uncle, not yours—"

A savage humor flashed across his face. "Any uncle of yours is an uncle of mine, darling sister," he said, "and he's no blood relation to either of us."

"Jace—"

"Besides, I haven't got time to Mark you," he said, lazy gold eyes raking her, "and all you've got is that knife. It won't be much use if it's demons we're dealing with."

She jammed the knife into the wall beside the door, point-first, and was rewarded by the look of surprise on his face. "So what? You've got two seraph blades; give me one."

"Oh, for the love of—" It was Simon, hands jammed into his pockets, eyes burning like black coals in his white face. "I'll go."

Clary said, "Simon, don't—"

"At least I'm not wasting my time standing here flirting while we don't know what's happened to Luke." He gestured for her to move aside from the door.

Jace's lips thinned. "We'll all go." To Clary's surprise he jerked a seraph blade out of his belt and handed it to her. "Take it."

"What's its name?" she asked, moving away from the door.

"Nakir."

Clary had left her jacket in the kitchen, and the cold air sheeting off the East River cut through her thin shirt the moment she stepped out onto the dark porch. "Luke?" she called. "Luke!"

The truck was pulled up in the driveway, one of the doors hanging open. The roof light was on, shedding a faint glow. Jace frowned. "The keys are in the ignition. The car's idling."

Simon shut the front door behind them. "How do you know that?"

"I can hear it." Jace looked at Simon speculatively. "And so could you if you tried, bloodsucker." He loped down the stairs, a faint chuckle drifting behind him on the wind.

"I think I liked 'mundane' better than 'bloodsucker,' " Simon muttered.

"With Jace, you don't really get to choose your insulting nickname." Clary felt in her jeans pocket until her fingers encountered cool, smooth stone. She raised the witchlight in her hand, its glow raying out between her fingers like the light of a tiny sun. "Come on."

Jace had been right; the truck was idling. Clary smelled the exhaust as they approached, her heart sinking. Luke would never have left the car door open and the keys in the ignition like that unless something had happened.

Jace was circling the truck, frowning. "Bring that witchlight closer." He knelt down in the grass, running his fingers lightly over it. From an inner pocket he drew an object Clary recognized: a smooth piece of metal, engraved all over with delicate runes. A Sensor. Jace ran it over the grass and it obliged with a series of loud clicking noises, like a Geiger counter gone berserk. "Definite demonic action. I'm picking up heavy traces."

"Could that be left over from the demon who attacked Maia?" Simon asked.

"The levels are too high. There's been more than one demon here tonight." Jace rose to his feet, all business. "Maybe you two should go back inside. Send Alec out here. He's dealt with this sort of thing before."

"Jace—" Clary was furious all over again. She broke off as something caught her eye. It was a flicker of movement, across the street, down by the cement rock-strewn bank of the East River. There was something about the movement—an angle as a gesture caught the light, something too quick, too elongated to be human…

Clary flung an arm out, pointing. "Look! By the water!"

Jace's gaze followed hers and he sucked in his breath. Then he was running, and they were running after him, over the asphalt of Kent Street and onto the scrubby grass that bordered the waterfront. The witchlight swung in Clary's hand as she ran, lighting bits of the riverbank with haphazard illumination: a patch of weeds there, a jut of broken concrete that nearly tripped her up, a heap of trash and broken glass—and then, as they came in clear sight of the lapping water, the crumpled figure of a man.

It was Luke—Clary saw that instantly, though the two dark, humped shapes crouching over him blocked his face from her view. He was on his back, so close to the water that she wondered for a panicked moment if the hunched creatures were holding him under, trying to drown him. Then they drew back, hissing through perfectly circular lipless mouths, and she saw that his head was resting on the gravelly riverbank. His face was slack and gray.

"Raum demons," Jace whispered.

Simon's eyes were wide. "Are those the same things that attacked Maia—?"

"No. These are much worse." Jace gestured at Simon and Clary to get behind him. "You two, stay back." He raised his seraph blade. "Israfiel!" he cried, and there was a sudden hot burst of light as it blazed up. Jace leaped forward, sweeping his weapon at the nearest of the demons. In the light of the seraph blade, the demon's appearance was unpleasantly visible: dead-white, scaled skin, a black hole for a mouth, bulging, toadlike eyes, and arms that ended in tentacles where hands should have been. It lashed out now with those tentacles, whipping them toward Jace with incredible speed.

But Jace was faster. There was a nasty snick sort of noise as Israfiel sheared through the demon's wrist and its tentacled appendage flew through the air. The tentacle tip came to rest at Clary's feet, still twitching. It was gray-white, tipped with blood-red suckers. Inside each sucker was a cluster of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.

Simon made a gagging noise. Clary was inclined to agree. She kicked at the spasming clot of tentacles, sending it rolling across the dirty grass. When she looked up, she saw that Jace had knocked the injured demon down and they were tumbling together across the rocks at the river's edge. The glow of Jace's seraph blade sent elegant arcs of light shattering across the water as he writhed and twisted to avoid the creature's remaining tentacles—not to mention the black blood spraying from its severed wrist. Clary hesitated—should she go to Luke or run to help Jace?—and in that moment of hesitation she heard Simon shout, "Clary, watch out!" and turned to see the second demon lunging straight at her.

There was no time to reach for the seraph blade at her belt, no time to remember and shout out its name. She threw her hands out and the demon struck her, knocking her backward. She went down with a cry, hitting her shoulder painfully against the uneven ground. Slick tentacles rasped against her skin. One braceleted her arm, squeezing painfully; the other whipped forward, wrapping her throat.

