“Demon pigeons!” Stephen shouted in disgust, his longsword in his hand. The blade flashed silver in the starlight as he sliced and slashed through thick, scaly wings.
Céline danced and dodged two birdlike demons, fending them off with her dagger as she pulled out two seraph blades with her free hand. “Zuphlas,” she whispered. “Jophiel.” As the blades began to glow, she flung them in opposite directions. Each flew true, straight into a demon’s throat. Both Halphas demons exploded in a cloud of bloody feathers and ichor. Céline was already in motion, leaping through the warlock’s curtain. “Robert!” she cried.
He was locked inside what looked like a gigantic antique birdcage, its floor coated with Halphas feathers—as was he. He looked unharmed. And very unhappy.
Céline broke through the lock as quickly as she could, and the two of them rejoined Stephen, who had managed to dispatch several of the demons, though a handful of them swooped off the ground to safety, looping and diving through the night sky. Dominique had opened a Portal and was about to leap through it. Robert seized her by the throat, then slammed the blunt end of his sword down on her head with a resounding thud. She dropped to the ground, out cold.
“So much for stealth,” he said.
“Céline, you’re wounded!” Stephen said, sounding horrified.
Céline realized a demonic beak had torn a chunk out of her calf. The blood was seeping through her jeans. She had barely felt it, but as the adrenaline of battle faded away, a sharp, stabbing pain took its place.
Stephen already had his stele in his hand, eager to apply an iratze. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re bleeding,” he said.
Céline shook her head and backed away. “I can do it myself.”
“But it would be my honor to heal your perfect skin,” Stephen protested.
“Did he get hit on the head?” Robert asked.
Céline was too embarrassed to explain. Fortunately, the cawing of Halphas demons echoed in the distance, followed by a woman’s scream. “You two watch the warlock,” she said. “I’ll deal with the rest of the demons before they eat anyone.” She took off before Robert could ask any more questions.
“I’ll miss you!” Stephen called after her. “You’re so cute when you’re bloodthirsty!”
* * *
More than a hundred and fifty years before, the Shadowhunter Tobias Herondale had been convicted of cowardice, a crime punishable by death. The Law, in those days, was not just hard, it was merciless. Tobias went mad and took flight, so he could not be tried and executed for his crimes, so in his absence, the Clave meted his punishment out on his wife, Eva. Death to her. Death to the Herondale child she carried.
This, at least, was the story.
Many decades ago, Zachariah had learned the truth behind this tale. He had met the warlock who saved Eva’s child—and then, after the mother’s death, raised that child as her own.
That child had sired a child, who had sired a child, and so forth: a secret line of Herondales, lost to the Shadowhunter world. Until now.
The surviving member of this line was in grave danger. For a long time, that was all Brother Zachariah knew. For Tessa, for Will, he had dedicated himself to learning more. He had followed bread crumbs, run headlong into dead ends, and nearly died at the hand of a faerie who wanted the lost Herondale to stay that way. Or worse, Zachariah feared.
The lost descendant of Tobias Herondale had fallen in love with a faerie. Their child—and all their child’s children—were part Shadowhunter, part fey.
Which meant Zachariah wasn’t the only one seeking. He strongly suspected, however, he was the only seeker who meant no harm. If an emissary of Faerie was willing to attack not just a Shadowhunter but a Silent Brother—willing to break the Accords in the most egregious of ways—simply to stop his search, then surely the search was imperative. Surely the danger was mortal.
Decades of quiet inquiries had led here, to the Paris Shadow Market, to a booth run by the man rumored to have in his possession a precious heron-shaped pendant, a Herondale heirloom. The man named Crow, who most assumed to be a mundane with the Sight, known as savvy but untrustworthy, a man all too satisfied by life in the shadows.
Zachariah had learned the whereabouts of the pendant first—it was a Parisian warlock who’d heard about his search and contacted him with confirmation. She told him his suspicions were correct: the owner of the pendant, whatever he wanted to call himself, was a Herondale.
