He had been in love with her once, and maybe some part of him always would be, because she had been his first. But that wasn’t what mattered now. She was Clary; she was part of him; she always had been and would be forever. As he stared at her, she shook her head, very slightly. He knew what she was saying. Don’t do it. Don’t give her what she wants. Let whatever happens to me happen.
He stepped into the circle; as his feet passed over the painted line, he felt a shiver, like an electric shock, go through him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
“No!” Clary cried, but Simon didn’t look at her. He was watching Lilith, who smiled a cool, gloating smile as she raised her left hand and passed it across the surface of the coffin.
The lid of it vanished, peeling back in a way that reminded Simon bizarrely of peeling back the lid of a tin of sardines. As the top layer of glass pulled away, it melted and ran, dripping down the sides of the granite pedestal, crystallizing into tiny shards of glass as the drops struck the ground.
The coffin was open now, like a fish tank; Sebastian’s body drifted inside, and Simon thought he could once again see the flash of the rune on his chest as Lilith reached into the tank. As Simon watched, she took Sebastian’s dangling arms and crossed them over his chest with an oddly tender gesture, tucking the bandaged one under the one that was whole. She brushed a lock of his wet hair away from his still, white forehead, and stepped back, shaking milky water from her hands.
“To your work, Daylighter,” she said.
Simon moved toward the coffin. Sebastian’s face was slack, his eyelids still. No pulse beat in his throat. Simon remembered how much he had wanted to drink Maureen’s blood. How he had craved the feeling of his teeth sinking into her skin and freeing the salty blood beneath. But this—this was feeding off a corpse. The very thought made his stomach turn.
Though he wasn’t looking at her, he was aware of Clary watching him. He could feel her breath as he bent over Sebastian. He could sense Jace, too, watching him out of blank eyes. Reaching into the coffin, he closed his hands around Sebastian’s cold, slippery shoulders. Biting back the urge to be sick, he bent and sank his teeth into Sebastian’s throat. Black demon blood poured into his mouth, as bitter as poison.
* * *
Isabelle moved silently among the stone pedestals. Alec was with her, Sandalphon in his hand, sending light winging through the room. Maia was in one corner of the room, bent over and retching, her hand braced against the wall; Jordan hovered over her, looking as if he wanted to reach out and stroke her back, but was afraid of being rebuffed.
Isabelle didn’t blame Maia for throwing up. If she hadn’t had years of training, she would have thrown up herself. She had never seen anything like what she was looking at now. There were dozens, maybe fifty, of the stone pedestals in the room. Atop each one was a low crib-like basket. Inside each basket was a baby. And every one of the babies was dead.
She had held out hope at first, as she walked up and down the rows, that she might find one alive. But these children had been dead for some time. Their skin was gray, their small faces bruised and discolored. They were wrapped in thin blankets, and though it was cold in the room, Isabelle didn’t think it was cold enough for them to have frozen to death. She wasn’t sure how they had died; she couldn’t bear to investigate too closely. This was clearly a matter for the Clave.
Alec, behind her, had tears running down his face; he was cursing under his breath by the time they reached the last of the pedestals. Maia had straightened up and was leaning against the window; Jordan had given her some kind of cloth, maybe a handkerchief, to hold to her face. The cold white lights of the city burned behind her, cutting through the dark glass like diamond drills.
“Iz,” Alec said. “Who could have done something like this? Why would someone—even a demon—”
He broke off. Isabelle knew what he was thinking about. Max, when he had been born. She had been seven, Alec nine. They had bent over their little brother in the cradle, amused and enchanted by this fascinating new creature. They’d played with his little fingers, laughed at the weird faces he made when they tickled him.
Her heart twisted. Max. As she had moved down the lines of little cribs, now turned into little coffins, a sense of overwhelming dread had begun to press down on her. She couldn’t ignore the fact that the pendant around her neck was glowing with a harsh, steady glow. The sort of glow she might have expected if she were facing down a Greater Demon.
She thought of what Clary had seen in the morgue in Beth Israel. He looked just like a normal baby. Except for his hands. They were twisted into claws. . . .
With great care she reached into one of the cribs. Careful not to touch the baby, she twitched aside the thin blanket that wrapped its body.
She felt the breath puff out of her in a gasp. Ordinary chubby baby arms, round baby wrists. The hands looked soft and new. But the fingers—the fingers were twisted into claws, as black as burned bone, tipped with sharp little talons. She took an involuntary step back.
