City of Lost Souls

18 RAZIEL

“Clary?”

Simon sat on the back porch steps of the farmhouse, looking down the path that led through the apple orchard and down to the lake. Isabelle and Magnus were on the path, Magnus glancing toward the lake and then up at the low mountains ringing the area. He was making notes in a small book with a pen whose end glowed a sparkling blue-green. Alec stood a little distance away, looking up at the trees lining the ridge of hills that separated the farmhouse from the road. He seemed to be standing as far from Magnus as he could while remaining in earshot. It seemed to Simon — the first to admit that he was not that observant about these things — that despite the joking around in the car, a perceptible distance had come between Magnus and Alec recently, one he couldn’t quite put a finger on, but he knew it was there.

Simon’s right hand was cradled in his left, his fingers circling the gold ring on his finger.

Clary, please.

He’d been trying to reach her every hour since he’d gotten the message from Maia about Luke. He’d gotten nothing. Not a flicker of response.

Clary, I’m at the farmhouse. I’m remembering you here, with me.

It was an unseasonably warm day, and a faint wind rustled the last of the leaves in the tree branches. After spending too long wondering what sort of clothes you were supposed to wear to meet angels in — a suit seemed excessive, even if he did have one left over from Jocelyn and Luke’s engagement party — he was in jeans and a T-shirt, his arms bare in the sunlight. He had so many happy sunlit memories attached to this place, this house. He and Clary had come up here with Jocelyn almost every summer for as long as he could remember. They would swim in the lake. Simon would tan brown, and Clary’s fair skin would burn over and over. She’d get a million more freckles on her shoulders and arms. They’d play “apple baseball” in the orchard, which was messy and fun, and Scrabble and poker in the farmhouse, which Luke always won.

Clary, I’m about to do something stupid and dangerous and maybe suicidal. Is it so bad I want to talk to you one last time? I’m doing this to keep you safe, and I don’t even know if you’re alive for me to help you. But if you were dead, I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel it.

“All right. Let’s go,” Magnus said, appearing at the foot of the steps. He eyed the ring on Simon’s hand, but made no comment.

Simon stood up and brushed off his jeans, then led the way down the wandering path through the orchard. The lake sparkled up ahead like a cold blue coin. As they neared it, Simon could see the old dock sticking out into the water, where once they had tied up kayaks before a big piece of the dock had broken off and drifted away. He thought he could almost hear the lazy hum of bees and feel the weight of summer on his shoulders. As they reached the lake’s edge, he twisted around and looked up at the farmhouse, white-painted clapboard with green shutters and an old covered sunporch with tired white wicker furniture on it.

“You really liked it here, huh?” Isabelle said. Her black hair snapped like a banner in the breeze off the lake.

“How can you tell?”

“Your expression,” she said. “Like you’re remembering something good.”

“It was good,” Simon said. He reached up to push his glasses up his nose, remembered he no longer wore them, and lowered his hand. “I was lucky.”

She looked down at the lake. She was wearing small gold hoop earrings; one was tangled in a bit of her hair, and Simon wanted to reach over and free it, to touch the side of her face with his fingers. “And now you’re not?”

He shrugged. He was watching Magnus, who was holding what looked like a long, flexible rod and drawing in the wet sand at the lake’s edge. He had the spell book open and was chanting as he drew. Alec was watching him, with the expression of someone watching a stranger.

“Are you scared?” Isabelle asked, moving slightly closer to Simon. He could feel the warmth of her arm against his.

“I don’t know. So much of being scared is the physical feeling of it. Your heart speeding up, sweating, your pulse racing. I don’t get any of that.”

“That’s too bad,” Isabelle murmured, looking at the water. “Guys getting all sweaty is hot.”

He shot her a half smile; it was harder than he thought it would be. Maybe he was scared. “That’s enough of your sass and back talk, missy.”

Isabelle’s lip quivered as if she were about to smile. Then she sighed. “You know what it never even crossed my mind I wanted?” she said. “A guy who could make me laugh.”

Simon turned toward her, reaching for her hand, not caring for the moment that her brother was watching. “Izzy…”

“All right,” Magnus called out. “I’m done. Simon, over here.”

They turned. Magnus was standing inside the circle, which was glowing with a faint white light. It was really two circles, a slightly smaller one inside a larger one, and in the space between the circles, dozens of symbols had been scrawled. They, too, glowed, a steely blue-white like the reflection off the lake.

Simon heard Isabelle’s soft intake of breath, and he stepped away before he could look at her. It would just make it all harder. He moved forward, over the border of the circle, into its center, beside Magnus. Looking out from the center of the circle was like looking through water. The rest of the world seemed wavering and indistinct.

“Here.” Magnus shoved the book into his hands. The paper was thin, covered in scrawled runes, but Magnus had taped a printout of the words, spelled out phonetically, over the incantation itself. “Just sound these out,” he muttered. “It should work.”

Holding the book against his chest, Simon slipped off the gold ring that connected him to Clary, and handed it to Magnus. “If it doesn’t,” he said, wondering where his strange calm was coming from, “someone should take this. It’s our only link to Clary, and what she knows.”

Magnus nodded and slid the ring onto his finger. “Ready, Simon?”

“Hey,” said Simon. “You remembered my name.”

Magnus shot him an unreadable glance from his green-gold eyes, and stepped outside the circle. Immediately he was blurry and indistinct too. Alec joined him on one side, Isabelle on the other; Isabelle was hugging her elbows, and even through the wavering air Simon could tell how unhappy she looked.

Simon cleared his throat. “I guess you guys had better go.”

But they didn’t move. They seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.

“Thanks for coming here with me,” he said finally, having racked his brain for something meaningful to say; they seemed to be expecting it. He wasn’t the sort who made big farewell speeches or bid people dramatic good-byes. He looked at Alec first. “Um, Alec. I always liked you better than I liked Jace.” He turned to Magnus. “Magnus, I wish I had the nerve to wear the kind of pants you do.”

And last, Izzy. He could see her watching him through the haze, her eyes as black as obsidian.

“Isabelle,” Simon said. He looked at her. He saw the question in her eyes, but there seemed nothing he could say in front of Alec and Magnus, nothing that would encompass what he felt. He moved back, toward the center of the circle, bowing his head. “Good-bye, I guess.”

He thought they spoke back to him, but the wavering haze between them blurred their words. He watched as they turned, retreating up the path through the orchard, back toward the house, until they had become dark specks. Until he could no longer see them at all.

He couldn’t quite fathom not talking to Clary one last time before he died — he couldn’t even remember the last words they’d exchanged. And yet if he closed his eyes, he could hear her laughter drifting over the orchard; he could remember what it had been like, before they had grown up and everything had changed. If he died here, perhaps it would be appropriate. Some of his best memories were here, after all. If the Angel struck him down with fire, his ashes could sift through the apple orchard and over the lake. Something about the idea seemed peaceful.

He thought of Isabelle. Then of his family — his mother, his father, and Becky. Clary, he thought lastly. Wherever you are, you’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.

He raised the spell book and began to chant.

“No!” Clary stood up, dropping the wet towel. “Jace, you can’t. They’ll kill you.”

He reached for a fresh shirt and shrugged it on, not looking at her as he did up the buttons. “They’ll try to separate me from Sebastian first,” he said, though he didn’t sound as if he quite believed it. “If that doesn’t work, then they’ll kill me.”

“Not good enough.” She reached for him, but he turned away from her, jamming his feet into boots. When he turned back, his expression was grim.

“I don’t have a choice, Clary. This is the right thing to do.”

“It’s insane. You’re safe here. You can’t throw away your life—”

“Saving myself is treason. It’s putting a weapon into the hands of the enemy.”

“Who cares about treason? Or the Law?” she demanded. “I care about you. We’ll figure this out together—”

“We can’t figure this out.” Jace pocketed the stele on the nightstand, then caught up the Mortal Cup. “Because I’m only going to be me for a little while longer. I love you, Clary.” He tilted her face up and kissed her, lingeringly. “Do this for me,” he whispered.

“I absolutely will not,” she said. “I will not try to help you get yourself killed.”

But he was already striding toward the door. He drew her with him, and they stumbled down the corridor, speaking in whispers.

“This is crazy,” Clary hissed. “Putting yourself in the path of danger—”

He blew out an exasperated breath. “As if you don’t.”

“Right, and it makes you furious,” she whispered as she raced after him down the staircase. “Remember what you said to me in Alicante—”

They had reached the kitchen. He put the Cup down on the counter, reaching for his stele. “I had no right to say that,” he told her. “Clary, this is what we are. We’re Shadowhunters. This is what we do. There are risks we take that aren’t just the risks you find in battle.”

Clary shook her head, clutching both his wrists. “I won’t let you.”

A look of pain crossed his face. “Clarissa—”

She drew a deep breath, barely able to believe what she was about to do. But in her mind was the image of the morgue in the Silent City, of Shadowhunter bodies stretched out on marble slabs, and she could not bear for Jace to be one of them. Everything she had done — coming here, enduring everything she had endured, had been to save his life, and not just for herself. She thought of Alec and Isabelle, who had helped her, and Maryse, who loved him, and almost without knowing she was about to do it, she raised her voice and called out:

“Jonathan!” she screamed. “Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!”

Jace’s eyes widened into circles. “Clary—” he began, but it was too late already. She had let go of him and was backing away. Sebastian might already be coming; there was no way to tell Jace that it wasn’t that she trusted Sebastian but that Sebastian was the only weapon she had at her disposal that could possibly make him stay.

There was a flash of movement, and Sebastian was there. He hadn’t bothered with running down the stairs, just flipped himself over the side and landed between them. His hair was sleep-mussed; he wore a dark T-shirt and black pants, and Clary wondered distractedly if he slept in his clothes. He glanced between Clary and Jace, his black eyes taking in the situation. “Lovers’ spat?” he inquired. Something glinted in his hand. A knife?

Clary’s voice shook. “His rune’s damaged. Here.” She put her hand over her heart. “He’s trying to go back, to give himself up to the Clave—”

Sebastian’s hand shot out and grabbed the Cup out of Jace’s hand. He slammed it down on the kitchen counter. Jace, still white with shock, watched him; he didn’t move a muscle as Sebastian stepped close and took Jace by the front of the shirt. The top buttons on the shirt popped open, baring his collar, and Sebastian slashed the point of his stele across it, gashing an iratze into the skin. Jace bit down on his lip, his eyes full of hatred as Sebastian released him and took a step back, stele in hand.

“Honestly, Jace,” he said. “The idea that you thought you could get away with something like this just knocks me out.”

Jace’s hands tightened into fists as the iratze, black as charcoal, began to sink into his skin. His words were eked out, breathless: “Next time… you want to be knocked out… I’d be happy to help you. Maybe with a brick.”

Sebastian made a tsk noise. “You’ll thank me later. Even you have to admit this death wish of yours is a little extreme.”

Clary expected Jace to snap back at him again. But he didn’t. His gaze traveled slowly across Sebastian’s face. For that moment there was only the two of them in the room, and when Jace spoke, his words came cold and clear. “I won’t remember this later,” he said. “But you will. That person who acts like your friend—” He took a step forward, closing the space between himself and Sebastian. “That person who acts like they like you. That person isn’t real. This is real. This is me. And I hate you. I will always hate you. And there is no magic and no spell in this world or any other that will ever change that.”

For a moment the grin on Sebastian’s face wavered. But Jace didn’t. Instead, he tore his gaze from Sebastian and looked at Clary. “I need you to know,” he said, “the truth — I didn’t tell you all the truth.”

“The truth is dangerous,” said Sebastian, holding the stele before him like a knife. “Be careful what you say.”

Jace winced. His chest was rising and falling rapidly; it was clear that the healing of the rune on his chest was causing him physical pain. “The plan,” he said. “To raise Lilith, to make a new Cup, to create a dark army — that wasn’t Sebastian’s plan. It was mine.”

Clary froze. “What?”

“Sebastian knew what he wanted,” said Jace. “But I figured out how he could do it. A new Mortal Cup — I gave him that idea.” He jerked in pain; she could imagine what was happening under the cloth of his shirt: the skin knitting together, healing, Lilith’s rune whole and shining once again. “Or, should I say, he did. That thing that looks like me but isn’t? He’ll burn down the world if Sebastian wants him to, and laugh while he’s doing it. That’s what you’re saving, Clary. That. Don’t you understand? I’d rather be dead—”

His voice choked off as he doubled over. The muscles in his shoulders tightened as ripples of what looked like pain went through him. Clary remembered holding him in the Silent City as the Brothers rooted through his mind for answers — Now he looked up, his expression bewildered.

His eyes shifted first not to her but to Sebastian. She felt her heart plummet, though she knew this was only her own doing.

“What’s going on?” Jace said.

Sebastian grinned at him. “Welcome back.”

Jace blinked, looking momentarily confused — and then his gaze seemed to slide inward, the way it did whenever Clary tried to bring up something that he couldn’t process — Max’s murder, the war in Alicante, the pain he was causing his family.

“Is it time?” he said.

Sebastian made a show of looking at his watch. “Just about. Why don’t you go on ahead and we’ll follow? You can start getting things ready.”

Jace glanced around. “The Cup — where is it?”

Sebastian took it off the kitchen counter. “Right here. Feeling a little absentminded?”

Jace’s mouth curled at the corner, and he grabbed the Cup back. Good-naturedly. There was no sign of the boy who had stood in front of Sebastian moments ago and told him he hated him. “All right. I’ll meet you there.” He turned to Clary, who was still frozen in shock, and kissed her cheek. “And you.”

He drew back and winked at her. There was affection in his eyes, but it didn’t matter. This was not her Jace, very clearly not her Jace, and she watched numbly as he crossed the room. His stele flashed, and a door opened in the wall; she caught a glimpse of sky and rocky plain, and then he stepped through it and was gone.

She dug her nails into her palms.

That thing that looks like me but isn’t? He’ll burn down the world if Sebastian wants him to, and laugh while he’s doing it. That’s what you’re saving, Clary. That. Don’t you understand? I’d rather be dead.

Tears burned at the back of her throat, and it was all she could do to hold them off as her brother turned to her, his black eyes very bright. “You called for me,” he said.