Which, apparently, was old news to everyone but Zachariah himself.
You’ve known about your heritage all this time? And yet you never revealed yourself?
“Sweetheart, I think you can put down the crossbow,” Crow told the woman. “The psychic monk doesn’t seem like he means us any harm.”
She lowered the weapon, though she didn’t look very happy about it.
Thank you.
“And maybe you should leave us alone to talk,” Crow added.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea—”
“Rosemary, trust me. I got this.”
The woman, who must have been his wife, sighed. It was the sound of someone who understood stubbornness and had long ago given up trying to fight it. “Fine. But you . . .” She poked Brother Zachariah with the crossbow, hard enough he could feel it through his thick robes. “Anything happens to him, and I will hunt you down and make you pay.”
I have no intention of letting anything happen to either of you. That’s why I’ve come.
“Yeah, whatever.” She took Crow in her arms. The two embraced for a long moment. Zachariah had often heard the expression “holding on for dear life,” but rarely had he seen it enacted. The couple clung to each other like it was the only way to survive.
He remembered loving someone like that. He remembered the impossibility of saying good-bye. The woman whispered something to Crow, then hoisted her crossbow and disappeared into the Paris night.
“We’re newlyweds, and she’s a little overprotective,” Crow said. “You know how it is.”
I’m afraid I do not.
Crow looked him up and down, and Brother Zachariah wondered what this man saw. Whatever it was, he seemed unimpressed. “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.”
I have been looking for you for a long time, longer than you can imagine.
“Look, I’m sorry you wasted your time, but I don’t want anything to do with you people.”
I fear you don’t realize the danger you’re in. I am not the only one looking for you—
“But you’re the only one who can protect me, right? ‘Come with me if you want to live,’ and all that? Yeah, I’ve seen that movie. Not interested in living it.”
He was plenty sure of himself, Brother Zachariah thought, and felt the strange urge to smile. Maybe there was a trace of the familiar here after all.
“A man like me, he makes his fair share of enemies. I’ve been looking out for myself my whole life, and I don’t see any reason I—”
Whatever he said next was drowned out by an unholy screeching. A giant birdlike demon swooped down, speared Crow’s coat with its razor-sharp beak, and lifted him into the air.
Brother Zachariah seized one of the seraph blades he had brought along, just in case. Mebahiah, he named it, and flung it at the birdlike demon. The blade embedded itself in the feathered sternum, and the demon exploded midair. Crow tumbled several feet to the ground, landing in a noisy heap of feathers and ichor. Zachariah rushed over to help the man to his feet, but these efforts were rebuffed.
Crow examined the large, ragged hole in his trench coat with disgust. “That was brand-new!”
It is indeed a very nice coat. Or . . . it was. Zachariah refrained from pointing out the good fortune that the Halphas demon hadn’t ripped a hole through anything more valuable. Like his rib cage.
“So is that the danger you came to warn me about? Saving my new coat from a demon seagull?”
It struck me as more of a demon pigeon.
Crow brushed hi
mself off. He darted several suspicious looks at the sky, as if expecting another attack. “Listen, Mr. . . .”
Brother. Brother Zachariah.
“Right, okay, bro, I can see that a guy like you could come in handy in a fight. And if you’re that determined to protect me from some big, scary danger, I guess I won’t fight you on it.”
Brother Zachariah was surprised by the sudden change of heart. Perhaps nearly getting pecked to death by a demon pigeon had that effect on people.
I’d like to take you somewhere safe.
“Sure. Fine. Give me a few hours to tie up some loose ends, and Rosemary and I will meet you on the Pont des Arts at dawn. We’ll do whatever you want. Promise.”
I can accompany you, as you tie these ends.
“Listen, brother, the kinds of ends I’m talking about, they don’t take kindly to Shadowhunters poking around in their business. If you catch my drift.”