She grabbed frantically at her neck, trying to pull the lashing, flexible limb away from her windpipe. Already her lungs were aching. She kicked and twisted—

And suddenly the pressure was gone; the thing was off her. She sucked in a whistling breath and rolled to her knees. The demon was in a half crouch, staring at her with black, pupil-less eyes. Getting ready to lunge again? She grabbed for her blade, spat: "Nakir," and a spear of light shot from her fingers. She'd never held an angel knife before. The hilt of it trembled and vibrated in her hand; it felt alive. "NAKIR!" she cried, staggering to her feet, the blade outstretched and pointed at the Raum demon.

To her surprise, the demon skittered backward, tentacles waving, almost as if it were—but this wasn't possible—afraid of her. She saw Simon, running toward her, a length of what looked like steel pipe in his hand; behind him, Jace was getting to his knees. She couldn't see the demon he'd been fighting; perhaps he'd killed it. As for the second Raum demon, its mouth was open and it was making a distressed, hooting noise, like a monstrous owl. Abruptly, it turned and, with tentacles waving, dashed toward the bank and leaped into the river. A gush of blackish water splashed upward, and then the demon was gone, vanishing beneath the river's surface without even a telltale spray of bubbles to mark its place.

Jace reached her side just as it vanished. He was bent over, panting, smeared with black demon blood. "What—happened?" he demanded between gasps for breath.

"I don't know," Clary admitted. "It came at me—I tried to fight it off but it was too fast—and then it just left. Like it saw something that scared it."

"Are you all right?" It was Simon, skidding to a stop in front of her, not panting—he didn't breathe anymore, she reminded herself—but anxious, clutching a thick length of pipe in his hand.

"Where did you get that?" Jace demanded.

"I wrenched it off the side of a telephone pole." Simon looked as if the recollection surprised him. "I guess you can do anything when your adrenaline is up."

"Or when you have the unholy strength of the damned," Jace said.

"Oh, shut up, both of you," snapped Clary, earning herself a martyred look from Simon and a leer from Jace. She pushed past the two of them, heading for the riverbank. "Or have you forgotten about Luke?"

Luke was still unconscious, but breathing. He was as pale as Maia had been, and his sleeve was torn across the shoulder. When Clary drew the blood-stiffened fabric away from the skin, working as gingerly as she could, she saw that across his shoulder was a cluster of circular red wounds where a tentacle had gripped him. Each was oozing a mixture of blood and blackish fluid. She sucked in her breath. "We have to get him inside."

Magnus was waiting for them on the front porch when Simon and Jace carried Luke, slumped between them, up the stairs. Having finished with Maia, Magnus had put her to bed in Luke's room, so they set Luke down on the sofa where she'd been lying and let Magnus go to work on him.

"Will he be all right?" Clary demanded, hovering around the couch as Magnus summoned blue fire that shimmered between his hands.

"He'll be fine. Raum poison is a little more complex than a Drevak sting, but nothing I can't handle." Magnus motioned her away. "At least not if you get back and let me work."

Reluctantly, she sank down into an armchair. Jace and Alec were over by the window, heads close together. Jace was gesturing with his hands. She guessed he was explaining to Alec what had happened with the demons. Simon, looking uncomfortable, was leaning against the wall beside the kitchen door. He seemed lost in thought. Not wanting to look at Luke's slack gray face and sunken eyes, Clary let her gaze rest on Simon, gauging the ways in which he looked both familiar and very alien. Without the glasses, his eyes seemed twice their size, and very dark, more black than brown. His skin was pale and smooth as white marble, traced with darker veins at the temples and the sharply angled cheekbones. Even his hair seemed darker, in stark contrast to the white of his skin. She remembered looking at the crowd in Raphael's hotel, wondering why there didn't seem to be any ugly or unattractive vampires. Maybe there was some rule about not making vampires out of the physically unappealing, she'd thought then, but now she wondered if the vampirism itself wasn't transformative, smoothing out blotched skin, adding color and luster to eyes and hair. Perhaps it was an evolutionary advantage to the species. Good looks could only help vampires lure their prey.

She realized then that Simon was staring back at her, his dark eyes wide. Snapping out of her reverie, she turned back to see Magnus getting to his feet. The blue light was gone. Luke's eyes were still closed but the ugly grayish tint had gone from his skin, and his breathing was deep and regular.

"He's all right!" Clary exclaimed, and Alec, Jace, and Simon came hurrying over to have a look. Simon slid his hand into Clary's, and she wrapped her fingers around his, glad for the reassurance.

"So he'll live?" Simon said, as Magnus sank down onto the armrest of the nearest chair. He looked exhausted, drawn and bluish. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Magnus said. "I'm the High Warlock of Brooklyn; I know what I'm doing." His eyes moved to Jace, who had just said something to Alec in a voice too low for any of the rest of them to hear. "Which reminds me," Magnus went on, sounding stiff—and Clary had never heard him sound stiff before—"that I'm not exactly sure what it is you think you're doing, calling on me every time one of you has so much as an ingrown toenail that needs clipping. As High Warlock, my time is valuable. There are plenty of lesser warlocks who'd be happy to do a job for you at a greatly reduced rate."

Clary blinked at him in surprise. "You're charging us? But Luke is a friend!"

Magnus took a thin blue cigarette out of his shirt pocket. "Not a friend of mine," he said. "I met him only on the few occasions when your mother brought him along when your memory spells were being refreshed." He passed his hand across the cigarette's tip and it lit with a multicolored flame. "Did you think I was helping you out of the goodness of my heart? Or am I just the only warlock you happen to know?"

Jace had listened to this short speech with a smolder of fury sparking his amber eyes to gold. "No," he said now, "but you are the only warlock we know who happens to be dating a friend of ours."

For a moment everyone stared at him—Alec in sheer horror, Magnus in astonished anger, and Clary and Simon in surprise. It was Alec who spoke first, his voice shaking. "Why would you say something like that?"