“He wanted to give himself up to the Clave,” she whispered, not sure who she was defending herself to. She had done what she’d had to, used the only weapon at hand, even if it was one she despised. “They would have killed him.”

“You called for me,” he said again, and took a step toward her. He reached out and lifted a long lock of her hair away from her face, tucking it back behind her ear. “He told you, then? The plan? All of it?”

She fought back a shiver of revulsion. “Not all of it. I don’t know what’s happening tonight. What did Jace mean ‘It’s time’?”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead; she felt the kiss burn, like a brand between her eyes. “You’ll find out,” he said. “You’ve earned the right to be there, Clarissa. You can watch it all from your place at my side, tonight, at the Seventh Sacred Site. Both of Valentine’s children, together… at last.”

Simon kept his eyes on the paper, chanting out the words Magnus had written for him. They had a rhythm to them that was like music, light and sharp and fine. He was reminded of reading aloud his haftarah portion during his bar mitzvah, though he had known what the words meant then, and now he didn’t.

As the chant went on, he felt a tightening around him, as if the air were becoming denser and heavier. It pressed down on his chest and shoulders. The air was growing warmer as well. If he were human, the heat might have been unbearable. As it was, he could feel the burn of it on his skin, singeing his eyelashes, his shirt. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him as a bead of blood ran from his hairline to drip onto the paper.

And then he was done. The last of the words—“Raziel”—was spoken, and he lifted his head. He could feel blood running down his face. The haze around him had cleared, and in front of him he saw the water of the lake, blue and sparkling, as untroubled as glass.

And then it exploded.

The center of the lake turned gold, then black. Water rushed away from it, pouring toward the edges of the lake, flying into the air until Simon was staring at a ring of water, like a circle of unbroken waterfalls, all shimmering and pouring upward and downward, the effect bizarre and strangely beautiful. Water droplets shivered down onto him, cooling his burning skin. He tipped his head back, just as the sky went black — all the blue of it gone, eaten up in a sudden shock of darkness and clamoring gray clouds. The water splashed back down into the lake, and from its center, the greatest density of its silver, rose a figure all of gold.

Simon’s mouth went dry. He had seen countless paintings of angels, believed in them, had heard Magnus’s warning. And still he felt as if he had been struck through with a spear as before him a pair of wings unfolded. They seemed to span the sky. They were vast, white and gold and silver, the feathers of them set with burning golden eyes. The eyes regarded him with scorn. Then the wings lifted, scattering clouds before them, and folded back, and a man — or the shape of a man, towering and many stories tall, unfolded itself and rose.

Simon’s teeth had started to chatter. He wasn’t sure why. But waves of power, of something more than power — of the elemental force of the universe — seemed to roll off the Angel as he rose to his full height. Simon’s first and rather bizarre thought was that it looked as if someone had taken Jace and blown him up to the size of a billboard. Only he didn’t quite look like Jace at all. He was gold all over, from his wings to his skin to his eyes, which had no whites at all, only a sheen of gold like a membrane. His hair was gold and looked cut from pieces of metal that curled like wrought ironwork. He was alien and terrifying. Too much of anything could destroy you, Simon thought. Too much darkness could kill, but too much light could blind.

Who dares to summon me? The Angel spoke in Simon’s mind, in a voice like great bells sounding.

Tricky question, Simon thought. If he were Jace, he could say “one of the Nephilim,” and if he were Magnus, he could say he was one of Lilith’s children and a High Warlock. Clary and the Angel had already met, so he supposed they’d just chum it up. But he was Simon, without any titles to his name or any great deeds in his past. “Simon Lewis,” he said finally, setting the spell book down and straightening up. “Night’s Child, and… your servant.”

My servant? Raziel’s voice was frozen with icy disapproval. You summon me like a dog and dare to call yourself my servant? You shall be blasted from this world, that your fate may serve as a warning to others not to do likewise. It is forbidden for my own Nephilim to summon me. Why should it be different for you, Daylighter?

Simon supposed he should not be shocked that the Angel knew what he was, but it was startling nevertheless, as startling as the Angel’s size. Somehow he had thought Raziel would be more human. “I—”

Do you think because you carry the blood of one of my descendants, I must show you mercy? If so, you have gambled and lost. The mercy of Heaven is for the deserving. Not for those who break our Covenant Laws.

The Angel raised a hand, his finger pointed directly at Simon.

Simon braced himself. This time he did not try to say the words, only thought them. Hear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is one—

What Mark is that? Raziel’s voice was confounded. On your forehead, child.

“It is the Mark,” Simon stammered. “The first Mark. The Mark of Cain.”

Raziel’s great arm lowered slowly. I would kill you, but the Mark prevents it. That Mark was meant to be set between your brows by Heaven’s hand, yet I know it was not. How can this be?

The Angel’s obvious bafflement emboldened Simon. “One of your children, the Nephilim,” he said. “One especially gifted. She set it there, to protect me.” He took a step closer to the edge of the circle. “Raziel, I came to ask a favor of you, in the name of those Nephilim. They face a grave danger. One of their own has — has been turned to darkness, and he threatens all the rest. They need your help.”

I do not intervene.

“But you did intervene,” Simon said. “When Jace was dead, you brought him back. Not that we’re not all really happy about that, but if you hadn’t, none of this would be happening. So in a way it rests on you to set it right.”

I may not be able to kill you, Raziel mused. But there is no reason I should give you what you want.

“I haven’t even said what I want,” said Simon.

You want a weapon. Something that can sever Jonathan Morgenstern from Jonathan Herondale. You would kill the one and preserve the other. Easiest of course to simply kill both. Your Jonathan was dead, and perhaps death longs for him still, and he for it. Has that ever crossed your mind?

“No,” said Simon. “I know we’re not much compared to you, but we don’t kill our friends. We try to save them. If Heaven didn’t want it that way, we ought never have been given the ability to love.” He shoved his hair back, baring the Mark more fully. “No, you don’t need to help me. But if you don’t, there’s nothing stopping me from calling you up again and again, now that I know you can’t kill me. Think of it as me leaning against your Heavenly doorbell… forever.”

Raziel, incredibly, seemed to chuckle at that. You are stubborn, he said. A veritable warrior of your people, like him whose name you bear, Simon Maccabeus. And as he gave everything for his brother Jonathan, so shall you give everything for your Jonathan. Or are you not willing?

“It’s not just for him,” said Simon, a little dazed. “But, yes, whatever you want. I will give it to you.”

If I give you what you want, will you also vow never to bother me again?

“I don’t think,” said Simon, “that that will be a problem.”

Very well, said the Angel. I will tell you what I desire. I desire that blasphemous Mark on your forehead. I would take the Mark of Cain from you, for it was never your place to carry it.

“I — but if you take the Mark, then you can kill me,” Simon said. “Isn’t it the only thing standing between me and your Heavenly wrath?”

The Angel paused to consider for a moment. I shall swear not to harm you. Whether you bear the Mark or not.

Simon hesitated. The Angel’s expression turned thunderous. The vow of an Angel of Heaven is the most sacred there is. Do you dare to distrust me, Downworlder?

“I…” Simon paused for an excruciating moment. His eyes were filled with the memory of Clary standing on her tiptoes as she pressed the stele to his forehead; the first time he had seen the Mark work, when he had felt like the conductor for a lightning bolt, sheer energy passing through him with deadly force. It was a curse, one that had terrified him and made him an object of desire and fear. He had hated it. And yet now, faced with giving it up, the thing that made him special…

He swallowed hard. “Fine. Yes. I agree.”

The Angel smiled, and his smile was terrible, like looking directly into the sun. Then I swear not to harm you, Simon Maccabeus.

“Lewis,” Simon said. “My last name is Lewis.”

But you are of the blood and faith of the Maccabees. Some say the Maccabees were Marked by the hand of God. In either case you are a warrior of Heaven, Daylighter, whether you like it or not.

The Angel moved. Simon’s eyes watered, for Raziel seemed to draw the sky with him like a cloth, in swirls of black and silver and cloud-white. The air around him shuddered. Something flashed overhead like the glint of light off metal, and an object struck the sand and rocks beside Simon with a metallic clatter.

It was a sword — nothing special to look at either, a beaten-up-looking old iron sword with a blackened hilt. The edges were ragged, as if acid had eaten at them, though the tip was sharp. It looked like something that an archeological dig might have turned up, that hadn’t been properly cleaned yet.

The Angel spoke. Once when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing before him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went to him and said, “Are you one of us, or one of our adversaries?” He replied, “Neither, but as commander of the army of the Lord, I have now come.”

Simon glanced down at the unprepossesing object at his feet. “And that’s this sword?”

It is the sword of the Archangel Michael, commander of the armies of Heaven. It possesses the power of Heaven’s fire. Strike your enemy with this, and it will burn the evil out of him. If he is more evil than good, more Hell’s than Heaven’s, it will also burn the life from him. It will most certainly sever his bond with your friend — and it can harm only one of them at a time.

Simon bent down and picked the sword up. It sent a shock through his hand, up his arm, into his motionless heart. Instinctively he raised it, and the clouds above seemed to part for a moment, a ray of light arcing down to strike the dull metal of the sword and make it sing.

The Angel looked down upon him with cold eyes. The name of the sword cannot be spoken by your meager human tongue. You may call it Glorious.

“I…,” Simon began. “Thank you.”

Do not thank me. I would have killed you, Daylighter, but your Mark, and now my vow, prevent it. The Mark of Cain was meant to be placed upon you by God, and it was not. It shall be wiped from your brow, its protection removed. And if you call upon me again, I will not help you.

Instantly the beam of light shining down from the clouds intensified, striking the sword like a whip of fire, surrounding Simon in a cage of brilliant light and heat. The sword burned; he cried out and fell to the ground, pain lancing through his head. It felt as if someone were jabbing a red hot needle between his eyes. He covered his face, burying his head in his arms, letting the pain wash over him. It was the worst agony he had felt since the night he had died.

It faded slowly, ebbing like the tide. He rolled onto his back, staring up, his head still aching. The black clouds were beginning to roll back, showing a widening strip of blue; the Angel was gone, the lake surging under the growing light as if the water were boiling.

Simon began to sit up slowly, his eyes squinted painfully against the sun. He could see someone racing down the path from the farmhouse to the lake. Someone with long black hair, and a purple jacket that flew out behind her like wings. She hit the end of the path and leaped onto the lakeside, her boots kicking up puffs of sand behind her. She reached him and threw herself down, wrapping her arms around him. “Simon,” she whispered.

He could feel the strong, steady beat of Isabelle’s heart.

“I thought you were dead,” she went on. “I saw you fall down, and — I thought you were dead.”

Simon let her hold him, propping himself up on his hands. He realized he was listing like a ship with a hole in the side, and tried not to move. He was afraid that if he did, he would fall over. “I am dead.”

“I know,” Izzy snapped. “I mean more dead than usual.”

“Iz.” He raised his face to hers. She was kneeling over him, her legs around his, her arms around his neck. It looked uncomfortable. He let himself fall back into the sand, taking her with him. He thumped down onto his back in the cold sand with her on top of him and stared up into her black eyes. They seemed to take up the whole sky.

She touched his forehead in wonder. “Your Mark’s gone.”

“Raziel took it away. In exchange for the sword.” He gestured toward the blade. Up at the farmhouse, he could see two dark specks standing in front of the sunporch, watching them. Alec and Magnus. “It’s the Archangel Michael’s sword. It’s called Glorious.”

“Simon…” She kissed his cheek. “You did it. You got the Angel. You got the sword.”

Magnus and Alec had started down the path to the lake. Simon closed his eyes, exhausted. Isabelle leaned over him, her hair brushing the sides of his face. “Don’t try to talk.” She smelled like tears. “You’re not cursed anymore,” she whispered. “You’re not cursed.”

Simon linked his fingers with hers. He felt as if he were floating on a dark river, the shadows closing in around him. Only her hand anchored him to earth. “I know.”

19 LOVE AND BLOOD

Methodically and carefully Clary was tearing Jace’s room apart. She was still in her tank top, though she’d pulled on a pair of jeans; her hair was scraped behind her head in a messy bun, and her nails were powdered with dust. She had searched under his bed, in all the drawers and cabinets, crawled under the wardrobe and desk, and looked in the pockets of all his clothes for a second stele, but she had found nothing.

She had told Sebastian she was exhausted, that she needed to go upstairs and lie down; he had seemed distracted and had waved her away. Images of Jace’s face kept flashing behind her eyelids every time she shut her eyes — the way he had looked at her, betrayed, as if he didn’t know her anymore.

But there was no point dwelling on that. She could sit on the edge of the bed and cry into her hands, thinking about what she had done, but it would do no one any good. She owed it to Jace, to herself, to keep moving. Searching. If she could just find a stele—

She was lifting the mattress off the bed, searching the space between it and the box springs, when a knock came on the door.

She dropped the mattress, though not before discerning that there was nothing under it. She tightened her hands into fists, took a deep breath, stalked to the door and threw it open.

Sebastian stood on the threshold. For the first time he was wearing something other than black and white. The same black trousers and boots, admittedly, but he also wore a scarlet leather tunic, intricately worked with gold and silver runes, and held together by a row of metal clasps across the front. There were hammered silver bracelets on each of his wrists, and he wore the Morgenstern ring.

She blinked at him. “Red?”

“Ceremonial,” he replied. “Colors mean different things to Shadowhunters than they do to humans.” He said the word “humans” with contempt. “You know the old Nephilim children’s rhyme, don’t you?

Black for hunting through the night

For death and sorrow, the color’s white.

Gold for a bride in her wedding gown,

And red to call enchantment down.”

“Shadowhunters get married in gold?” Clary said. Not that she cared particularly, but she was trying to wedge her body into the gap between the door and the frame so that he couldn’t look behind her and see the mess she’d made out of Jace’s normally neat room.

“Sorry to crush your dreams of a white wedding.” He grinned at her. “Speaking of which, I brought you something to wear.”

He drew his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a folded item of clothing. She took it from him and let it unroll. It was a long, drifting column of scarlet fabric with an odd golden sheen to the material, like the edge of a flame. The straps were gold.

“Our mother used to wear this to Circle ceremonies before she betrayed our father,” he said. “Put it on. I want you to wear it tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Well, you can hardly go to the ceremony in what you’re wearing now.” His eyes raked her, from her bare feet to the tank top clinging to her body with sweat, to her dusty jeans. “How you look tonight — the impression you make on our new acolytes — is important. Put it on.”