Your drift sounds mildly criminal.
“You want to make a citizen’s arrest?”
I am concerned only with your safety.
“I made it twenty-two years without your help. I think I can make it another six hours, don’t you?”
Brother Zachariah had invested decades into this search. It seemed wildly unwise to let this man slip away, with only a promise that he would return. Especially given what he’d learned about the man’s reputation. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in his word.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking, and I know I can’t stop you from following me. So I’m just asking you flat out: You want me to trust you? Then you try trusting me. And I’m swearing, on whatever you need me to, that your precious lost Shadowhunter will be on that bridge waiting for you at dawn.”
Against his better judgment, Brother Zachariah nodded.
Go.
* * *
Céline had no taste for torture. Not that this was what they would call it, whatever they did to the warlock to get her to talk. Valentine had taught his Circle to be careful with their words. Robert and Stephen would “interrogate” Dominique du Froid, using whatever methods they deemed requisite. When they got the answers they needed—names of her Shadowhunter contacts, details of crimes committed—they would deliver her and an inventory of her sins to Valentine.
The warlock was bound to a folding chair in the cheap flat they were using as a home base.
The warlock was unconscious, blood trickling from the shallow wound on her forehead.
This was how Robert and Stephen referred to her, not by name but as “the warlock,” as if she were more thing than person.
Valentine had wanted them to conduct this investigation without alerting the warlock to their presence. It was only midnight on their first day in Paris, and they’d already screwed everything up. “If we bring him some answers, he can’t be too mad,” Stephen said. It sounded more like wish than prediction.
Stephen had stopped commenting on the gamine beauty of Céline’s legs and the addictive qualities of her porcelain skin. He claimed not to remember the effects of the warlock’s potion, but his glance strayed to Céline every time he thought she wasn’t looking. She couldn’t help wondering.
What if he did remember?
What if, having finally touched her, held her, kissed her, he’d discovered a new desire in himself?
He was still married to Amatis, of course; even if he desired Céline—maybe even, a little bit, loved Céline—there was nothing to be done about it.
But what if?
“Is anyone else hungry?” Céline said.
“Am I ever not hungry?” Stephen said. He slapped the warlock sharply. She stirred but did not wake.
Céline backed toward the door. “Why don’t I go find us something to eat, while you’re . . . taking care of this?”
Robert yanked the warlock’s hair back, hard. She yelped, and her eyes flew open. “Shouldn’t take long.”
“Great.” Céline hoped they couldn’t tell how desperate she was to get out of the apartment. She didn’t have the stomach for this kind of thing, but she couldn’t have them report that back to Valentine. She’d worked too hard to gain his respect.
“Hey, you’re limping,” Stephen said. “You need another iratze?”
He was worried about her. She told herself not to read anything into it. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore,” she lied. “I’m fine.”
She’d applied the healing rune half-heartedly, and it had not completely closed her wound. She preferred, sometimes, to feel the pain.
When she was a child, her parents had often refused her iratzes after training sessions, especially when her injuries were caused by her own mistakes. Let the pain remind you to do better next time, they told her. All these years later, she was still making so many mistakes.
Céline was halfway down the precarious staircase when she realized she’d forgotten her wallet. She tromped painfully back up, then hesitated outside the door, stopped by the sound of her name.
“Me and Céline?” she heard Stephen say.
Feeling slightly ridiculous, Céline withdrew her stele and drew a careful rune on the door. Their amplified voices came through loud and clear.
Stephen laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It sounded like a pretty good kiss. . . .”
“I was under the influence!”
“Still. She’s pretty, don’t you think?”
There was an excruciating pause. “I don’t know, I never really thought about it.”
“You do realize that marriage doesn’t mean you’re never allowed to look at another woman, right?”
“It’s not that,” Stephen said. “It’s . . .”
“The way she follows you around like a drooling puppy?”