Jace looked baffled. "Something like what?"

"That I'm dating—that we're—it's not true," Alec said, his voice rising and dropping several octaves as he fought to control it.

Jace looked at him steadily. "I didn't say he was dating you," he said, "but funny that you knew just what I meant, isn't it?"

"We're not dating," Alec said again.

"Oh?" Magnus said. "So you're just that friendly with everybody, is that it?"

"Magnus." Alec stared imploringly at the warlock. Magnus, however, it seemed, had had enough. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in silence, regarding the scene before him with slitted eyes.

Alec turned to Jace. "You don't—," he began. "I mean, you couldn't possibly think—"

Jace was shaking his head in puzzlement. "What I don't get is you going to all these lengths to hide your relationship with Magnus from me when it's not as if I would mind if you did tell me about it."

If he meant his words to be reassuring, it was clear that they weren't. Alec went a pale gray color, and said nothing. Jace turned to Magnus. "Help me convince him," he said, "that I really don't care."

"Oh," Magnus said quietly, "I think he believes you about that."

"Then I don't…" Bewilderment was plain on Jace's face, and for a moment Clary saw Magnus's expression and knew he was strongly tempted to answer. Moved by a hasty pity for Alec, she pulled her hand out of Simon's and said,

"Jace, that's enough. Let it alone."

"Let what alone?" Luke inquired. Clary whirled around to find him sitting up on the couch, wincing a little with pain but looking otherwise healthy enough.

"Luke!" She darted to the side of the sofa, considered hugging him, saw the way he was holding his shoulder, and decided against it. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Not really." Luke passed a hand across his face. "The last thing I remember was going out to the truck. Something hit my shoulder and jerked me sideways. I remember the most incredible pain—Anyway, I must have passed out after that. The next thing I knew I was listening to five people shouting. What was all that about, anyway?"

"Nothing," chorused Clary, Simon, Alec, Magnus, and Jace, in surprising and probably never-to-be-repeated unison.

Despite his obvious exhaustion, Luke's eyebrows shot up. But "I see," was all he said.

Since Maia was still asleep in Luke's bedroom, he announced that he'd be just fine on the couch. Clary tried to give him the bed in her room, but he refused to take it. Giving up, she headed into the narrow hallway to retrieve sheets and blankets from the linen closet. She was dragging a comforter down from a high shelf when she sensed someone behind her. Clary whirled, dropping the blanket she'd been holding into a soft pile at her feet.

It was Jace. "Sorry to startle you."

"It's fine." She bent to retrieve the blanket.

"Actually, I'm not sorry," he said. "That's the most emotion I've seen from you in days."

"I haven't seen you in days."

"And whose fault is that? I've called you. You don't pick up the phone. And it's not as if I could simply come see you. I've been in prison, in case you've forgotten."

"Not exactly prison." She tried to sound light as she straightened up. "You've got Magnus to keep you company. And Gilligan's Island."

Jace suggested that the cast of Gilligan's Island could do something anatomically unlikely with themselves.

Clary sighed. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving with Magnus?"

His mouth twisted and she saw something fracture behind his eyes, a starburst of pain. "Can't wait to get rid of me?"

"No." She hugged the blanket against herself and stared down at his hands, unable to meet his eyes. His slender fingers were scarred and beautiful, with the faint white band of paler skin still visible where he had worn the Morgenstern ring on his right index finger. The yearning to touch him was so bad she wanted to let go of the blankets and scream. "I mean, no, it's not that. I don't hate you, Jace."

"I don't hate you, either."

She looked up at him, relieved. "I'm glad to hear that—"

"I wish I could hate you," he said. His voice was light, his mouth curved in an unconcerned half smile, his eyes sick with misery. "I want to hate you. I try to hate you. It would be so much easier if I did hate you. Sometimes I think I do hate you and then I see you and I—"

Her hands had grown numb with their grip on the blanket. "And you what?"

"What do you think?" Jace shook his head. "Why should I tell you everything about how I feel when you never tell me anything? It's like banging my head on a wall, except at least if I were banging my head on a wall, I'd be able to make myself stop."

Clary's lips were trembling so violently that she found it hard to speak. "Do you think it's easy for me?" she demanded. "Do you think—"

"Clary?" It was Simon, coming into the hallway with that new soundless grace of his, startling her so badly that she dropped the blanket again. She turned aside, but not fast enough to hide her expression from him, or the telltale shine in her eyes. "I see," he said, after a long pause. "Sorry to interrupt." He vanished back into the living room, leaving Clary staring after him through a wavering lens of tears.

"Damn it." She turned on Jace. "What is it about you?" she said, with more savagery than she'd intended. "Why do you have to ruin everything?" She shoved the blanket at him hastily and darted out of the room after Simon.

He was already out the front door. She caught up to him on the porch, letting the front door bang shut behind her. "Simon! Where are you going?"

He turned around almost reluctantly. "Home. It's late—I don't want to get caught here with the sun coming up."

Since the sun wasn't coming up for hours, this struck Clary as a feeble excuse. "You know you're welcome to stay and sleep here during the day if you want to avoid your mom. You can sleep in my room—"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not? I don't understand why you're going."

He smiled at her. It was a sad smile with something else underneath. "You know what the worst feeling I can imagine is?"

She blinked at him. "No."

"Not trusting the person I love more than anything else in the world."

She put her hand on his sleeve. He didn't move away, but he didn't respond to her touch, either. "Do you mean—"

"Yes," he said, knowing what she was about to ask. "I mean you."

"But you can trust me."

"I used to think I could," he said. "But I get the feeling you'd rather pine over someone you can never possibly be with than try being with someone you can."