Her mind was whirling. The ceremony tonight. Our new acolytes. “How much time do I have — to get ready?” she asked.

“An hour perhaps,” he said. “We should be at the sacred site by midnight. The others will be gathering there. It wouldn’t do to be late.”

An hour. Heart hammering, Clary threw the garment across the bed, where it glimmered like chain mail. When she turned back, he was still in the doorway, a half smile on his face, as if he intended to wait there while she changed.

She moved to shut the door. He caught her wrist. “Tonight,” he said, “you call me Jonathan. Jonathan Morgenstern. Your brother.”

A shudder ran over her whole body, and she dropped her eyes, hoping he couldn’t see the hatred in them. “Whatever you say.”

The moment he was gone she reached for one of Jace’s leather jackets. She slipped it on, taking comfort in the warmth and the familiar smell of him. She slid her feet into shoes and crept out into the hallway, wishing for a stele and a new Soundless rune. She could hear water running downstairs and Sebastian’s off-key whistling, but her own footsteps still sounded like cannon explosions in her ears. She crept along, keeping close to the wall, until she reached Sebastian’s door and slid inside.

It was dim, the only illumination the ambient city light coming from the windows, whose curtains were pulled back. It was a mess, just as it had been the first time she’d been in it. She started with his closet, stuffed full of expensive clothes — silk shirts, leather jackets, Armani suits, Bruno Magli shoes. On the floor of the closet was a white shirt, wadded up and stained with blood — blood old enough to have dried to brown. Clary looked at it for a long moment and shut the closet door.

She set herself to the desk next, pulling out drawers, rifling through papers. She’d rather hoped for something simple, like a lined piece of notebook paper with MY EVIL PLAN written across the top, but no luck. There were dozens of papers with complex numerical and alchemical figuring on them, and even a piece of stationery that began My beautiful one in Sebastian’s cramped handwriting. She spared a moment to wonder who on earth Sebastian’s beautiful one could be — she hadn’t thought of him as someone who ever had romantic feelings about anyone — before turning to the nightstand by his bed.

She pulled open the drawer. Inside was a stack of notes. On top of them, something glimmered. Something circular and metallic.

Her faerie ring.

Isabelle sat with her arm around Simon as they drove back toward Brooklyn. He was exhausted, his head throbbing, his body pierced with aches. Though Magnus had given him back his ring at the lake, he had been unable to reach Clary with it. Worst of all, he was hungry. He liked how close Isabelle was sitting to him, the way she rested her hand just above the crook of his elbow, tracing patterns there, sometimes sliding her fingers down to his wrist. But the scent of her — perfume and blood — made his stomach growl.

It was starting to grow dark outside, the late-autumn sunset coming soon on the heels of the day, dimming the interior of the truck’s cab. Alec’s and Magnus’s voices were murmurs in the shadows. Simon let his eyes flutter closed, seeing the Angel printed against the back of his lids, a burst of white light.

Simon! Clary’s voice exploded inside his head, jerking him instantly awake. Are you there?

A sharp gasp escaped his lips. Clary? I was so worried—

Sebastian took my ring away from me. Simon, there may not be much time. I have to tell you. They have a second Mortal Cup. They plan to raise Lilith and create an army of dark Shadowhunters — ones with the same power as the Nephilim but allied to the demon world.

“You’re kidding me,” Simon said. It took him a moment to realize he’d spoken aloud; Isabelle stirred against him, and Magnus looked over curiously.

“You all right there, vampire?”

“It’s Clary,” Simon said. All three of them looked at him with identical astonished expressions. “She’s trying to talk to me.” He slapped his hands over his ears, slumping down in his seat and trying to concentrate on her words. When are they going to do it?

Tonight. Soon. I don’t know where we are exactly — but it’s about ten p.m. here.

Then you’re about five hours ahead of us. Are you in Europe?

I can’t even guess. Sebastian mentioned something called the Seventh Sacred Site. I don’t know what that is, but I’ve found some of his notes and apparently it’s an ancient tomb. It looks like a sort of doorway, and demons can be summoned through it.

Clary, I’ve never heard of anything like that—

But Magnus or the others might. Please, Simon. Tell them as quickly as you can. Sebastian’s going to ressurrect Lilith. He wants war, a total war with the Shadowhunters. He has about forty or fifty Nephilim ready to follow him. They’ll be there. Simon, he wants to burn the world down. We have to do anything we can to stop him.

If things are that dangerous, you need to get yourself out of there.

She sounded tired. I’m trying. But it might be too late.

Simon was dimly aware that everyone else in the truck was staring at him, concern on their faces. He didn’t care. Clary’s voice in his mind was like a rope tossed over a chasm, and if he could grip his end of it, maybe he could pull her to safety, or at least keep her from slipping away.

Clary, listen. I can’t tell you how, it’s too long a story, but we have a weapon. It can be used on either Jace or Sebastian without hurting the other, and according to the… person who gave it to us, it might be able to cut them apart.

Cut them apart? How?

He said it would burn all the evil out of the one we used it on. So if we used it on Sebastian, I’m guessing, it would burn away the bond between them because the bond is evil. Simon felt his head throb, and hoped he sounded more confident than he did. I’m not sure. It’s very powerful, anyway. It’s called Glorious.

And you’d use it on Sebastian? It would burn them apart without killing them?

Well, that’s the idea. I mean, there is some chance it would destroy Sebastian. It would depend on if there’s any good left in him. “If he’s more Hell’s than Heaven’s” I think is what the Angel said—

The Angel? Her alarm was palpable. Simon, what have you—

Her voice broke off, and Simon was suddenly filled with a clamor of emotion — surprise, anger, terror. Pain. He cried out, sitting bolt upright.

Clary?

But there was only silence, ringing in his head.

Clary! he cried out, and then, aloud, he said: “Damn. She’s gone again.”

“What happened?” Isabelle demanded. “Is she all right? What’s going on?”

“I think we have a lot less time than we thought,” Simon said in a voice much calmer than he felt. “Magnus, pull the truck over. We have to talk.”

“So,” Sebastian said, filling the doorway as he looked down at Clary. “Would it be déjà vu if I asked you what you were doing in my room, little sister?”

Clary swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. The light in the hallway was bright behind Sebastian, turning him into a silhouette. She couldn’t see the expression on his face. “Looking for you?” she hazarded.

“You’re sitting on my bed,” he said. “Did you think I was under it?”

“I…”

He walked into the room — sauntered, really, as if he knew something she didn’t. Something no one else knew. “So why were you looking for me? And why haven’t you changed for the ceremony?”

“The dress,” she said. “It — doesn’t fit.”

“Of course it fits,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. He turned to face her, his back to the headboard. “Everything else in that room fits you. This should fit you too.”

“It’s silk and chiffon. It doesn’t stretch.”

“You’re a skinny little thing. It shouldn’t have to.” He took her right wrist, and she curled her fingers in, desperately trying to hide the ring. “Look, my fingers go right around your wrist.”

His skin felt hot against hers, sending sharp prickles through her nerves. She remembered the way, in Idris, his touch had burned her like acid. “The Seventh Sacred Site,” she said, not looking at him. “Is that where Jace went?”

“Yes. I sent him ahead. He’s readying things for our arrival. We’ll meet him there.”

Her heart dived inside her chest. “He’s not coming back?”

“Not before the ceremony.” She caught the curling edge of Sebastian’s smile. “Which is good, because he’d be so disappointed when I told him about this.” He slid his hand swiftly over hers, uncurling her fingers. The gold ring blazed there, like a signal fire. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize faerie work? Do you think the Queen is such a fool that she would send you off to retrieve these for her without knowing you would keep them for yourself? She wanted you to bring this here, where I would find it.” He jerked the ring off her finger with a smirk.

“You’ve been in contact with the Queen?” Clary demanded. “How?”

“With this ring,” Sebastian purred, and Clary remembered the Queen saying in her high sweet voice, Jonathan Morgenstern could be a powerful ally. The Fair Folk are an old people; we do not make hasty decisions but wait to see in what direction the wind blows first. “Do you really think she’d let you get your hands on something that would let you communicate with your little friends without her being able to listen in? Since I took it from you, I’ve spoken to her, she’s spoken to me — you were a fool to trust her, little sister. She likes to be on the winning side of things, the Seelie Queen. And that side will be ours, Clary. Ours.” His voice was low and soft. “Forget them, your Shadowhunter friends. Your place is with us. With me. Your blood cries out for power, like mine does. Whatever your mother may have done to twist your conscience, you know who you are.” His hand caught at her wrist again, pulling her toward him. “Jocelyn made all the wrong decisions. She sided with the Clave against her family. This is your chance to rectify her mistake.”

She tried to pull her arm back. “Let me go, Sebastian. I mean it.”

His hand slid up from her wrist, encircling her upper arm with his fingers. “You’re such a little thing. Who’d think you were such a spitfire? Especially in bed.”

She leaped to her feet, jerking away from him. “What did you just say?”

He rose as well, his lips curving up at the corners. He was so much taller than she was, almost exactly as much taller as Jace was. He leaned in close to her when he spoke, and his voice was low and rough. “Everything that marks Jace, marks me,” he said. “Down to your fingernails.” He was grinning. “Eight parallel scratches on my back, little sister. Are you saying you didn’t put them there?”

A soft explosion went off in her head, like a dull firework of rage. She looked at his laughing face, and she thought of Jace, and of Simon, and the words they’d just exchanged. If the Queen really could eavesdrop on her conversations, then she might know about Glorious already. But Sebastian didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

She snatched the ring from his hand, and threw it to the ground. She heard him give a shout, but she’d already brought her foot down on it, feeling it give way, the gold smashing to powder.

He looked at her incredulously as she drew her foot back. “You—”

She drew back her right hand, the strongest one, and drove her fist into his stomach.

He was taller, broader, and stronger than she was, but she had the element of surprise. He doubled over, choking, and she snatched the stele from his weapons belt. Then she ran.

Magnus jerked the wheel to the side so fast that the tires screeched. Isabelle shrieked. They bumped up onto the shoulder of the road, under the shadow of a copse of partly leafless trees.

The next thing Simon knew, the doors were open and everyone was tumbling out onto the blacktop. The sun was going down, and the headlights of the truck were on, lighting them all with an eerie glow.

“All right, vampire boy,” said Magnus, shaking his head hard enough to shed glitter. “What the hell is going on?”

Alec leaned against the truck as Simon explained, repeating the conversation with Clary as accurately as he could before the whole thing flew out of his head.

“Did she say anything about getting her and Jace out of there?” Isabelle asked when he was done, her face pale in the yellowish glow from the headlights.

“No,” said Simon. “And Iz — I don’t think Jace wants to get out. He wants to be where he is.”

Isabelle crossed her arms and looked down at her boots, her black hair sweeping across her face.

“What’s this Seventh Sacred Site business?” said Alec. “I know about the seven wonders of the world, but seven sacred sites?”

“They’re more in the interest of warlocks than Nephilim,” said Magnus. “Each is a place where ley lines converge, forming a matrix — a sort of net within which magical spells are amplified. The seventh is a stone tomb in Ireland, at Poll na mBrón; the name means ‘the cavern of sorrows.’ It’s in a very bleak, uninhabited area called the Burren. A good place to raise a demon, if it’s a big one.” He tugged at a spike of hair. “This is bad. Really bad.”

“You think he could do it? Make — dark Shadowhunters?” Simon asked.

“Everything has an alliance, Simon. The alliance of the Nephilim is seraphic, but if it were demonic, they’d still be as strong, as powerful as they are now. But they would be dedicated to the eradication of mankind instead of its salvation.”

“We have to get there,” Isabelle said. “We have to stop them.”

“‘Him,’ you mean,” said Alec. “We have to stop him. Sebastian.”

“Jace is his ally now. You have to accept that, Alec,” Magnus said. A light misty drizzle had begun to fall. The drops gleamed like gold in the headlights’ glow. “Ireland is five hours ahead. They’re doing the ceremony at midnight. It’s five o’clock here. We have an hour and a half — two hours, at most — to stop them.”

“Then, we shouldn’t be waiting. We should be going,” Isabelle said, a tinge of panic in her voice. “If we’re going to stop him—”

“Iz, there are only four of us,” Alec said. “We don’t even know what kind of numbers we’re up against—”

Simon glanced at Magnus, who was watching Alec and Isabelle argue with a peculiarly detached expression. “Magnus,” Simon said. “Why didn’t we just Portal to the farm? You Portaled half of Idris to Brocelind Plain.”

“I wanted to give you enough time to change your mind,” said Magnus, not taking his eyes off his boyfriend.

“But we can Portal from here,” Simon said. “I mean, you could do that for us.”

“Yeah,” Magnus said. “But like Alec says, we don’t know what we’re up against in terms of numbers. I’m a pretty powerful warlock, but Jonathan Morgenstern is no ordinary Shadowhunter, and neither is Jace, for that matter. And if they succeed in raising Lilith — she’ll be a lot weaker than she was, but she’s still Lilith.”

“But she’s dead,” said Isabelle. “Simon killed her.”

“Greater Demons don’t die,” said Magnus. “Simon… scattered her between worlds. It will take a long time for her to re-form and she will be weak for years. Unless Sebastian calls her up again.” He pushed a hand through his wet, spiked hair.

“We have the sword,” Isabelle said. “We can take out Sebastian. We have Magnus, and Simon—”

“We don’t even know if the sword will work,” said Alec. “And it won’t do us much good if we can’t get to Sebastian. And Simon isn’t even Mr. Indestructible anymore. He can be killed just like the rest of us.”

They all looked at Simon. “We have to try,” he said. “Look — we don’t know how many are going to be there, no. We have a little time. Not a lot, but enough — if we Portal — to grab some reinforcements.”

“Reinforcements from where?” Isabelle demanded.

“I’ll go to Maia and Jordan back at the apartment,” said Simon, his mind quickly ticking over possibilities. “See if Jordan can get any assistance from the Praetor Lupus. Magnus, go to the downtown police station, see about enlisting whatever members of the pack are around. Isabelle and Alec—”

“You’re splitting us up?” Isabelle demanded, her voice rising. “What about fire-messages, or—”

“No one’s going to trust a fire-message about something like this,” said Magnus. “And besides, fire-messages are for Shadowhunters. Do you really want to communicate this information to the Clave via fire-message instead of going to the Institute yourself?”