“That doesn’t help,” Stephen acknowledged. “She’s just such a child. Like, no matter how old she gets, she’s always going to need someone else telling her what to do.”
“I’ll give you that,” Robert said. “But Valentine seems convinced there’s something more to her.”
“Nobody’s right all the time,” Stephen said, and now they were both laughing. “Not even him.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that!”
Céline didn’t realize she was in motion until she felt the rain on her face. She collapsed against the cool stone of the building’s facade, wishing she could melt into it. To turn herself to stone; to shut down her nerves, her senses, her heart; to feel nothing . . . if only.
Their laughter echoed in her ears.
She was a joke.
She was pathetic.
She was someone Stephen had never thought about, never cared about, never wanted. Would never want, under any circumstances.
She was a pathetic creature. A child. A mistake.
The sidewalks were empty. The streets shimmered with rain. The searchlight beacon atop the Eiffel Tower had gone to sleep, along with the rest of the city. Céline felt utterly alone. Her leg throbbed. Her tears would not stop. Her heart screamed. She had nowhere to go but could not go back upstairs, back to that room, to that laughter. She set off blindly into the Paris night.
* * *
Céline was at home in the dark, slumbering streets. She wandered for hours. Through the Marais and past the hulking Pompidou, crossing from the Right Bank to the Left and back again. She visited with the gargoyles of Notre Dame, those hideous stone demons clinging to Gothic spires, awaiting their chance to devour the faithful. It seemed unfair that the city was so full of stone creatures who could feel nothing, and here she was, feeling so unbearably much.
She was in the Tuileries—more bloody ghosts, more creatures carved of stone—when she spotted the trail of ichor. She was still a Shadowhunter, and she was a Shadowhunter in desperate need of distraction, so she followed it. She caught up with the Shax demon in the Opera district but stayed in the shadows, wanting to see what it was up to. Shax demons were trackers, used to hunt people who didn’t want to be found. And this demon was definitely trac
king something.
Céline tracked it in turn.
She tracked it through the slumbering courtyards of the Louvre. It was oozing ichor from a wound, but it wasn’t moving like a creature slinking off to nurse its wounds. Its giant pincers skittered at the cobblestones as it hesitated at corners, deciding which way to turn. This was a predator, tracking its prey.
The demon paused in the archway of the Louvre, at the foot of the Pont des Arts. The small pedestrian bridge stretched across the Seine, its railings crowded with lovers’ locks. It was said that if a couple attached a lock to the Pont des Arts, their love would last forever. The bridge was almost deserted at this hour, except for one young couple, locked in an embrace. Completely oblivious to the Shax demon slithering out of the shadows, pincers clicking together in eager anticipation.
Céline always carried a misericord blade. Its narrow point was exactly what she needed to penetrate the insectoid demon’s carapace.
She hoped.
“Gadreel,” Céline whispered, naming a seraph blade. She crept behind the Shax demon, as steady and silent as it was. She, too, could be a predator. In one smooth, sure motion, she stabbed the misericord straight through the carapace, then slid the seraph blade into the wound she’d opened.
The demon dissolved.
It had all happened so swiftly, so quietly, that the couple on the bridge didn’t even break from their embrace. They were too intent on each other to realize how close they’d come to being a demon’s late-night snack. Céline lingered, trying to imagine it: standing on the bridge with someone who loved her, a man gazing so intently into her eyes that he wouldn’t have noticed the world ending.
But Céline’s imagination gave out. Reality had caged her in. As long as she thought Stephen hadn’t noticed her, she could fantasize about what might happen if he ever did.
Now she knew. She could not unknow.
Céline wiped and sheathed her blades, then crept closer to the couple, close enough to hear what they were saying. She was glamoured, so there was no danger in doing a little eavesdropping, but she tried to keep herself hidden in case more demons appeared. What words did a man say to the woman he loved, when he thought no one else could hear? She might never find out, if she waited for someone to say them to her.
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