There was no point pretending. "Just give me time," she said. "I just need some time to get over—to get over it all."

"You're not going to tell me I'm wrong, are you?" he said. His eyes looked very wide and dark in the dim porch light. "Not this time."

"Not this time. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He turned away from her and her outstretched hand, heading for the porch steps. "At least it's the truth."

For whatever that's worth. She shoved her hands into her pockets, watching him as he walked away from her until he was swallowed up by the darkness.

It turned out that Magnus and Jace weren't leaving after all; Magnus wanted to spend a few more hours at the house to make sure that Maia and Luke were recovering as expected. After a few minutes of awkward conversation with a bored Magnus while Jace, sitting on Luke's piano bench and industriously studying some sheet music, ignored her, Clary decided to go to bed early.

But sleep didn't come. She could hear Jace's soft piano playing through the walls, but that wasn't what was keeping her awake. She was thinking of Simon, leaving for a house that no longer felt like home to him, of the despair in Jace's voice as he said I want to hate you, and of Magnus, not telling Jace the truth: that Alec did not want Jace to know about his relationship because he was still in love with him. She thought of the satisfaction it would have brought Magnus to say the words out loud, to acknowledge what the truth was, and the fact that he hadn't said them—had let Alec go on lying and pretending—because that was what Alec wanted, and Magnus cared about Alec enough to give him that. Maybe it was true what the Seelie Queen had said, after all: Love made you a liar.

13 A Host of Rebel Angels

There are three distinct sections to Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit; Jace had played his way through the first when he got up from the piano, went into the kitchen, picked up Luke's phone, and made a single call. Then he went back to the piano and the Gaspard.

He was halfway through the third section when he saw a light sweep across Luke's front lawn. It cut off a moment later, plunging the view from the front window into darkness, but Jace was already on his feet and reaching for his jacket.

He closed Luke's front door behind him soundlessly and loped down the front steps two at a time. On the lawn by the footpath was a motorcycle, the engine still rumbling. It had a weirdly organic look to it: Pipes like ropy veins wound up and over the chassis, and the single headlight, now dim, resembled a gleaming eye. In a way, it looked as alive as the boy who was leaning against the cycle, looking at Jace curiously. He was wearing a brown leather jacket and his dark hair curled down to the collar of it and fell over his narrowed eyes. He was grinning, exposing pointed white teeth. Of course, Jace thought, neither the boy nor the motorcycle was really alive; they both ran on demon energies, fed by the night.

"Raphael," Jace said, by way of greeting.

"You see," Raphael said, "I have brought it, as you asked me to."

"I see that."

"Though, I might add, I have been very curious as to why you should want such a thing as a demonic motorcycle. They are not exactly Covenant, for one thing, and for another, it is rumored you already have one."

"I do have one," Jace admitted, circling the cycle so as to examine it from all angles. "But it's on the roof of the Institute, and I can't get to it right now."

Raphael chuckled softly. "It seems we're both unwelcome at the Institute."

"You bloodsuckers still on the Most Wanted list?"

Raphael leaned to the side and spit, delicately, onto the ground. "They accuse us of murders," he said angrily. "The death of the were-creature, the faerie, even the warlock, though I have told them we do not drink warlock blood. It is bitter and can work strange changes in those who consume it."

"You told Maryse this?"

"Maryse." Raphael's eyes glittered. "I could not speak with her if I wanted to. All decisions are made through the Inquisitor now, all inquiries and requests routed through her. It is a bad situation, friend, a bad situation."

"You're telling me," said Jace. "And we're not friends. I agreed not to tell the Clave what happened with Simon because I needed your help. Not because I like you."

Raphael grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dark. "You like me." He tilted his head to the side. "It is odd," he reflected. "I would have thought you would seem different now that you are in disgrace with the Clave. No longer their favored son. I thought some of that arrogance might have been beaten out of you. But you are just the same."

"I believe in consistency," Jace said. "Are you going to let me have the bike, or not? I've only got a few hours until sunrise."

"I take it that means you're not going to give me a ride home?" Raphael moved gracefully away from the motorcycle; as he moved, Jace caught the bright glint of the gold chain around his throat.

"Nope." Jace climbed onto the bike. "But you can sleep in the cellar under the house if you're worried about sunrise."

"Mmm." Raphael seemed thoughtful; he was a few inches shorter than Jace, and though he looked younger physically, his eyes were much older. "So are we even for Simon now, Shadowhunter?"

Jace gunned the bike, turning it toward the river. "We'll never be even, bloodsucker, but at least this is a start."

Jace hadn't ridden a cycle since the weather had changed, and he was caught short by the icy wind that arced off the river, piercing his thin jacket and the denim of his jeans with dozens of ice-tipped needles of cold. Jace shivered, glad that at least he had worn leather gloves to protect his hands.

Though the sun had just gone down, the world already seemed leached of color. The river was the color of steel, the sky gray as a dove, the horizon a thick black painted line in the distance. Lights winked and glittered along the spans of the Williamsburg and Manhattan Bridges. The air tasted of snow, though winter was months away.

The last time he'd flown over the river, Clary had been with him, her arms around him and her small hands bunched in the material of his jacket. He hadn't been cold then. He banked the cycle viciously and felt it lurch sideways; he thought he saw his own shadow flung against the water, tilted crazily to the side. As he righted himself, he saw it: a ship with black metal sides, unmarked and almost lightless, its prow a narrow blade scything the water ahead. It reminded him of a shark, lean and quick and deadly.

He braked and drifted carefully downward, soundless, a leaf caught in a tide. He didn't feel as if he were falling, more as if the ship were lifting itself to meet him, buoyed on a rising current. The wheels of the cycle touched down onto the deck and he glided slowly to a stop. There was no need to cut the engine; he swung his legs off the cycle and its rumble subsided to a growl, then a purr, then silence. When he glanced back at it, it looked a little as if it were glowering at him, like an unhappy dog after being told to stay.