“Fine.” Isabelle stalked around to the side of the car. She yanked the door open, but didn’t get inside: instead she reached in, and drew out Glorious. It shone in the dim light like a bolt of dark lightning, the words carved on the blade flickering in the car light: Quis ut Deus?

The rain was starting to paste Isabelle’s black hair to her neck. She looked formidable as she walked back to rejoin the group. “Then we leave the car here. We split up, but we meet back at the Institute in an hour. That’s when we leave, whoever we have with us.” She met each of her companion’s eyes, one by one, daring them to challenge her. “Simon, take this.”

She held out Glorious to him, hilt-forward.

“Me?” Simon was startled. “But I don’t — I haven’t really used a sword before.”

“You called it down,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes glossy in the rain. “The Angel gave it to you, Simon, and you will be the one who carries it.”

Clary dashed down the hallway and hit the steps with a clatter, racing for the downstairs and for the spot on the wall that Jace had told her was the only entrance and exit from the apartment.

She had no illusions that she could escape. She needed only a few moments to do what had to be done. She heard Sebastian’s boots loud on the glass staircase behind her, and put on a burst of speed, almost slamming into the wall. She jammed the stele into it point-first, drawing frantically: a pattern as simple as a cross, new to the world—

Sebastian’s fist closed on the back of her jacket, jerking her backward, the stele flying out of her hand. She gasped as he swung her up off her feet and slammed her into the wall, knocking the breath out of her. He glanced at the mark she had made on the wall, and his lips curled into a sneer.

“The Opening rune?” he said. He leaned forward and hissed into her ear. “And you didn’t even finish it. Not that it matters. Do you really think there’s a place on this earth you could go where I couldn’t find you?”

Clary responded with an epithet that would have gotten her kicked out of class at St. Xavier’s. Just as he started to laugh, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face so hard, her fingers stung. In his surprise he loosened his grip on her, and she jerked away from him and flipped herself over the table, making for the downstairs bedroom, which at least had a lock on the door—

And he was in front of her, grabbing the lapels of her jacket and swinging her around. Her feet went out from under her, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t pinned her to the wall with his body, his arms to either side, making a cage around her.

His grin was diabolical. Gone was the stylish boy who’d strolled by the Seine with her and drunk hot chocolate and talked about belonging. His eyes were all black, no pupil, like tunnels. “What’s wrong, little sis? You look upset.”

She could barely catch her breath. “Cracked… my… nail polish slapping your… worthless face. See?” She showed him her finger — just one of them.

“Cute.” He snorted. “You know how I knew you’d betray us? How I knew you wouldn’t be able to help it? Because you’re too much like me.”

He pressed her back harder against the wall. She could feel his chest rise and fall against hers. She was at eye level with the straight, sharp line of his collarbone. His body felt like a prison around hers, pinning her in place. “I’m nothing like you. Let me go—”

“You’re everything like me,” he growled into her ear. “You infiltrated us. You faked friendship, faked caring.”

“I never had to fake caring about Jace.”

She saw something flash in his eyes then, a dark jealousy, and she wasn’t even sure who he was jealous of. He put his lips against her cheek, close enough that she felt them move against her skin when he spoke. “You screwed us over,” he murmured. His hand was around her left arm like a vise; slowly he began to move it down. “Probably literally screwed Jace over—”

She couldn’t help it, she flinched. She felt him inhale sharply. “You did,” he said. “You slept with him.” He sounded almost betrayed.

“It’s none of your business.”

He caught at her face, turning her to look at him, fingers digging into her chin. “You can’t screw someone into being good. Nicely heartless move, though.” His lovely mouth curved into a cold smile. “You know he doesn’t remember any of it, right? Did he show you a good time, at least? Because I would have.”

She tasted bile in her throat. “You’re my brother.”

“Those words don’t mean anything where we’re concerned. We aren’t human. Their rules don’t apply to us. Stupid laws about what DNA can be mixed with what. Hypocritical, really, considering. We’re already experiments. The rulers of ancient Egypt used to marry their siblings, you know. Cleopatra married her brother. Strengthens the bloodline.”

She looked at him with loathing. “I knew you were crazy,” she said. “But I didn’t realize you were absolutely, spectactularly out of your goddamned mind.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything crazy about it. Who do we belong with but each other?”

“Jace,” she said. “I belong with Jace.”

He made a dismissive noise. “You can have Jace.”

“I thought you needed him.”

“I do. But not for what you need him for.” His hands were suddenly on her waist. “We can share him. I don’t care what you do. As long as you know you belong to me.”

She raised her hands, meaning to shove him away. “I don’t belong to you. I belong to me.”

The look in his eyes froze her in place. “I think you know better than that,” he said, and brought his mouth down on hers, hard.

For a moment she was back in Idris, standing in front of the burned Fairchild manor, and Sebastian was kissing her, and she felt as if she were falling into darkness, into a tunnel that had no end. At the time she’d thought there was something wrong with her. That she couldn’t kiss anyone but Jace. That she was broken.

Now she knew better. Sebastian’s mouth moved on hers, as hard and cold as a razor-slice in the dark, and she raised herself up on the tips of her toes, and bit down hard on his lip.

He yelled and spun away from her, his hand to his mouth. She could taste his blood, bitter copper; it dripped down his chin as he stared at her with incredulous eyes. “You—”

She whirled and kicked him, hard, in the stomach, hoping it was still sore from where she’d punched him before. As he doubled up, she shot by him, running for the stairs. She was halfway there when she felt him grab her by the back of her collar. He swung her around as if he were swinging a baseball bat, and flung her at the wall. She hit it hard and sank to her knees, the breath knocked out of her.

Sebastian started toward her, his hands flexing at his sides, his eyes shimmering black like a shark’s. He looked terrifying; Clary knew she ought to be frightened, but a cold, glassy detachment had come over her. Time seemed to have slowed. She remembered the fight in the junk shop in Prague, how she had disappeared into her own world where each movement was as precise as the movement of a watch. Sebastian reached down toward her, and she pushed up, off the ground, sweeping her legs sideways, knocking his feet out from under him.

He fell forward, and she rolled out of the way, bouncing to her feet. She didn’t bother trying to run this time. Instead she grabbed the porcelain vase off the table and, as Sebastian rose to his feet, swung it at his head. It shattered, spraying water and leaves, and he staggered back, blood blooming against his white-silver hair.

He snarled and sprang at her. It was like being slammed by a wrecking ball. Clary flew backward, smashing through the glass tabletop, and hit the ground in an explosion of shards and agony. She screamed as Sebastian landed on top of her, driving her body down into the shattered glass, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He brought his arm down backhanded and cracked her across the face. Blood blinded her; she choked on the taste of it in her mouth, and its salt stung her eyes. She jerked up her knee, catching him in the stomach, but it was like kicking a wall. He grabbed her hands, forcing them down by her sides.

“Clary, Clary, Clary,” he said. He was gasping. At least she’d winded him. Blood ran in a slow trickle from a gash on the side of his head, staining his hair scarlet. “Not bad. You weren’t much of a fighter back in Idris.”

“Get off me—”

He moved his face close to hers. His tongue darted out. She tried to jerk away but couldn’t move fast enough as he licked the blood off the side of her face, and grinned. The grin split his lip, and more blood ran in a trickle down his chin. “You asked me who I belong to,” he whispered. “I belong to you. Your blood is my blood, your bones my bones. The first time you saw me, I looked familiar, didn’t I? Just like you looked familiar to me.”

She gaped at him. “You’re out of your mind.”

“It’s in the Bible,” he said. “The Song of Solomon. ‘Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.’” His fingers brushed her throat, looping into the chain there, the chain that had held the Morgenstern ring. She wondered if he would crush her windpipe. “‘I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love.’” His blood dripped onto her face. She held herself still, her body humming with the effort, as his hand slipped from her throat, along her side, to her waist. His fingers slid inside the waistband of her jeans. His skin was hot, burning; she could feel that he wanted her.

“You don’t love me,” she said. Her voice was thin; he was crushing the air from her lungs. She remembered what her mother had said, that every emotion Sebastian showed was a pretense. Her thoughts were clear as crystal; she silently thanked the battle euphoria for doing what it had to do and keeping her focused while Sebastian sickened her with his touch.

“And you don’t care that I’m your brother,” he said. “I know how you felt about Jace, even when you thought he was your brother. You can’t lie to me.”

“Jace is better than you.”

“No one’s better than me.” He grinned, all white teeth and blood. “‘A garden enclosed is my sister,’” he said. “‘A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.’ But not anymore, right? Jace took care of that.” He fumbled at the button on her jeans, and she took advantage of his distraction to seize up a good-size triangular piece of glass from the ground and slam the jagged edge of it into his shoulder.

The glass slid along her fingers, slicing them open. He yelled, jerking back, but more in surprise than pain; the gear protected him. She slashed the glass down harder, this time into his thigh, and when he reared back, she drove her other elbow into his throat. He went sideways, choking, and she rolled, pinning him under her as she yanked the bloody glass free of his leg. She drove the shard down toward the pulsing vein in his neck — and stopped.

He was laughing. He lay under her, and he was laughing, his laughter vibrating up through her own body. His skin was spattered with blood — her blood, dripping down on him, his own blood where she had cut him, his silver-white hair matted with it. He let his arms fall to either side of him, outstretched like wings, a broken angel, fallen out of the sky.

He said, “Kill me, little sister. Kill me, and you kill Jace, too.”

She brought the glass shard down.

20 A DOOR INTO THE DARK

Clary screamed aloud in pure frustration as the shard of glass embedded itself in the wooden floor, inches from Sebastian’s throat.

She felt him laugh underneath her. “You can’t do it,” he said. “You can’t kill me.”

“To hell with you,” she snarled. “I can’t kill Jace.”

“Same thing,” he said, and, sitting up so fast she barely saw him move, he belted her across the face with enough force to send her skidding across the glass-strewn floor. Her slide was arrested when she hit the wall, gagged, and coughed blood. She buried her head against her forearm, the taste and smell of her own blood everywhere, sickening and metallic. A moment later Sebastian’s hand was fisted in her jacket and he was hauling her to her feet.

She didn’t fight him. What was the point? Why fight someone when they were willing to kill you and they knew you weren’t willing to kill, or even seriously wound, them? They’d always win. She stood still as he examined her. “Could be worse,” he said. “Looks like the jacket kept you from any real damage.”

Real damage? Her body felt like it had been sliced all over with thin knives. She glared at him through her eyelashes as he swung her up into his arms. It was like it had been in Paris, when he’d carried her away from the Dahak demons, but then she had been — if not grateful, at least confused, and now she was filled with a boiling hatred. She kept her body tense while he carried her upstairs, his boots ringing on the glass. She was trying to forget she was touching him, that his arm was under her thighs, his hands possessive on her back.

I will kill him, she thought. I will find a way, and I will kill him.

He walked into Jace’s room and dumped her onto the floor. She staggered back a step. He caught her and ripped the jacket off her. Underneath she was wearing only a T-shirt. It was shredded as if she’d run a cheese grater over it, and stained everywhere with blood.

Sebastian whistled.

“You’re a mess, little sister,” he said. “Better get in the bathroom and wash some of that blood off.”

“No,” she said. “Let them see me like this. Let them see what you had to do to get me to come with you.”

His hand shot out and grabbed her under the chin, forcing her face up to his. Their faces were inches apart. She wanted to close her eyes but refused to give him the satisfaction; she stared back at him, at the loops of silver in his black eyes, the blood on his lip where she’d bitten him. “You belong to me,” he said again. “And I will have you by my side, however I have to force you to be there.”

“Why?” she demanded, rage as bitter on her tongue as the taste of blood. “What do you care? I know you can’t kill Jace, but you could kill me. Why don’t you just do it?”

Just for a moment, his eyes went distant, glassy, as if he were seeing something invisible to her. “This world will be consumed by hellfire,” he said. “But I will bring you and Jace safely through the flames if you only do what I ask. It is a grace I extend to no one else. Do you not see how foolish you are to reject it?”

“Jonathan,” she said. “Don’t you see how impossible it is to ask me to fight by your side when you want to burn down the world?”

His eyes refocused on her face. “But why?” It was almost plaintive. “Why is this world so precious to you? You know that there are others.” His own blood was very red against his stark white skin. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me and will fight with me.”

“I’ll never love you. You were wrong when you said we have the same blood. Your blood is poison. Demon poison.” She spat the last words.

He only smiled, his eyes glowing darkly. She felt something burn on her upper arm, and she jumped before she realized it was a stele; he was tracing an iratze on her skin. She hated him even as the pain faded. His bracelet clanked on his wrist as he moved his hand skillfully, completing the rune.

“I knew you lied,” she said to him suddenly.

“I tell so many lies, sweetheart,” he said. “Which one specifically?”

“Your bracelet,” she said. “‘Acheronta movebo.’ It doesn’t mean ‘Thus always to tyrants.’ That’s ‘sic semper tyrannis.’ This is from Virgil. ‘Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.’ ‘If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell.’”

“Your Latin’s better that I thought.”

“I learn fast.”

“Not fast enough.” He released his grip on her chin. “Now get into the bathroom and clean yourself up,” he said, shoving her backward. He grabbed her mother’s ceremonial dress off the bed and dumped it into her arms. “Time grows short, and my patience wears thin. If you’re not out in ten minutes, I’ll come in after you. And trust me, you won’t like that.”

“I’m starving,” Maia said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.” She pulled the refrigerator door open and peered in. “Oh, yuck.”

Jordan pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her, and nuzzled the back of her neck. “We can order food. Pizza, Thai, Mexican, whatever you want. As long as it doesn’t cost more than twenty-five dollars.”

She turned around in his arms, laughing. She was wearing one of his shirts; it was a little too big on him, and on her it hung nearly to her knees. Her hair was pulled up in a knot at the back of her neck. “Big spender,” she said.