“What?” Maia moved toward them. She still looked sickened, but her voice was steady. Jordan followed her, hands in his pockets. “What did you find?” she asked.
“By the Angel.” Alec, beside Isabelle, was looking down into the crib. “Is this—like the baby Clary was telling you about? The one at Beth Israel?”
Slowly Isabelle nodded. “I guess it wasn’t just the one baby,” she said. “Someone’s been trying to make a lot more of them. More . . . Sebastians.”
“Why would anyone want more of him?” Alec’s voice was full of naked hatred.
“He was fast and strong,” Isabelle said. It almost hurt physically to say anything complimentary about the boy who had killed her brother and tried to kill her. “I guess they’re trying to breed a race of super-warriors.”
“It didn’t work.” Maia’s eyes were dark with sadness.
A noise so soft it was almost inaudible teased at the edge of Isabelle’s hearing. Her head jerked up, her hand going to her belt, where her whip was coiled. Something in the thick shadows at the edge of the room, near the door, moved, just the faintest flicker, but Isabelle had already broken away from the others and was running for the door. She burst out into the hallway near the elevators. There was something there—a shadow that had broken free of the greater darkness and was moving, edging along the wall. Isabelle picked up speed and threw herself forward, knocking the shadow to the floor.
It wasn’t a ghost. As they went down together in a heap, Isabelle surprised a very human-sounding grunt of surprise out of the shadowy figure. They hit the ground together and rolled. The figure was definitely human—slight and shorter than Isabelle, wearing a gray warm-up suit and sneakers. Sharp elbows came up, jabbing into Isabelle’s collarbone. A knee dug into her solar plexus. She gasped and rolled aside, feeling for her whip. By the time she got it free, the figure was on its feet. Isabelle rolled onto her stomach, flicking the whip forward; the end of it coiled around the stranger’s ankle and pulled tight. Isabelle jerked the whip back, yanking the figure off its feet.
She scrambled to her feet, reaching with her free hand for her stele, which was tucked down the front of her dress. With a quick slash she finished the nyx Mark on her left arm. Her vision adjusted quickly, the whole room seeming to fill with light as the night vision rune took effect. She could see her attacker more clearly now—a thin figure in a gray warm-up suit and gray sneakers, scrambling backward until its back hit the wall. The hood of the suit had fallen back, exposing the face. The head was shaved cleanly bald, but the face was definitely female, with sharp cheekbones and big dark eyes.
“Stop it,” Isabelle said, and pulled hard on the whip. The woman cried out in pain. “Stop trying to crawl away.”
The woman bared her teeth. “Worm,” she said. “Unbeliever. I will tell you nothing.”
Isabelle jammed her stele back into her dress. “If I pull hard enough on this whip, it’ll cut through your leg.” She gave the
whip another flick, tightening it, and moved forward, until she was standing in front of the woman, looking down at her. “Those babies,” she said. “What happened to them?”
The woman gave a bubbling laugh. “They were not strong enough. Weak stock, too weak.”
“Too weak for what?” When the woman didn’t answer, Isabelle snapped, “You can tell me or lose your leg. Your choice. Don’t think I won’t let you bleed to death here on the floor. Child-murderers don’t deserve mercy.”
The woman hissed, like a snake. “If you harm me, She will smite you down.”
“Who—” Isabelle broke off, remembering what Alec had said. Talto is another name for Lilith. You might say she’s the demon goddess of dead children. “Lilith,” she said. “You worship Lilith. You did all this . . . for her?”
“Isabelle.” It was Alec, carrying the light of Sandalphon before him. “What’s going on? Maia and Jordan are searching, looking for any more . . . children, but it looks like they were all in the big room. What’s going on here?”
“This . . . person,” Isabelle said with disgust, “is a cult member of the Church of Talto. Apparently they worship Lilith. And they’ve murdered all these babies for her.”
“Not murder!” The woman struggled upright. “Not murder. Sacrifice. They were tested and found weak. Not our fault.”
“Let me guess,” Isabelle said. “You tried injecting the pregnant women with demon blood. But demon blood is toxic stuff. The babies couldn’t survive. They were born deformed, and then they died.”
The woman whimpered. It was a very slight sound, but Isabelle saw Alec’s eyes narrow. He had always been the one of them that was best at reading people.
“One of those babies,” he said. “It was yours. How could you inject your own child with demon blood?”