He grinned at it. "I'll be back for you," he said. "I've got to check out this boat first."

There was a lot to check out. He was standing on a wide deck, the water to his left. Everything was painted black: the deck, the metal guardrail that encircled it; even the windows in the long, narrow cabin were blacked out. The boat was bigger than he'd expected it to be: probably the length of a football field, maybe more. It wasn't like any ship he'd ever seen before: too big to be a yacht, too small to be a naval vessel, and he'd never seen a ship where everything was painted black. Jace wondered where his father had gotten it.

Leaving the bike, he started a slow circuit around the deck. The clouds had cleared and the stars shone down, impossibly bright. He could see the city illuminated on both sides of him as if he stood in an empty narrow-walled passage made of light. His boots echoed hollowly against the deck. He wondered suddenly if Valentine was even here. Jace had rarely been anywhere that seemed so thoroughly deserted.

He paused for a moment at the bow of the boat, looking out over the river that sliced between Manhattan and Long Island like a scar. The water was churned to gray peaks, lashed with silver along their tops, and a strong and steady wind was blowing, the kind of wind that blew only across water. He stretched his arms out and let the wind take his jacket and blow it back like wings, whip his hair across his face, sting his eyes to tears.

There had been a lake by the manor house in Idris. His father had taught him to sail on it, taught him the language of wind and water, of buoyancy and air. All men should know how to sail, he had said. It was one of the few times he'd ever spoken like that, saying all men and not all Shadowhunters. It was a brief reminder that whatever else Jace might be, he was still part of the human race.

Turning away from the bow with his eyes stinging, Jace saw a door set into the wall of the cabin between two blacked-out windows. Crossing the deck quickly, he tried the handle; it was locked. With his stele, he carved a quick set of Opening runes into the metal and the door swung open, the hinges shrieking in protest and shedding red flakes of rust. Jace ducked under the low doorway and found himself in a dimly lit metal stairwell. The air smelled of rust and disuse. He took another step forward and the door shut behind him with an echoing metallic slam, plunging him into darkness.

He swore, feeling for the witchlight rune-stone in his pocket. His gloves felt suddenly clunky, his fingers stiff with cold. He was colder inside than he had been out on the deck. The air was like ice. He drew his hand out of his pocket, shivering, and not just from the temperature. The hair along the back of his neck was prickling, his every nerve screaming. Something was wrong.

He raised the rune-stone and it flared into light, making his eyes water even more. Through the blur he saw the slender figure of a girl standing in front of him, her hands clasped across her chest, her hair a splash of red color against the black metal all around them.

His hand shook, scattering leaping darts of witchlight as if a host of fireflies had risen out of the darkness below. "Clary?"

She stared at him, white-faced, her lips trembling. Questions died in his throat—what was she doing here? How had she gotten to the ship? A spasm of terror gripped him, worse than any fear he'd ever felt for himself. Something was wrong with her, with Clary. He took a step forward, just as she moved her hands away from her chest and held them out to him. They were sticky with blood. Blood covered the front of her white dress like a scarlet bib.

He caught her with one arm as she sagged forward. He nearly dropped the witchlight as her weight fell against him. He could feel the beat of her heart, the brush of her soft hair against his chin, so familiar. The scent of her was different, though. That scent he associated with Clary, a mix of floral soap and clean cotton, was gone; he smelled only blood and metal. Her head tilted back, her eyes rolling up to the whites. The wild beating of her heart was slowing—stopping—

"No!" He shook her, hard enough that her head rolled against his arm. "Clary! Wake up!" He shook her again, and this time her lashes fluttered; he felt his relief like a sudden cold sweat, and then her eyes were open, but they were no longer green; they were an opaque and glowing white, white and blinding as headlights on a dark road, white as the clamoring noise inside his own mind. I've seen those eyes before, he thought, and then darkness surged up over him like a wave, bringing silence with it.

There were holes punched into the darkness, glimmering dots of light against shadow. Jace closed his eyes, trying to calm his own breathing. There was a coppery taste in his mouth, like blood, and he could tell that he was lying on a cold metal surface and that the chill was seeping through his clothes and into his skin. He counted backward from one hundred inside his head until his breathing slowed. Then he opened his eyes again. The darkness was still there, but it had resolved itself into familiar night sky punctuated by stars. He was on the deck of the ship, flat on his back in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, which loomed at the ship's bow like a gray mountain of metal and stone. He groaned and lifted himself onto his elbows—then froze as he became aware of another shadow, this one recognizably human, leaning over him. "That was a nasty knock to the head you got," said the voice that haunted his nightmares. "How do you feel?"

Jace sat up and immediately regretted it as his stomach lurched. If he'd eaten anything in the past ten hours, he was fairly sure he would have thrown it up. As it was, the sour taste of bile flooded his mouth. "I feel like hell."

Valentine smiled. He was sitting on a stack of empty, flattened boxes, wearing a neat gray suit and tie, as if he were seated behind the elegant mahogany desk at the Wayland manor house in Idris. "I have another obvious question for you. How did you find me?"

"I tortured it out of your Raum demon," said Jace. "You're the one who taught me where they keep their hearts. I threatened it and it told me—well, they're not very bright, but it managed to tell me it had come from a ship on the river. I looked up and saw the shadow of your boat on the water. It told me you'd summoned it too, but I already knew that."

"I see." Valentine seemed to be hiding a smile. "Next time you should at least tell me you're coming before you drop by. It would save you a nasty run-in with my guards."