“For you, anything.” He lifted her up by the waist and set her on one of the counter stools. “You can have a taco.” He kissed her. His lips were sweet, slightly minty from toothpaste. She felt the buzz in her body that came from touching him, that started at the base of her spine and shot through all her nerves.

She giggled against his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck. A sharp ringing cut through the humming in her blood as Jordan pulled away, frowning. “My phone.” Hanging on to her with one hand, he fumbled behind himself on the counter until he found it. It had stopped ringing, but he lifted it anyway, frowning. “It’s the Praetor.”

The Praetor never called, or at least rarely. Only when something was of deadly importance. Maia sighed and leaned back. “Take it.”

He nodded, already lifting the phone to his ear. His voice was a soft murmur in the back of her consciousness as she jumped down from the counter and went to the refrigerator, where the take-out menus were pinned. She riffled through them until she found the menu for the local Thai place she liked, and turned around with it in her hand.

Jordan was now standing in the middle of the living room, white-faced, with his phone forgotten in his hand. Maia could hear a tinny, distant voice coming from it, saying his name.

Maia dropped the menu and hurried across the room to him. She took the phone out of his hand, disconnected the call, and set it on the counter. “Jordan? What happened?”

“My roommate — Nick — you remember?” he said, disbelief in his hazel eyes. “You never met him but—”

“I saw the photos of him,” she said. “Has something happened?”

“He’s dead.”

“How?”

“Throat torn out, all his blood gone. They think he tracked his assignment down and she killed him.”

“Maureen?” Maia was shocked. “But she was just a little girl.”

“She’s a vampire now.” He took a ragged breath. “Maia…”

She stared at him. His eyes were glassy, his hair tousled. A sudden panic rose inside her. Kissing and cuddling and even sex were one thing. Comforting someone when they were stricken with loss was something else. It meant commitment. It meant caring. It meant you wanted to ease their pain, and at the same time you were thanking God that whatever the bad thing was that had happened, it hadn’t happened to them.

“Jordan,” she said softly, and reaching up on her toes, she put her arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

Jordan’s heart beat hard against hers. “Nick was only seventeen.”

“He was a Praetor, like you,” she said softly. “He knew it was dangerous. You’re only eighteen.” He tightened his grip on her but said nothing. “Jordan,” she said. “I love you. I love you and I’m sorry.”

She felt him freeze. It was the first time she’d said the words since a few weeks before she’d been bitten. He seemed to be holding his breath. Finally he let it out with a gasp.

“Maia,” he croaked. And then, unbelievably, before he could say another word — her phone rang.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll ignore it.”

He let her go, his face soft, bemused with grief and amazement. “No,” he said. “No, it could be important. You go ahead.”

She sighed and went to the counter. It had stopped ringing by the time she reached it, but there was a text message blinking on the screen. She felt her stomach muscles tighten.

“What is it?” Jordan asked, as if he had sensed her sudden tension. Maybe he had.

“A 911. An emergency.” She turned to him, holding the phone. “A call to battle. It went out to everyone in the pack. From Luke — and Magnus. We have to leave right away.”

Clary sat on the floor of Jace’s bathroom, her back against the tile of the tub, her legs stretched out in front of her. She had cleaned the blood from her face and body, and rinsed her bloody hair in the sink. She was wearing her mother’s ceremonial dress, rucked up to her thighs, and the tiled floor was cold against her bare feet and calves.

She looked down at her hands. They ought to look different, she thought. But they were the same hands she’d always had, thin fingers, squared-off nails — you didn’t want long nails when you were an artist — and freckles on the backs of the knuckles. Her face looked the same too. All of her seemed the same, but she wasn’t. These past few days had changed her in ways she couldn’t quite yet fully comprehend.

She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She was pale, between the flame colors of her hair and the dress. Bruises decorated her shoulders and throat.

“Admiring yourself?” She hadn’t heard Sebastian open the door, but there he was, smirking intolerably as always, propped against the frame of the doorway. He was wearing a kind of gear she had never seen before: the usual tough material, but in a scarlet color like fresh blood. He had also added an accessory to his outfit — a recurved crossbow. He held it casually in one hand, though it must have been heavy. “You look lovely, sister. A fitting companion for me.”

She bit back her words with the taste of blood that still lingered in her mouth, and walked toward him. He caught at her arm as she tried to squeeze past him in the doorway. His hand ran over her bare shoulder. “Good,” he said. “You’re not Marked here. I hate it when women ruin their skin with scars. Keep the Marks on your arms and legs.”

“I’d rather you didn’t touch me.”

He snorted, and swung the crossbow up. A bolt was fitted to it, ready to fire. “Walk,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

It took every ounce of effort she had not to flinch away from him. She turned and walked toward the door, feeling a burning between her shoulder blades where she imagined the arrow of the crossbow was trained. They moved like that down the glass stairs and through the kitchen and living room. He grunted at the sight of Clary’s scrawled rune on the wall, reached around her, and under his hand a doorway appeared. The door itself swung open onto a square of darkness.

The crossbow jabbed Clary hard in the back. “Move.”

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the shadows.

Alec slammed his hand against the button in the small cage elevator, and slumped back against the wall. “How much time do we have?”

Isabelle checked the glowing screen of her mobile phone. “About forty minutes.”

The elevator lurched upward. Isabelle cast a covert glance at her brother. He looked tired — dark circles were under his eyes. Despite his height and strength, Alec, with his blue eyes and soft black hair almost to his collar, looked more delicate than he was. “I’m fine,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “You’re the one who’s going to be in trouble for staying away from home. I’m over eighteen. I can do what I want.”

“I texted Mom every night and told her I was with you and Magnus,” Isabelle said as the elevator came to a stop. “It’s not like she didn’t know where I was. And speaking of Magnus…”

Alec reached across her and pulled the elevator’s inside cage door open. “What?”

“Are you two okay? I mean, getting along all right?”

Alec shot her an incredulous look as he stepped out into the entryway. “Everything’s going to hell in a handbasket, and you want to know about my relationship with Magnus?”

“I’ve always wondered about that expression,” Isabelle said thoughtfully as she hurried after her brother down the hallway. Alec had long, long legs and, though she was fast, it was hard to keep up with him when he wanted it to be. “Why a handbasket? What is a handbasket, and why is it a particularly good form of transportation?”

Alec, who had been Jace’s parabatai long enough to have learned to ignore conversational tangents, said, “Magnus and I are okay, I guess.”

“Uh-oh,” Isabelle said. “Okay, you guess? I know what it means when you say that. What happened? Did you have a fight?”

Alec was tapping his fingers against the wall as they raced along, a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. “Quit trying to meddle around in my love life, Iz. What about you? Why aren’t you and Simon a couple? You obviously like him.”

Isabelle let out a squawk. “I am not obvious.”

“You are, actually,” Alec said, sounding as if it surprised him, too, now that he thought about it. “Gazing at him all moony-eyed. The way you freaked out at the lake when the Angel appeared—”

“I thought Simon was dead!”

“What, more dead?” said Alec unkindly. Seeing the expression on his sister’s face, he shrugged. “Look, if you like him, fine. I just don’t see why you’re not dating.”

“Because he doesn’t like me.”

“Of course he does. Guys always like you.”

“Forgive me if I think your opinion is biased.”

“Isabelle,” Alec said, and now there was kindness in his voice, the tone she associated with her brother — love and exasperation mixed together. “You know you’re gorgeous. Guys have chased you since… forever. Why would Simon be different?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But he is. I figure the ball is in his court. He knows how I feel. But I don’t think he’s rushing to do anything about it.”

“To be fair, it’s not like he doesn’t have anything else going on.”

“I know, but — he’s always been like this. Clary—”

“You think he’s still in love with Clary?”

Isabelle chewed her lip. “I — not exactly. I think she’s the one thing he still has from his human life, and he can’t let her go. And as long as he doesn’t let her go, I don’t know if there’s room for me.”

They had almost reached the library. Alec looked sideways at Isabelle through his lashes. “But if they’re just friends—”

“Alec.” She held up her hand, indicating that he should be quiet. Voices were coming from the library, the first one strident and immediately recognizable as their mother’s:

“What do you mean she’s missing?”

“No one’s seen her in two days,” said another voice — soft, female, and slightly apologetic. “She lives alone, so people weren’t sure — but we thought, since you know her brother—”

Without a pause Alec straight-armed the door of the library open. Isabelle ducked past him to see her mother sitting behind the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. In front of her stood two familiar figures: Aline Penhallow, dressed in gear, and beside her Helen Blackthorn, her curly hair in disarray. Both of them turned, looking surprised, as the door opened. Helen, beneath her freckles, was pale; she was also in gear, which drained the color out of her skin even more.

“Isabelle,” said Maryse, rising to her feet. “Alexander. What’s happened?”

Aline reached for Helen’s hand. Silver rings flashed on both their fingers. The Penhallow ring, with its design of mountains, glinted on Helen’s finger, while the intertwined thorn pattern of the Blackthorn family ring adorned Aline’s. Isabelle felt her eyebrows go up; exchanging family rings was serious business. “If we’re intruding, we can go—” Aline began.

“No, stay,” said Izzy, striding forward. “We might need you.”

Maryse settled back into her chair. “So,” she said. “My children grace me with their presence. Where have you two been?”

“I told you,” Isabelle said. “We were at Magnus’s.”

“Why?” Maryse demanded. “And I’m not asking you, Alexander. I’m asking my daughter.”

“Because the Clave stopped looking for Jace,” said Isabelle. “But we didn’t.”

“And Magnus was willing to help,” Alec added. “He’s been up all these nights, searching through spell books, trying to figure out where Jace might be. He even raised the—”

“No.” Maryse put up a hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” The black phone on her desk started to ring. They all stared at it. A black phone call was a call from Idris. No one moved to answer it, and in a moment it was silent. “Why are you here?” Maryse demanded, turning her attention back to her offspring.

“We were looking for Jace—,” Isabelle began again.

“It’s the Clave’s job to do that,” Maryse snapped. She looked tired, Isabelle noticed, the skin stretched thin under her eyes. Lines at the corners of her mouth drew her lips into a frown. She was thin enough that the bones of her wrists seemed to protrude. “Not yours.”

Alec slammed his hand down on the desk, hard enough to make the drawers rattle. “Would you listen to us? The Clave didn’t find Jace, but we did. And Sebastian right along with him. And now we know what they’re planning, and we have”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“barely any time to stop them. Are you going to help or not?”

The black phone rang again. Again Maryse didn’t even move to answer it. She was looking at Alec, her face white with shock. “You did what?”

“We know where Jace is, Mom,” said Isabelle. “Or at least, where he’s going to be. And what he’s going to do. We know Sebastian’s plan, and he has to be stopped. Oh, and we know how we can kill Sebastian but not Jace—”

“Stop.” Maryse shook her head. “Alexander, explain. Concisely, and without hysteria. Thank you.”

Alec launched into the story — leaving out, Isabelle thought, all the good parts, which was how he managed to summarize things so neatly. As abbreviated as his rendition was, both Aline and Helen were gaping by the end of it. Maryse stood very still, her features immobile. When Alec was done, she said in a hushed voice:

“Why have you done these things?”

Alec looked taken aback.

“For Jace,” Isabelle said. “To get him back.”

“You realize that by putting me in this position, you give me no choice but to notify the Clave,” said Maryse, her hand resting on the black phone. “I wish you hadn’t come here.”

Isabelle’s mouth went dry. “Are you seriously mad at us for finally telling you what’s going on?”

“If I notify the Clave, they will send all their reinforcements. Jia will have no choice but to give them instructions to kill Jace on sight. Do you have any idea how many Shadowhunters Valentine’s son has following him?

Alec shook his head. “Maybe forty, it sounds like.”

“Say we brought twice as many as that. We could be fairly confident of defeating his forces, but what kind of chance would Jace have? There’s almost no certainty he’d make it through alive. They’ll kill him just to be sure.”

“Then, we can’t tell them,” said Isabelle. “We’ll go ourselves. We’ll do this without the Clave.”

But Maryse, looking at her, was shaking her head. “The Law says we have to tell them.”

“I don’t care about the Law—,” Isabelle began angrily. She caught sight of Aline looking at her, and slammed her mouth shut.

“Don’t worry,” Aline said. “I’m not going to say anything to my mother. I owe you guys. Especially you, Isabelle.” She tightened her jaw, and Isabelle remembered the darkness under a bridge in Idris, and her whip tearing into a demon, its claws locked onto Aline. “And besides, Sebastian killed my cousin. The real Sebastian Verlac. I have my own reasons to hate him, you know.”

“Regardless,” said Maryse. “If we do not tell them, we will be breaking the Law. We could be sanctioned, or worse.”

“Worse?” said Alec. “What are we talking about here? Exile?”

“I don’t know, Alexander,” said his mother. “It would be up to Jia Penhallow, and whoever wins the Inquisitor’s position, to decide our punishment.”

“Maybe it’ll be Dad,” muttered Izzy. “Maybe he’ll go easy on us.”

“If we fail to notify them of this situation, Isabelle, there is no chance your father will make Inquisitor. None,” said Maryse.

Isabelle took a deep breath. “Could we get our Marks stripped?” she said. “Could we… lose the Institute?”

“Isabelle,” said Maryse. “We could lose everything.”

Clary blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She stood on a rocky plain, whipped by wind, with nothing to break the force of the gale. Patches of grass grew up between slabs of gray rock. In the far distance bleak, scree-covered karst hills rose, black and iron against the night sky. There were lights up ahead. Clary recognized the bobbing white glare of witchlight as the door of the apartment swung shut behind them.

There was the sound of a dull explosion. Clary whirled around to see that the door had vanished; there was a charred patch of dirt and grass, still smoldering, where it had been. Sebastian was staring at it in absolute astonishment. “What—”

She laughed. A dark glee rose in her at the look on his face. She had never seen him shocked like that, his pretenses gone, his expression naked and horrified.

He swung the crossbow back up, inches from her chest. If he fired it at this distance, the bolt would tear through her heart, killing her instantly. “What have you done?”

Clary gazed at him with dark triumph. “That rune. The one you thought was an unfinished Opening rune. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t anything you’d ever seen before. It was a rune I created.”

“A rune for what?”

She remembered putting the stele to the wall, the shape of the rune she had invented on the night when Jace had come to her at Luke’s house. “Destroying the apartment the second someone opened the door. The apartment’s gone. You can’t use it again. No one can.”

“Gone?” The crossbow shook; Sebastian’s lips were twitching, his eyes wild. “You bitch. You little—”

“Kill me,” she said. “Go ahead. And explain it to Jace afterward. I dare you.”

He looked at her, his chest heaving up and down, his fingers trembling on the trigger. Slowly he slid his hand away from it. His eyes were small and furious. “There are worse things than dying,” he said. “And I will do them all to you, little sister, once you’ve drunk from the Cup. And you will like it.”

She spat at him. He jabbed her hard, agonizingly, in the chest with the tip of the bow. “Turn around,” he snarled, and she did, dizzy with a mixture of terror and triumph as he prodded her down a rocky slope. She was wearing thin slippers, and she felt every pebble and crack in the rocks. As they neared the witchlight, Clary saw the scene laid out before them.

In front of her, the ground rose to a low hill. Atop the hill, facing north, was a massive ancient stone tomb. It reminded her slightly of Stonehenge: there were two narrow standing stones that held up a flat capstone, making the whole assemblage resemble a doorway. In front of the tomb a flat sill stone, like the floor of a stage, stretched across the shale and grass. Grouped before the flat stone was a half-circle of about forty Nephilim, robed in red, carrying witchlight torches. Within their half-circle, against the dark ground, blazed a blue-white pentagram.

Atop the flat stone stood Jace. He wore scarlet gear like Sebastian; they had never looked so alike.

Clary could see the brightness of his hair even from a distance. He was pacing the edge of the flat sill stone, and as they grew closer, Clary driven ahead by Sebastian, she could hear what he was saying.

“… gratitude for your loyalty, even over these last difficult years, and grateful for your belief in our father, and now in his sons. And his daughter.”

A murmur ran around the square. Sebastian shoved Clary forward, and they moved through the shadows, and then climbed up onto the stone behind Jace. Jace saw them and inclined his head before turning back to the crowd; he was smiling. “You are the ones who will be saved,” he said. “A thousand years ago the Angel gave us his blood, to make us special, to make us warriors. But it was not enough. A thousand years have passed, and still we hide in the shadows. We protect mundanes we do not love from forces of which they remain ignorant, and an ancient, ossified Law prevents us from revealing ourselves as their saviors. We die in our hundreds, unthanked, unmourned but by our own kind, and without recourse to the Angel who created us.” He moved closer to the edge of the rock platform. The Shadowhunters before it were standing in a half-circle. His hair looked like pale fire. “Yes. I dare to say it. The Angel who created us will not aid us, and we are alone. More alone even than the mundanes, for as one of their great scientists once said, they are like children playing with pebbles on the seashore, while all around them the great ocean of truth lies undiscovered. But we know the truth. We are the saviors of this earth, and we should be ruling it.”

Jace was a good speaker, Clary thought with a sort of pain at her heart, in the same way that Valentine had been. She and Sebastian were behind him now, facing the plain and the crowd on it; she could feel the stares of the gathered Shadowhunters on both of them.

“Yes. Ruling it.” He smiled, a lovely easy smile, full of charm, edged with darkness. “Raziel is cruel and indifferent to our sufferings. It is time to turn from him. Turn to Lilith, Great Mother, who will give us power without punishment, leadership without the Law. Our birthright is power. It is time to claim it.”

He looked sideways with a smile as Sebastian moved forward. “And now I’ll let you hear the rest of it from Jonathan, whose dream this is,” said Jace smoothly, and he retreated, letting Sebastian slide easily into his place. He took another step back, and now he was beside Clary, his hand reaching down to twine with hers.

“Good speech,” she muttered. Sebastian was speaking; she ignored him, focusing on Jace. “Very convincing.”

“You think? I was going to start off ‘Friends, Romans, evildoers…’ but I didn’t think they’d see the humor.”

“You think they’re evildoers?”

He shrugged. “The Clave would.” He looked away from Sebastian, down at her. “You look beautiful,” he said, but his voice was oddly flat. “What happened?”

She was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He opened his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a white shirt. It was stained at the side and the sleeve with red. She noticed he was careful to turn away from the crowd as he showed her the blood. “I feel what he feels,” he said. “Or did you forget? I had to iratze myself without anyone noticing. It felt like someone was slicing my skin with a razor blade.”

Clary met his gaze. There was no point lying, was there? There was no going back, literally or figuratively. “Sebastian and I had a fight.”

His eyes searched her face. “Well,” he said, letting his jacket fall closed, “I hope you’ve worked it out, whatever it was.”

“Jace…,” she began, but he had given his attention to Sebastian now. His profile was cold and clear in the moonlight, like a silhouette cut out of dark paper. In front of them Sebastian, who had set down his crossbow, raised his arms. “Are you with me?” he cried.

A murmur ran around the square, and Clary tensed. One of the group of Nephilim, an older man, threw his hood back and scowled. “Your father made us many promises. None were fulfilled. Why should we trust you?”

“Because I will bring you the fulfillment of my promises now. Tonight,” Sebastian said, and from his tunic he drew the imitation Mortal Cup. It glowed softly white under the moon.

The murmuring was louder now. Under its cover Jace said, “I hope this goes smoothly. I feel like I didn’t sleep last night at all.”

He was facing the crowd and the pentagram, a look of keen interest on his face. His face was delicately angular in the witchlight. She could see the scar on his cheek, the hollows at his temples, the lovely shape of his mouth. I won’t remember this, he had said. When I’m back — like I was, under his control, I won’t remember being myself. And it was true. He had forgotten every detail. Somehow, though she had known it, had seen him forget, the pain of the reality was acute.

Sebastian stepped down off the rock and moved toward the pentagram. At the edge of it he began to chant. “Abyssum invoco. Lilith invoco. Mater mea, invoco.”

He drew a thin dagger from his belt. Tucking the Cup into the curve of his arm, he used the edge of the blade to slice into his palm. Blood welled, black in the moonlight. He slid the knife back into his belt and held his bleeding hand over the Cup, still chanting in Latin.

It was now or never. “Jace,” Clary whispered. “I know this isn’t really you. I know there’s a part of you that can’t be all right with this. Try to remember who you are, Jace Lightwood.”

His head whipped around, and he looked at her in astonishment. “What are you talking about?”

“Please try to remember, Jace. I love you. You love me—”

“I do love you, Clary,” he said, an edge to his voice. “But you said you understood. This is it. The culmination of everything we’ve worked toward.”

Sebastian flung the contents of the Cup into the center of the pentagram. “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei.”

“Not we,” Clary whispered. “I’m not part of this. Neither are you—”

Jace inhaled sharply. For a moment Clary thought it was because of what she’d said — that maybe, somehow, she was breaking through his shell — but she followed his gaze and saw that a spinning ball of fire had appeared in the center of the pentagram. It was about the size of a baseball, but as she gazed, it grew, elongating and shaping itself, until at last it was the outline of a woman, made all of flames.

“Lilith,” Sebastian said in a ringing voice. “As you called me forth, now I call you. As you gave me life, so I give life to you.”

Slowly the flames darkened. She stood before them all now, Lilith, half again the height of an ordinary human, stripped naked with her black hair waterfalling down her back to her ankles. Her body was as gray as ash, fissured with black lines like volcanic lava. She turned her eyes to Sebastian, and they were writhing black snakes.

“My child,” she breathed.

Sebastian seemed to glow, like witchlight himself — pale skin, pale hair, and his clothes looked black in the moonlight. “Mother, I have called you up as you wished of me. Tonight you will not just be my mother but mother to a new race.” He indicated the waiting Shadowhunters, who were motionless, probably with shock. It was one thing to know a Greater Demon was going to be called, another to see one in the flesh. “The Cup,” he said, and held it out to her, its pale white rim stained with his blood.

Lilith chuckled. It sounded like massive stones grinding against one another. She took the Cup and, as casually as one might pick an insect off a leaf, tore a gash in her ashy gray wrist with her teeth. Very slowly, sludgy black blood trickled forth, spattering into the Cup, which seemed to change, darkening under her touch, its clear translucence turning to mud. “As the Mortal Cup has been to the Shadowhunters, both a talisman and a means of transformation, so shall this Infernal Cup be to you,” she said in her charred, windblown voice. She knelt, holding out the Cup to Sebastian. “Take of my blood and drink.”

Sebastian took the Cup from her hands. It had turned black now, a shimmering black like hematite.

“As your army grows, so shall my strength,” Lilith hissed. “Soon I will be strong enough to truly return — and we shall share the fire of power, my son.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “We proclaim you Death, my mother, and profess your resurrection.”

Lilith laughed, raising her arms. Fire licked up her body, and she launched herself into the air, exploding into a dozen spinning particles of light that faded like the embers of a dying fire. When they were gone completely, Sebastian kicked at the pentagram, breaking its continuity, and raised his head. There was an awful smile on his face.

“Cartwright,” he said. “Bring forth the first.”

The crowd parted, and a robed man pushed forward, a stumbling woman at his side. A chain bound her to his arm, and long, tangled hair hid her face from view. Clary tensed all over. “Jace, what is this? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, looking ahead absently. “No one’s going to be hurt. Just changed. Watch.”

Cartwright, whose name Clary dimly remembered from her time in Idris, put his hand on his captive’s head and forced her to their knees. Then he bent and took hold of her hair, jerking her head up. She looked up at Sebastian, blinking in terror and defiance, her face clearly outlined by the moon.

Clary sucked in her breath. “Amatis.”

21 RAISING HELL

Luke’s sister looked up, her blue eyes, so much like Luke’s, fastening on Clary. She seemed dizzied, shocked, her expression a little unfocused as if she’d been drugged. She tried to start to her feet, but Cartwright shoved her back down. Sebastian started toward them, the Cup in his hand.

Clary scrambled forward, but Jace caught her by the arm, pulling her back. She kicked at him, but he’d already swung her up into his arms, his hand over her mouth. Sebastian was speaking to Amatis in a low, hypnotic voice. She shook her head violently, but Cartwright caught her by her long hair and jerked her head back. Clary heard her cry out, a thin sound over the wind.

Clary thought of the night she’d stayed up watching Jace’s chest rise and fall, thinking how she could end all this with a single knife blow. But all this hadn’t had a face, a voice, a plan. Now that it wore Luke’s sister’s face, now that Clary knew the plan, it was too late.

Sebastian had one hand fisted in the back of Amatis’s hair, the Cup jammed against her mouth. As he forced the contents down her throat, she retched and coughed, black fluid dripping down her chin.

Sebastian yanked the Cup back, but it had done its work. Amatis made an awful hacking sound, her body jerking upright. Her eyes bulged, turning as dark as Sebastian’s. She slapped her hands over her face, a wail escaping her, and Clary saw in astonishment that the Voyance rune was fading from her hand — fading to pallor — and then it was gone.

Amatis dropped her hands. Her expression had smoothed and her eyes were blue again. They fastened on Sebastian.

“Release her,” Clary’s brother said to Cartwright, his gaze on Amatis. “Let her come to me.”

Cartwright snapped the chain binding him to Amatis and stepped back, a curious mixture of apprehension and fascination on his face.

Amatis remained still a moment, her hands lolling at her sides. Then she stood and walked over to Sebastian. She knelt before him, her hair brushing the dirt. “Master,” she said. “How may I serve you?”

“Rise,” Sebastian said, and Amatis rose from the ground gracefully. She seemed to have a new way of moving, all of a sudden. All Shadowhunters were adroit, but she moved now with a silent grace that Clary found oddly chilling. She stood straight in front of Sebastian. For the first time Clary saw that what she had taken for a long white dress was a nightgown, as if she had been awakened and spirited out of bed. What a nightmare, to wake up here, among these hooded figures, in this bitter, abandoned place. “Come here to me,” Sebastian beckoned, and Amatis stepped toward him. She was a head shorter than him at least, and she craned her head up as he whispered to her. A cold smile split her face.

Sebastian raised his hand. “Would you like to fight Cartwright?”

Cartwright dropped the chain he had been holding, his hand going to his weapons belt through the gap in his cloak. He was a young man, with fairish hair, and a wide, square-jawed face. “But I—”

“Surely some demonstration of her power is in order,” said Sebastian. “Come, Cartwright, she is a woman, and older than you are. Are you afraid?”

Cartwright looked bewildered, but he drew a long dagger from his belt. “Jonathan—”

Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “Fight him, Amatis.”

Her lips curved. “I would be delighted to,” she said, and sprang. Her speed was astonishing. She leaped into the air and swung her foot forward, knocking the dagger from his grip. Clary watched in astonishment as she darted up his body, driving her knee into his stomach. He staggered back, and she slammed her head into his, spinning around his body to jerk him hard by the back of his robes, yanking him to the ground. He landed at her feet with a sickening crack, and groaned in pain.

“And that’s for dragging me out of my bed in the middle of the night,” Amatis said, and wiped the back of her hand across her lip, which was bleeding slightly. A faint murmur of strained laughter went around the crowd.

“And there you see it,” said Sebastian. “Even a Shadowhunter of no particular skill or strength — your pardon, Amatis — can become stronger, swifter, than their seraphically allied counterparts.” He slammed one fist into the opposite palm. “Power. Real power. Who is ready for it?”

There was a moment of hesitation, and then Cartwright stumbled to his feet, one hand curved protectively over his stomach. “I am,” he said, shooting a venomous look at Amatis, who only smiled.

Sebastian held up the Infernal Cup. “Then, come forward.”

Cartwright moved toward Sebastian, and as he did, the other Shadowhunters broke formation, surging toward the place where Sebastian stood, forming a ragged line. Amatis stood serenely to the side, her hands folded. Clary stared at her, willing the older woman to look at her. It was Luke’s sister. If things had gone as planned, she would have been Clary’s step-aunt now.

Amatis. Clary thought of her small canal house in Idris, the way she had been so kind, the way she had loved Jace’s father so much. Please look at me, she thought. Please show me you’re still yourself. As if Amatis had heard her silent prayer, she raised her head and looked directly at Clary.

And smiled. Not a kind smile or a reassuring smile. Her smile was dark and cold and quietly amused. It was the smile of someone who would watch you drown, Clary thought, and not lift a finger to help. It was not Amatis’s smile. It was not Amatis at all. Amatis was gone.