"Guards?" Jace propped himself against the cold metal railing and took in deep breaths of clean, cold air. "You mean demons, don't you? You used the Sword to summon them."

"I don't deny that," Valentine said. "Lucian's beasts shattered my army of Forsaken, and I had neither time nor inclination to create more. Now that I have the Mortal Sword, I no longer need them. I have others."

Jace thought of Clary, bloody and dying in his arms. He put a hand to his forehead. It was cool where the metal railing had touched it. "That thing in the stairwell," he said. "It wasn't Clary, was it?"

"Clary?" Valentine sounded mildly surprised. "Is that what you saw?"

"Why wouldn't it be what I saw?" Jace struggled to keep his voice flat, nonchalant. He wasn't unfamiliar or uncomfortable with secrets—either his own or other people's—but his feelings for Clary were something he had told himself he could bear only if he did not look at them too closely.

But this was Valentine. He looked at everything closely, studying it, analyzing in what way it could be turned to his advantage. In that way he reminded Jace of the Queen of the Seelie Court: cool, menacing, calculating.

"What you encountered in the stairwell," Valentine said, "was Agramon—the Demon of Fear. Agramon takes the form of whatever most terrifies you. When it is done feeding on your terror, it kills you, presuming you are still alive at that point. Most men—and women—die of fear before that. You are to be congratulated for holding out as long as you did."

"Agramon?" Jace was astonished. "That's a Greater Demon. Where did you get hold of that?"

"I paid a young and hubristic warlock to summon it for me. He thought that if the demon remained inside his pentagram, he could control it. Unfortunately for him, his greatest fear was that a demon he summoned would break the wards of the pentagram and attack him, and that's exactly what happened when Agramon came through."

"So that's how he died," Jace said.

"How who died?"

"The warlock," Jace said. "His name was Elias. He was sixteen. But you knew that, didn't you? The Ritual of Infernal Conversion—"

Valentine laughed. "You have been busy, haven't you? So you know why I sent those demons to Lucian's house, don't you?"

"You wanted Maia," said Jace. "Because she's a werewolf child. You need her blood."

"I sent the Drevak demons to spy out what there was to see at Lucian's and report back to me," Valentine said. "Lucian killed one of them, but when the other reported the presence of a young lycanthrope—"

"You sent the Raum demons to take her." Jace felt suddenly very tired. "Because Luke is fond of her and you wanted to hurt him if you could." He paused, and then said, in a measured tone: "Which is pretty low, even for you."

For a moment a spark of anger lit Valentine's eyes; then he threw his head back and roared with mirth. "I admire your stubbornness. It's so much like mine." He got to his feet then and held a hand out for Jace to take. "Come. Walk around the deck with me. There's something I want to show you."

Jace wanted to spurn the offered hand, but wasn't sure, considering the pain in his head, that he could make it to his feet unaided. Besides, it was probably better not to anger his father so soon; whatever Valentine might say about prizing Jace's rebelliousness, he had never had much patience with disobedient behavior.

Valentine's hand was cool and dry, his grip oddly reassuring. When Jace was on his feet, Valentine released his hold and drew a stele out of his pocket. "Let me take those injuries away," he said, reaching out for his son.

Jace drew away—after a second's hesitation that Valentine would surely have noticed. "I don't want your help."

Valentine put the stele away. "As you like." He began to walk, and Jace, after a moment, followed him, jogging to catch up. He knew his father well enough to know he would never turn around to see if Jace had pursued him, but would just expect that he had and begin talking accordingly.

He was right. By the time Jace reached his father's side, Valentine had already started speaking. He had his hands loosely clasped behind his back and moved with an easy, careless grace, unusual in a big, broad-shouldered man. He leaned forward as he walked, almost as if he were striding into a heavy wind.

"…if I recall correctly," Valentine was saying, "you are in fact familiar with Milton's Paradise Lost?"

"You only made me read it ten or fifteen times," said Jace. "It's better to reign in hell than serve in heaven, etcetera, and so on."

"Non serviam," said Valentine. " 'I will not serve.' It's what Lucifer had inscribed upon his banner when he rode with his host of rebel angels against a corrupt authority."

"What's your point? That you're on the devil's side?"

"Some say Milton was on the devil's side himself. His Satan is certainly a more interesting figure than his God." They had nearly reached the front of the ship. He stopped and leaned against the guardrail.

Jace joined him there. They had passed the bridges of the East River and were heading out into the open water between Staten Island and Manhattan. The lights of the downtown financial district shimmered like witchlight on the water. The sky was powdered with diamond dust and the river hid its secrets under a slick black sheet, broken here and there with a silvery flash that could have been a fish's tail—or a mermaid's. My city, Jace thought, experimentally, but the words still brought to mind Alicante and its crystal towers, not the skyscrapers of Manhattan.

After a moment Valentine said, "Why are you here, Jonathan? I wondered after I saw you in the Bone City if your hatred for me was implacable. I had nearly given up on you."

His tone was level, as it almost always was, but there was something in it—not vulnerability but at least a sort of genuine curiosity, as if he had realized that Jace was capable of surprising him.

Jace looked out at the water. "The Queen of the Seelie Court wanted me to ask you a question," he said. "She told me to ask you what blood runs in my veins."

Surprise passed over Valentine's face like a hand smoothing away all expression. "You spoke with the Queen?"

Jace said nothing.

"It is the way of the Folk. Everything they say has more than one meaning. Tell her, if she asks again, that the blood of the Angel runs in your veins."

"And in every Shadowhunter's veins," said Jace, disappointed. He'd hoped for a better answer. "You wouldn't lie to the Queen of the Seelie Court, would you?"

Valentine's tone was short. "No. And you wouldn't come here just to ask me that ridiculous question. Why are you really here, Jonathan?"