Jace had taken his hand from her mouth, but she felt no desire to scream. No one here would help her, and the person standing with his arms around her, prisoning her with his body, wasn’t Jace. The way that clothes retained the shape of their owner even if they had not been worn for years, or a pillow kept the outline of the head of the person who had once slept there even if they were long dead, that was all he was. An empty shell she had filled with her wishes and love and dreams.

And in doing so she had done the real Jace a terrible wrong. In her quest to save him, she had almost forgotten who she was saving. And she remembered what he had said to her during those few moments when he had been himself. I hate the thought of him being with you. Him. That other me. Jace had known they were two different people — that himself with the soul scraped out wasn’t himself at all.

He had tried to turn himself over to the Clave, and she hadn’t let him. She hadn’t listened to what he’d wanted. She had made the choice for him — in a moment of flight and panic, but she had made it — not realizing that her Jace would rather die than be like this, and that she’d been not so much saving his life as damning him to an existence he would despise.

She sagged against him, and Jace, taking her sudden shift as an indicator that she wasn’t fighting him anymore, loosened his grip on her. The last of the Shadowhunters was in front of Sebastian, reaching eagerly for the Infernal Cup as he held it out. “Clary—,” Jace began.

She never found out what he would have said. There was a cry, and the Shadowhunter reaching for the Cup staggered back, an arrow in his throat. In disbelief Clary whipped her head around and saw, standing on top of the stone dolmen, Alec, in gear, holding his bow. He grinned in satisfaction and reached back over his shoulder for another arrow.

And then, coming from behind him, the rest of them poured out onto the plain. A pack of wolves, running low to the ground, their brindled fur shining in the variegated light. Maia and Jordan were among them, she guessed. Behind them walked familiar Shadowhunters in an unbroken line: Isabelle and Maryse Lightwood, Helen Blackthorn and Aline Penhallow, and Jocelyn, her red hair visible even at a distance. With them was Simon, the hilt of a silver sword protruding over the curve of his shoulder, and Magnus, hands crackling with blue fire.

Her heart leaped in her chest. “I’m here!” she called out to them. “I’m here!”

“Can you see her?” Jocelyn demanded. “Is she there?”

Simon tried to focus on the milling darkness ahead of him, his vampire senses sharpening at the distinct scent of blood. Different kinds of blood, mixing together — Shadowhunter blood, demon blood, and the bitterness of Sebastian’s blood. “I see her,” he said. “Jace has hold of her. He’s pulling her behind that line of Shadowhunters there.”

“If they’re loyal to Jonathan like the Circle was to Valentine, they’ll make a wall of bodies to protect him, and Clary and Jace along with him.” Jocelyn was all cold maternal fury, her green eyes burning. “We’re going to have to break through it to get to them.”

“What we need to get to is Sebastian,” said Isabelle. “Simon, we’ll hack a path for you. You get to Sebastian and run him through with Glorious. Once he falls—”

“The others will probably scatter,” said Magnus. “Or, depending on how tied they are to Sebastian, they might die or collapse along with him. We can hope, at least.” He craned his head back. “Speaking of hope, did you see that shot Alec got off with his bow? That’s my boyfriend.” He beamed and wiggled his fingers; blue sparks shot from them. He shone all over. Only Magnus, Simon thought resignedly, would have access to sequined battle armor.

Isabelle uncurled her whip from around her wrist. It shot out in front of her, a lick of golden fire. “Okay, Simon,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Simon’s shoulders tightened. They were still some distance from the line of the opposing army — he didn’t know how else to think of them — who were holding their line in their red robes and gear, their hands bristling with weapons. Some of them were exclaiming out loud in confusion. He couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Name of the Angel, Simon,” said Izzy. “What’s there to smile about?”

“Their seraph blades don’t work anymore,” said Simon. “They’re trying to figure out why. Sebastian just shouted at them to use other weapons.” A cry came up from the line as another arrow swooped down from the tomb and buried itself in the back of a burly red-robed Shadowhunter, who collapsed forward. The line jerked and opened slightly, like a fracture in a wall. Simon, seeing his chance, dashed forward, and the others rushed with him.

It was like diving into a black ocean at night, an ocean filled with sharks and viciously toothed sea creatures colliding against one another. It was not the first battle Simon had ever been in, but during the Mortal War he had been newly Marked with the Mark of Cain. It hadn’t quite begun working yet, though many demons had reeled back upon seeing it. He had never thought he would miss it, but he missed it now, as he tried to shove forward through the tightly packed Shadowhunters, who hacked at him with blades. Isabelle was on one side of him, Magnus on the other, protecting him — protecting Glorious. Isabelle’s whip sang out strong and sure, and Magnus’s hands spat fire, red and green and blue. Lashes of colored fire struck the dark Nephilim, burning them where they stood. Other Shadowhunters screamed as Luke’s wolves slunk among them, nipping and biting, leaping for their throats.

A dagger shot out with astonishing speed and sliced at Simon’s side. He cried out but kept going, knowing the wound would knit itself together in seconds. He pushed forward—

And froze. A familiar face was before him. Luke’s sister, Amatis. As her eyes settled on him, he saw the recognition in them. What was she doing here? Had she come to fight alongside them? But—

She lunged at him, a darkly gleaming dagger in her hand. She was fast—but not so fast that his vampire reflexes couldn’t have saved him, if he hadn’t been too astonished to move. Amatis was Luke’s sister; he knew her; and that moment of disbelief might have been the end of him if Magnus hadn’t jumped in front of him, shoving him backward. Blue fire shot from Magnus’s hand, but Amatis was faster than the warlock, too. She spun away from the blaze and under Magnus’s arm, and Simon caught the flash of moonlight off the blade of her knife. Magnus’s eyes widened in shock as her midnight-colored blade drove downward, slicing through his armor. She jerked it back, the blade now slick with reflective blood; Isabelle screamed as Magnus collapsed to his knees. Simon tried to turn toward him, but the surge and pressure of the fighting crowd was carrying him away. He cried out Magnus’s name as Amatis bent over the fallen warlock and raised the dagger a second time, aiming for his heart.

“Let go of me!” Clary shouted, writhing and kicking as she did her best to wrench herself out of Jace’s grip. She could see almost nothing above the surging crowd of red-clad Shadowhunters that stood in front of her, Jace, and Sebastian, blocking her family and friends. The three of them were a few feet behind the line of battle; Jace was holding her tightly as she struggled, and Sebastian, to the side of them, was watching events unfold with a look of dark fury on his face. His lips were moving. She couldn’t tell if he was swearing, praying, or chanting the words of a spell. “Let go of me, you—”

Sebastian turned, a frightening expression on his face, somewhere between a grin and a snarl. “Shut her up, Jace.”

Jace, still gripping Clary, said, “Are we just going to stand back here and let them protect us?” He jerked his chin toward the line of Shadowhunters.

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “We are too important to risk getting hurt, you and I.”

Jace shook his head. “I don’t like it. There are too many on the other side.” He craned his neck to look out over the crowd. “What about Lilith? Can you summon her back, have her help us?”

“What, right here?” There was contempt in Sebastian’s tone. “No. Besides, she’s too weak now to be of much help. Once she could have smote down an army, but that piece of scum Downworlder with his Mark of Cain scattered her essence through the voids between the worlds. It was all she could do to appear and give us her blood.”

“Coward,” Clary spat at him. “You turned all these people into your slaves and you won’t even fight to protect them—”

Sebastian raised his hand as if he meant to backhand her across the face. Clary wished he would, wished Jace could be there to see it happen when he did, but a smirk flashed across Sebastian’s mouth instead. He lowered his hand. “And if Jace let you go, I suppose you’d fight?”

“Of course I would—”

“On what side?” Sebastian took a quick step toward her, raising the Infernal Cup. She could see what was inside it. Though many had drunk from it, the blood had remained at the same level. “Lift her head up, Jace.”

“No!” She redoubled her efforts to get away. Jace’s hand slipped beneath her chin, but she thought she felt hesitation in his touch.

“Sebastian,” he said. “Not—”

“Now,” Sebastian said. “There’s no need for us to remain here. We are the important ones, not these cannon fodder. We’ve proved the Infernal Cup works. That’s what matters.” He seized the front of Clary’s dress. “But it will be much easier to escape,” he said, “without this one kicking and screaming and punching every step of the way.”

“We can make her drink later—”

“No,” Sebastian snarled. “Hold her still.” And he raised the Cup and jammed it against Clary’s lips, trying to pry open her mouth. She fought him, gritting her teeth. “Drink,” Sebastian said in a vicious whisper, so low she doubted Jace could hear it. “I told you by the end of this night you would do whatever I wanted. Drink.” His black eyes darkened, and he dug the Cup in, slicing her bottom lip.

She tasted blood as she reached behind her, grabbing Jace’s shoulders, using his body to push off against as she kicked out with her legs. She felt the seam rip on her dress as it split up the side and her feet slammed solidly against Sebastian’s rib cage. He staggered back with the wind knocked out of him, just as she jerked her head back, hearing the solid crack as her skull connected with Jace’s face. He yelled and loosened his grip on her enough for her to tear free. She ripped away from him and plunged into the battle without looking back.

Maia raced along the rocky ground, starlight raking its cool fingers through her coat, the strong scents of battle assailing her sensitive nose — blood, sweat, and the burned-rubber stench of dark magic.

The pack had spread out widely over the field, leaping and killing with deadly teeth and claws. Maia kept close to Jordan’s side, not because she needed his protection but because she had discovered that side by side they fought better and more effectively. She had been in only one battle before, on Brocelind Plain, and that had been a chaotic whirl of demons and Downworlders. There were many fewer combatants here on the Burren, but the dark Shadowhunters were formidable, swinging their swords and daggers with a swift, frightening force. Maia had seen one slender man use a short-bladed dagger to whip the head off a wolf who’d been in midleap; what had collapsed to the ground was a headless human body, bloody and unrecognizable.

Even as she thought it, one of the scarlet-robed Nephilim loomed up in front of them, a double-edged sword gripped in his hands. The blade was stained red-black under the moonlight. Jordan, beside Maia, snarled, but she was the one who launched herself at the man. He ducked away, slashing out with his sword. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and hit the ground on all four paws, pain stabbing through her. There was a clatter, and she knew she had knocked the man’s sword from his hand. She growled in satisfaction and spun around, but Jordan was already leaping for the Nephilim’s throat—

And the man caught him by the neck, out of the air, as if he were catching hold of a rebellious puppy. “Downworlder scum,” he spat, and though it wasn’t the first time Maia had heard such insults, something about the icy hatred of his tone made her shudder. “You should be a coat. I should be wearing you.”

Maia sank her teeth into his leg. Coppery blood exploded into her mouth as the man shouted in pain and staggered back, kicking at her, his hold on Jordan slipping. Maia gripped him tight as Jordan lunged again, and this time the Shadowhunter’s shout of rage was cut short as the werewolf’s claws tore his throat open.

Amatis drove the knife toward Magnus’s heart — just as an arrow whistled through the air and thumped into her shoulder, knocking her aside with such force that she spun halfway around and fell face-forward to the rocky ground. She was screaming, a noise quickly drowned out by the clash of weapons all around them. Isabelle knelt down by Magnus’s side; Simon, glancing up, saw Alec on the stone tomb, standing frozen with the bow in his hands. He was probably too far away to see Magnus clearly; Isabelle had her hands against the warlock’s chest, but Magnus — Magnus, who was always so kinetic, so bursting with energy — was utterly still under Isabelle’s ministrations. She looked up and saw Simon staring at them; her hands were red with blood, but she shook her head at him violently.

“Keep going!” she shouted. “Find Sebastian!”

With a wrench Simon turned himself around and plunged back into the battle. The tight line of red-clad Shadowhunters had started to come undone. The wolves were darting here and there, herding the Shadowhunters away from one another. Jocelyn was sword to sword with a snarling man whose free arm dripped blood — and Simon realized something bizarre as he staggered forward, pushing his way through the narrow gaps between skirmishes: None of the red-clad Nephilim were Marked. Their skin was bare of decoration.

They were also, he realized — seeing out of the corner of his eye one of the enemy Shadowhunters lunging for Aline with a swinging mace, only to be gutted by Helen, darting in from the side — much faster than any Nephilim he had seen before, other than Jace and Sebastian. They moved with the swiftness of vampires, he thought, as one of them slashed at a leaping wolf, slitting its belly open. The dead werewolf crashed to the ground, now the corpse of a stocky man with curling fair hair. Not Maia or Jordan. Relief swamped him, and then guilt; he staggered forward, the smell of blood thick around him, and again he missed the Mark of Cain. If he had still borne it, he thought, he could have burned all these enemy Nephilim to the ground where they stood—

One of the dark Nephilim rose up in front of him, swinging a single-edged broadsword. Simon ducked, but he didn’t need to. The man was barely halfway through the swing when an arrow caught him in the neck and he went down, gurgling blood. Simon’s head jerked up, and he saw Alec, still atop the tomb; his face was a stony mask, and he was firing off arrows with machinelike precision, his hand reaching back mechanically to grasp one, fit it to the bow, and let fly. Each one struck a target, but Alec barely seemed to notice. By the time the arrow was flying, he was reaching for another one. Simon heard another one whistle by him and slam into a body as he darted forward, making for a cleared section of the battlefield—

He froze. There she was. Clary, a tiny figure fighting her way through the crowd bare-handed, kicking and pushing to get past. She wore a torn red dress, and her hair was a tangled mass and when she saw him, a look of incredulous amazement crossed her face. Her lips shaped his name.

Just behind her was Jace. His face was bloody. The crowd parted as he plunged through it, letting him by. Behind him, in the gap left by his passing, Simon could see a shimmer of red and silver — a familiar figure, topped now with white-gilt hair like Valentine’s.

Sebastian. Still hiding behind the last line of defense of dark Shadowhunters. Seeing him, Simon reached over his shoulder and hauled Glorious from its sheath. A moment later a surge in the crowd hurled Clary toward him. Her eyes were nearly black with adrenaline, but her joy at seeing him was plain. Relief spilled through Simon, and he realized he’d been wondering if she was still herself, or changed, as Amatis had been.

“Give me the sword!” she cried, her voice almost drowned out by the clang of metal on metal. She thrust her arm forward to take it, and in that moment she was no longer Clary, his friend since childhood, but a Shadowhunter, an avenging angel who belonged with that sword in her hand.

He held it out to her, hilt first.

Battle was like a whirlpool, Jocelyn thought, cutting her way through the pressing crowd, slashing out with Luke’s kindjal at any spot of red that she saw. Things came at you and then surged away so quickly that all one was really aware of was a sense of uncontrollable danger, the struggle to stay alive and not drown.

Her eyes flicked frantically through the mass of fighters, searching for her daughter, for a glimpse of red hair — or even for a sight of Jace, because where he was, Clary would be too. There were boulders strewn across the plain, like icebergs in an unmoving sea. She scrambled up the rough edge of one, trying to get a better view of the battlefield, but she could make out only close-pressed bodies, the flash of weapons, and the dark, low-running shapes of wolves among the fighters.

She turned to scramble back down the boulder—

Only to find someone waiting for her at the bottom. Jocelyn came up short, staring.

He wore scarlet robes, and there was a livid scar along one of his cheeks, a relic of some battle unknown to her. His face was pinched and no longer young, but there was no mistaking him. “Jeremy,” she said slowly, her voice barely audible over the clamor of the fighting. “Jeremy Pontmercy.”

The man who had once been the youngest member of the Circle looked at her out of bloodshot eyes. “Jocelyn Morgenstern. Have you come to join us?”

“Join you? Jeremy, no—”

“You were in the Circle once,” he said, stepping closer to her. A long dagger with an edge like a straight razor hung from his right hand. “You were one of us. And now we follow your son.”

“I broke with you when you followed my husband,” said Jocelyn. “Why do you think I’d follow you now that my son leads you?”

“Either you stand with us or against us, Jocelyn.” His face hardened. “You cannot stand against your own son.”

“Jonathan,” she said softly. “He is the greatest evil Valentine ever committed. I could never stand with him. In the end, I never stood with Valentine. So what hope do you have of convincing me now?”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I mean you cannot stand against him. Against us. The Clave cannot. They are not prepared. Not for what we can do. Are willing to do. Blood will run in the streets of every city. The world will burn. Everything you know will be destroyed. And we will rise from the ashes of your defeat, the phoenix triumphant. This is your only chance. I doubt your son will give you another.”

“Jeremy,” she said. “You were so young when Valentine recruited you. You could come back, come back even to the Clave. They would be lenient—”

“I can never come back to the Clave,” he said with a hard satisfaction. “Don’t you understand? Those of us who stand with your son, we are Nephilim no longer.”

Nephilim no longer. Jocelyn began to reply, but before she could speak, blood burst from his mouth. He crumpled, and as he did, Jocelyn saw, standing behind him bearing a broadsword, Maryse.

The two women looked at each other for a moment over Jeremy’s body. Then Maryse turned and walked back toward the battle.

The moment Clary’s fingers closed around the hilt, the sword exploded with a golden light. Fire blazed down the blade from the tip, illuminating words carved blackly into the side—Quis ut Deus? — and making the hilt shine as if it contained the light of the sun. She nearly dropped it, thinking it had caught on fire, but the flame seemed contained inside the sword, and the metal was cool beneath her palms.

Everything after that seemed to happen very slowly. She turned, the sword blazing in her grip. Her eyes searched the crowd desperately for Sebastian. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was behind the tight knot of Shadowhunters she had punched through to get here. Gripping the sword, she moved toward them, only to find her way blocked.

By Jace.

“Clary,” he said. It seemed impossible that she could hear him; the sounds around them were deafening: screams and growls, the clatter of metal on metal. But the sea of fighting figures seemed to have fallen away from them on either side like the Red Sea parting, leaving a clear space around her and Jace.

The sword burned, slippery in her grip. “Jace. Get out of the way.”

She heard Simon, behind her, shout something; Jace was shaking his head. His golden eyes were flat, unreadable. His face was bloody; she had cracked her head against his cheekbone, and the skin was swelling and darkening. “Give me the sword, Clary.”

“No.” She shook her head, backing up a step. Glorious lit the space they stood in, lit the trampled, blood-smeared grass around her, and lit Jace as he moved toward her. “Jace. I can separate you from Sebastian. I can kill him without hurting you—”

His face twisted. His eyes were the same color as the fire in the sword, or they were reflecting it back, she wasn’t sure which, and as she looked at him she realized it didn’t matter. She was seeing Jace and not-Jace: her memories of him, the beautiful boy she’d met first, reckless with himself and others, learning to care and be careful. She remembered the night they had spent together in Idris, holding hands across the narrow bed, and the bloodstained boy who had looked at her with haunted eyes and confessed to being a murderer in Paris. “Kill him?” Jace-who-wasn’t-Jace demanded now. “Are you out of your mind?”

And she remembered that night by Lake Lyn, Valentine driving the sword into him, and the way her own life had seemed to bleed out with his blood.

She had watched him die, there on the beach in Idris. And afterward, when she had brought him back, he had crawled to her and looked down at her with those eyes that burned like the Sword, like the incandescent blood of an angel.

I was in the dark, he had said. There was nothing there but shadows, and I was a shadow. And then I heard your voice.

But that voice blurred into another, more recent one: Jace facing down Sebastian in the living room of Valentine’s apartment, telling her that he would rather die than live like this. She could hear him now, speaking, telling her to give him the sword, that if she didn’t, he would take it from her. His voice was harsh, impatient, the voice of someone talking to a child. And she knew in that moment that just as he wasn’t Jace, the Clary he loved wasn’t her. It was a memory of her, blurred and distorted: the image of someone docile, obedient; someone who didn’t understand that love given without free will or truthfulness wasn’t love at all.

“Give me the sword.” His hand was out, his chin raised, his tone imperious. “Give it to me, Clary.”

“You want it?”

She raised Glorious, the way he had taught her to, balancing the weight of it, though it felt heavy in her hand. The flame in it grew brighter, until it seemed to reach upward and touch the stars. Jace was only the sword’s length away from her, his golden eyes incredulous. Even now he couldn’t believe she might hurt him, really hurt him. Even now.

She took a deep breath. “Take it.”

She saw his eyes blaze up the way they had that day by the lake, and then she drove the sword into him, just as Valentine had done. She understood now that this was the way it had to be. He had died like this, and she had ripped him back from death. And now it had come again.

You cannot cheat death. In the end it will have its own.

Glorious sank into his chest, and she felt her bloody hand slide on the hilt as the blade ground against the bones of his rib cage, driving through him until her fist thumped against his body and she froze. He hadn’t moved, and she was pressed up against him now, gripping Glorious as blood began to spill from the wound in his chest.

There was a scream — a sound of rage and pain and terror, the sound of someone being brutally torn apart. Sebastian, Clary thought. Sebastian, screaming as his bond with Jace was severed.

But Jace. Jace didn’t make a sound. Despite everything, his face was calm and peaceful, the face of a statue. He looked down at Clary, and his eyes shone, as if he were filling with light.

And then he began to burn.

Alec didn’t remember scrambling down from the top of the stone tomb, or pushing his way across the stony plain among the litter of fallen bodies: dark Shadowhunters, dead and wounded werewolves. His eyes were seeking out only one person. He stumbled and nearly fell; when he looked up, his gaze scanning the field in front of him, he saw Isabelle, kneeling beside Magnus on the stony ground.

It felt like there was no air in his lungs. He had never seen Magnus so pale, or so still. There was blood on his leather armor, and blood on the ground beneath him. But it was impossible. Magnus had lived so long. He was permanent. A fixture. In no world Alec’s imagination could conjure did Magnus die before he did.

“Alec.” It was Izzy’s voice, swimming up toward him as if through water. “Alec, he’s breathing.”

Alec let his own breath out in a shaking gasp. He held a hand out to his sister. “Dagger.”

She handed him one silently. She had never paid as much attention as he had in field first aid classes; she had always said runes would do the job. He slit open the front of Magnus’s leather armor and then the shirt beneath it, his teeth gritted. It could be that the armor was all that was holding him together.

He peeled back the sides gingerly, surprised at the steadiness of his own hands. There was a good deal of blood, and a wide stab wound under the right side of Magnus’s ribs. But from the rhythm of Magnus’s breathing, it was clear his lungs hadn’t been punctured. Alec yanked off his jacket, wadded it up, and pressed it against the still-bleeding wound.

Magnus’s eyes fluttered open. “Ouch,” he said feebly. “Quit leaning on me.”

“Raziel,” Alec breathed thankfully. “You’re all right.” He slipped his free hand under Magnus’s head, his thumb stroking Magnus’s bloody cheek. “I thought…”

He looked up to glance at his sister before he said anything too embarassing, but she had slipped quietly away.

“I saw you fall,” Alec said quietly. He bent down and kissed Magnus lightly on the mouth, not wanting to hurt him. “I thought you were dead.”

Magnus smiled crookedly. “What, from that scratch?” He glanced down at the reddening jacket in Alec’s hand. “Okay, a deep scratch. Like, from a really, really big cat.”

“Are you delirious?” Alec said.

“No.” Magnus’s eyebrows drew together. “Amatis was aiming for my heart, but she didn’t get anything vital. The problem is that the blood loss is sapping my energy and my ability to heal myself.” He took a deep breath that ended in a cough. “Here, give me your hand.” He raised his hand, and Alec twined their fingers together, Magnus’s palm hard against his. “Do you remember, the night of the battle on Valentine’s ship, when I needed some of your strength?”

“Do you need it again now?” Alec said. “Because you can have it.”

“I always need your strength, Alec,” Magnus said, and closed his eyes as their intertwined fingers began to shine, as if between them they held the light of a star.

Fire exploded up through the hilt of the angel’s sword and along the blade. The flame shot through Clary’s arm like a bolt of electricity, knocking her to the ground. Heat lightning sizzled up and down her veins, and she curled up in agony, clutching herself as if she could keep her body from blowing to pieces.

Jace fell to his knees. The sword still pierced him, but it was burning now, with a white-gold flame, and the fire was filling his body like colored water filling a clear glass pitcher. Golden flame shot through him, turning his skin translucent. His hair was bronze; his bones were hard, shining tinder visible through his skin. Glorious itself was burning away, dissolving in liquid drops like gold melting in a crucible. Jace’s head was thrown back, his body arched like a bow as the conflagration raged through him. Clary tried to pull herself toward him across the rocky ground, but the heat radiating from his body was too much. His hands clutched at his chest, and a river of golden blood slipped through his fingers. The stone on which he knelt was blackening, cracking, turning to ash. And then Glorious burned up like the last of a bonfire, in a shower of sparks, and Jace collapsed forward, onto the stones.

Clary tried to stand, but her legs buckled under her. Her veins still felt as if fire were shooting through them, and pain was darting across the surface of her skin like the touch of hot pokers. She pulled herself forward, bloodying her fingers, hearing her ceremonial dress rip, until she reached Jace.

He was lying on his side with his head pillowed on one arm, the other arm flung out wide. She crumpled beside him. Heat radiated from his body as if he were a dying bed of coals, but she didn’t care. She could see the rip in the back of his gear where Glorious had torn through it. There were ashes from the burned rocks mixed in with the gold of his hair, and blood.

Moving slowly, every movement hurting as if she were old, as if she had aged a year for every second Jace had burned, she pulled him toward her, so he was on his back on the bloodstained and blackened stone. She looked at his face, no longer gold but still, and still beautiful.

Clary laid her hand against his chest, where the red of his blood stood out against the darker red of his gear. She had felt the edges of the blade grind against the bones of his ribs. She had seen his blood spill through his fingers, so much blood that it had stained the rocks beneath him black and had stiffened the edges of his hair.

And yet. Not if he’s more Heaven’s than Hell’s.

“Jace,” she whispered. All around them were running feet. The shattered remains of Sebastian’s small army was fleeing across the Burren, dropping their weapons as they went. She ignored them. “Jace.”

He didn’t move. His face was still, peaceful under the moonlight. His eyelashes threw dark, spidering shadows against the tops of his cheekbones.

“Please,” she said, and her voice felt as if it were scraping out of her throat. When she breathed, her lungs burned. “Look at me.”

Clary closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her mother was kneeling down beside her, touching her shoulder. Tears were running down Jocelyn’s face. But that couldn’t be — Why would her mother be crying?

“Clary,” her mother whispered. “Let him go. He’s dead.”

In the distance Clary saw Alec kneeling beside Magnus. “No,” Clary said. “The sword — it burns away what’s evil. He could still live.”

Her mother ran a hand down her back, her fingers tangling in Clary’s filthy curls. “Clary, no…”

Jace, Clary thought fiercely, her hands curling around his arms. You’re stronger than this. If this is you, really you, you’ll open your eyes and look at me.

Suddenly Simon was there, kneeling on the other side of Jace, his face smeared with blood and grime. He reached for Clary. She whipped her head up to glare at him, at him and her mother, and saw Isabelle coming up behind them, her eyes wide, moving slowly. The front of her gear was stained with blood. Unable to face Izzy, Clary turned away, her eyes on the gold of Jace’s hair.

“Sebastian,” Clary said, or tried to say. Her voice came out as a croak. “Someone should go after him.” And leave me alone.

“They’re looking for him now.” Her mother leaned in, anxious, her eyes wide. “Clary, let him go. Clary, baby…”

“Let her be,” Clary heard Isabelle say sharply. She heard her mother’s protest, but everything they were doing seemed to be going on at a great distance, as if Clary were watching a play from the last row. Nothing mattered but Jace. Jace, burning. Tears scalded the backs of her eyes. “Jace, goddamit,” she said, her voice ragged. “You are not dead.”

“Clary,” Simon said gently. “It was a chance…”

Come away from him. That was what Simon was asking, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. “Jace,” she whispered. It was like a mantra, the way he had once held her at Renwick’s and chanted her name over and over. “Jace Lightwood…”

She froze. There. A movement so tiny, it was hardly a movement at all. The flutter of an eyelash. She leaned forward, almost overbalancing, and pressed her hand against the torn scarlet material over his chest, as if she could heal the wound she had made. She felt instead — so wonderful that for a moment it made no sense to her, could not possibly be — under her fingertips, the rhythm of his heart.