"I had to talk to someone." He wasn't as good at controlling his voice as his father was; he could hear the pain in it, like a bleeding wound just under the surface. "The Lightwoods—I'm nothing but trouble for them. Luke must hate me by now. The Inquisitor wants me dead. I did something to hurt Alec and I'm not even sure what."

"And your sister?" Valentine said. "What about Clarissa?"

Why do you have to ruin everything? "She's not too pleased with me either." He hesitated. "I remembered what you said at the Bone City. That you never got a chance to tell me the truth. I don't trust you," he added. "I want you to know that. But I thought I'd give you the chance to tell me why."

"You have to ask me more than why, Jonathan." There was a note in his father's voice that startled Jace—a fierce humility that seemed to temper Valentine's pride, as steel might be tempered by fire. "There are so many whys."

"Why did you kill the Silent Brothers? Why did you take the Mortal Sword? What are you planning? Why wasn't the Mortal Cup enough for you?" Jace caught himself before he could ask any more questions. Why did you leave me a second time? Why did you tell me I wasn't your son anymore, then come back for me anyway?

"You know what I want. The Clave is hopelessly corrupt and must be destroyed and built again. Idris must be freed from the influence of the degenerate races, and Earth made proof against the demonic threat."

"Yeah, about that demonic threat." Jace glanced around, as if he half-expected to see the black shadow of Agramon hulking toward him. "I thought you hated demons. Now you use them like servants. The Ravener, the Drevak demons, Agramon—they're your employees. Guards, butler—personal chef, for all I know."

Valentine tapped his fingers on the railing. "I'm no friend to demons," he said. "I am Nephilim, no matter how much I might think the Covenant is useless and the Law fraudulent. A man doesn't have to agree with his government to be a patriot, does he? It takes a true patriot to dissent, to say he loves his country more than he cares for his own place in the social order. I've been vilified for my choice, forced into hiding, banished from Idris. But I am—I will always be—Nephilim. I can't change the blood in my veins if I wished to—and I don't."

I do. Jace thought of Clary. He glanced down at the dark water again, knowing it wasn't true. To give up the hunt, the kill, the knowledge of one's own soaring speed and sure abilities: It was impossible. He was a warrior. He could be nothing else.

"Do you?" Valentine asked. Jace looked away quickly, wondering if his father could read his face. It had been just the two of them alone for so many years. He'd known his father's face better than his own, once. Valentine was the one person from whom he felt he could never hide what he was feeling. Or the first person, at least. Sometimes he felt as if Clary could look right through him as if he were glass.

"No," he said. "I don't."

"You're a Shadowhunter forever?"

"I am," Jace said, "in the end, what you made me."

"Good," said Valentine. "That's what I wanted to hear." He leaned back against the railing, looking up at the night sky. There was gray in his silvery white hair; Jace had never noticed it before. "This is a war," Valentine said. "The only question is, what side will you fight on?"

"I thought we were all on the same side. I thought it was us against the demon worlds."

"If only it could be. Don't you understand that if I felt that the Clave had the best interests of this world at heart, if I thought they were doing the best job they possibly could—by the Angel, why would I fight them? What reason would I have?"

Power, Jace thought, but he said nothing. He was no longer sure what to say, much less what to believe.

"If the Clave goes on as they are," Valentine said, "the demons will see their weakness and attack, and the Clave, distracted by their endless courting of the degenerate races, will be in no condition to fight them off. The demons will attack and they will destroy and there will be nothing left."

The degenerate races. The words carried an uncomfortable familiarity; they recalled Jace's childhood to him, in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. When he thought of his father and of Idris, it was always the same blurred memory of hot sunshine burning down on the green lawns in front of their country house, and of a big, dark, broad-shouldered figure leaning down to lift him off the grass and carry him inside. He must have been very young then, and he had never forgotten it, not the way the grass had smelled—green and bright and newly cut—or the way the sun had turned his father's hair to a white halo, nor the feeling of being carried. Of being safe.

"Luke," Jace said, with some difficulty. "Luke isn't a degenerate—"

"Lucian is different. He was a Shadowhunter once." Valentine's tone was flat and final. "This isn't about specific Downworlders, Jonathan. This is about the survival of every living creature in this world. The Angel chose the Nephilim for a reason. We are the best of this world, and we are meant to save it. We are the closest thing that exists in this world to gods—and we must use that power to save this world from destruction, whatever the cost to us."

Jace leaned his elbows on the railing. It was cold here: The icy wind cut through his clothes, and the tips of his fingers were numb. But in his mind, he saw green hills and blue water and the honey-colored stones of the Wayland manor house.

"In the old tale," he said, "Satan said to Adam and Eve 'You shall be as gods' when he tempted them into sin. And they were cast out of the garden because of it."

There was a pause before Valentine laughed. He said, "See, that's what I need you for, Jonathan. You keep me from the sin of pride."

"There are all sorts of sins." Jace straightened up and turned to face his father. "You didn't answer my question about the demons, Father. How can you justify summoning them, associating with them? Do you plan to send them against the Clave?"

"Of course I do," said Valentine, without hesitation, without a moment's pause to consider whether it might be wise to reveal his plans to someone who might share them with his enemies. Nothing could have shaken Jace more than to realize how sure his father was of success. "The Clave won't yield to reason, only to force. I tried to build an army of Forsaken; with the Cup, I could create an army of new Shadowhunters, but that will take years. I don't have years. We, the human race, don't have years. With the Sword I can call to me an obedient army of demons. They will serve me as tools, do whatever I demand. They will have no choice. And when I am done with them, I will command them to destroy themselves, and they will do it." His voice was emotionless.

Jace was gripping the railing so hard that his fingers had begun to ache. "You can't slaughter every Shadowhunter who opposes you. That's murder."

"I won't have to. When the Clave sees the power arrayed against them, they'll surrender. They're not suicidal. And there are those among them who support me." There was no arrogance in Valentine's voice, only a calm certainty. "They will step forward when the time comes."

"I think you're underestimating the Clave." Jace tried to make his voice steady. "I don't think you understand how much they hate you."

"Hate is nothing when weighed against survival." Valentine's hand went to his belt, where the hilt of the Sword gleamed dully. "But don't take my word for it. I told you there was something I wanted to show you. Here it is."

He drew the Sword from its sheath and held it out to Jace. Jace had seen Maellartach before in the Bone City, hanging on the wall in the pavilion of the Speaking Stars. And he had seen the hilt of it protruding from Valentine's shoulder sheath, but he'd never really examined it up close. The Angel's Sword. It was a dark, heavy silver, glimmering with a dull sheen. Light seemed to move over and through it, as if it were made of water. In its hilt bloomed a fiery rose of light.

Jace spoke through his dry mouth. "Very nice."

"I want you to hold it." Valentine presented the Sword to his son, the way he'd always taught him, hilt first. The Sword seemed to shimmer blackly in the starlight.

Jace hesitated. "I don't…"

"Take it." Valentine pressed it into his hand.

The moment Jace's fingers closed around the grip, a spear of light shot up the hilt of the Sword and down the core of it into the blade. He looked quickly to his father, but Valentine was expressionless.

A dark pain spread up Jace's arm and through his chest. It wasn't that the Sword was heavy; it wasn't. It was that it seemed to want to pull him downward, to drag him through the ship, through the green ocean water, through the fragile crust of the earth itself. Jace felt as if the breath were being torn out of his lungs. He flung his head up and looked around—

And saw that the night had changed. A glimmering net of thin gold wires had been flung across the sky, and the stars shone down through it, bright as nail heads hammered into the darkness. Jace saw the curve of the world as it slipped away from him, and for a moment was struck by the beauty of it all. Then the night sky seemed to crack open like a glass and pouring through the shards came a horde of dark shapes, humped and twisted, gnarled and faceless, howling out a soundless scream that seared the inside of his mind. Icy wind burned him as six-legged horses hurtled past, their hooves striking bloody sparks from the deck of the ship. The things that rode them were indescribable. Overhead eyeless, leathery-winged creatures circled, screeching and dripping a venomous green slime.

Jace bent over the railing, retching uncontrollably, the Sword still gripped in his hand. Below him the water churned with demons like a poisonous stew. He saw spiny creatures with bloody saucer-like eyes struggling as they were dragged under by boiling masses of slippery black tentacles. A mermaid caught in the grip of a ten-legged water spider screamed hopelessly as it sank its fangs into her thrashing tail, its red eyes glittering like beads of blood.

The Sword fell from Jace's hand and clattered to the deck. Abruptly the sound and spectacle were gone and the night was silent. He hung tightly to the railing, staring down at the sea below in disbelief. It was empty, its surface ruffled only by wind.

"What was that?" Jace whispered. His throat felt rough, as if it had been scraped with sandpaper. He looked wildly at his father, who had bent to retrieve the Soul-Sword from the deck where Jace had dropped it. "Are those the demons you've already called?"

"No." Valentine slid Maellartach into its sheath. "Those are the demons that have been drawn to the edges of this world by the Sword. I brought my ship to this place because the wards are thin here. What you saw is my army, waiting on the other side of the wards—waiting for me to call them to my side." His eyes were grave. "Do you still think the Clave won't capitulate?"

Jace closed his eyes and said, "Not all of them—not the Lightwoods—"

"You could convince them. If you stand with me, I swear no harm will come to them."

The darkness behind Jace's eyes began to turn red. He had been imagining the ashes of Valentine's old house, the blackened bones of the grandparents he'd never met. Now he saw other faces. Alec's. Isabelle's. Max's. Clary's.

"I've done so much to hurt them already," he whispered. "Nothing else must happen to any of them. Nothing."

"Of course. I understand." And Jace realized, to his astonishment, that Valentine did understand, that somehow he saw what no one else seemed to be able to understand. "You think it is your fault, all the harm that has befallen your friends, your family."

"It is my fault."

"You're right. It is." At that, Jace looked up in absolute astonishment. Surprise at being agreed with battled with horror and relief in equal measures.

"Is it?"

"The harm is not deliberate, of course. But you are like me. We poison and destroy everything we love. There is a reason for that."

"What reason?"

Valentine glanced up at the sky. "We are meant for a higher purpose, you and I. The distractions of the world are just that, distractions. If we allow ourselves to be turned aside from our course by them, we are duly punished."

"And our punishment is visited on everyone we care about? That seems a little hard on them."

"Fate is never fair. You are caught in a current much stronger than you are, Jonathan; struggle against it and you'll drown not just yourself but those who try to save you. Swim with it, and you'll survive."

"Clary—"

"No harm will come to your sister if you join with me. I will go to the ends of the earth to protect her. I will bring her to Idris, where nothing can happen to her. I promise you that."

"Alec. Isabelle. Max—"

"The Lightwood children, also, will have my protection."

Jace said softly, "Luke—"

Valentine hesitated, then said, "All your friends will be protected. Why can't you believe me, Jonathan? This is the only way that you can save them. I swear it."

Jace couldn't speak. Inside him the cold of fall battled with the memory of summer.

"Have you made your decision?" Valentine said; Jace couldn't see him, but he could hear the finality in the question. He even sounded eager.

Jace opened his eyes. The starlight was a white burst against his irises; for a moment he could see nothing else. He said, "Yes, Father. I've made my decision."