The woman’s mouth trembled. “I didn’t. We were the ones who took the blood injections. The mothers. Made us stronger, faster. Our husbands, too. But we got sick. Sicker and sicker. Our hair fell out. Our nails . . .” She raised her hands, showing the blackened nails, the torn, bloody nail beds where some had fallen away. Her arms were dotted with blackish bruises. “We’re all dying,” she said. There was a faint sound of satisfaction in her voice. “We will be dead in days.”
“She made you take poison,” Alec said, “and yet you worship her?”
“You don’t understand.” The woman sounded hoarse, dreamy. “I had nothing before She found me. None of us did. I was on the streets. Sleeping on subway gratings so I wouldn’t freeze. Lilith gave me a place to live, a family to take care of me. Just to be in Her presence is to be safe. I never felt safe before.”
“You’ve seen Lilith,” Isabelle said, struggling to keep the disbelief from her voice. She was familiar with demon cults; she had done a report on them once, for Hodge. He had given her high marks on it. Most cults worshipped demons they had imagined or invented. Some managed to raise weak minor demons, who either killed them all when set free, or contented themselves with being served by the cult members, all their needs attended to, and little asked of them in return. She had never heard of a cult who worshipped a Greater Demon in which the members had ever actually seen that demon in the flesh. Much less a Greater Demon as powerful as Lilith, the mother of warlocks. “You’ve been in her presence?”
The woman’s eyes fluttered half-shut. “Yes. With Her blood in me I can feel when She is near. As She is now.”
Isabelle couldn’t help it; her free hand flew to her pendant. It had been pulsing on and off since they’d entered the building; she had assumed it was because of the demon blood in the dead children, but the presence nearby of a Greater Demon would make even more sense. “She’s here? Where is she?”
The woman seemed to be drifting off into sleep. “Upstairs,” she said vaguely. “With the vampire boy. The one who walks by day. She sent us to fetch him for Her, but he was protected. We could not lay hands on him. Those who went to find him died. Then, when Brother Adam returned and told us the boy was guarded by holy fire, Lady Lilith was angry. She slew him where he stood. He was lucky, to die by Her hand, so lucky.” Her breath rattled. “And She is clever, Lady Lilith. She found another way to bring the boy. . . .”
The whip dropped from Isabelle’s suddenly limp hand. “Simon? She brought Simon here? Why?”
“‘None that go unto Her,’” the woman breathed, “‘return again . . .’”
Isabelle dropped to her knees, seizing up the whip. “Stop it,” she said in a voice that shook. “Stop yammering and tell me where he is. Where did she take him? Where is Simon? Tell me, or I’ll—”
“Isabelle.” Alec spoke heavily. “Iz, there’s no point. She’s dead.”
Isabelle stared at the woman in disbelief. She had died, it seemed, between one breath and the next, her eyes wide open, her face set in slack lines. It was possible to see now that beneath the starvation and the baldness and the bruising, she had probably been quite young, not more than twenty. “God damn it.”
“I don’t get it,” Alec said. “What does a Greater Demon want with Simon? He’s a vampire. Granted, a powerful vampire, but—”
“The Mark of Cain,” Isabelle said distractedly. “This must have something to do with the Mark. It’s got to.” She moved toward the elevator and jabbed at the call button. “If Lilith was really Adam’s first wife, and Cain was Adam’s son, then the Mark of Cain is nearly as old as she is.”
“Where are you going?”
“She said they were upstairs,” Isabelle said. “I’m going to search every floor until I find him.”
“She can’t hurt him, Izzy,” said Alec in the reasonable voice Isabelle detested. “I know you’re worried, but he’s got the Mark of Cain; he’s untouchable. Even a Greater Demon can’t harm him. No one can.”
Isabelle scowled at her brother. “So what do you think she wants him for, then? So she’ll have someone to pick up her dry cleaning during the day? Really, Alec—”
There was a ping, and the arrow above the farthest elevator lit up. Isabelle started forward as the doors began to open. Light flooded out . . . and after the light, a wave of men and women—bald, emaciated, and dressed in gray tracksuits and sneakers—poured out. They were brandishing crude weapons culled from the debris of construction: jagged shards of glass, torn-off chunks of rebar, concrete blocks. None of them spoke. In a silence as total as it was eerie, they surged from the elevator as one, and advanced on Alec and Isabelle.
18
SCARS OF FIRE
Clouds had rolled in over the river, the way they sometimes did at night, bringing a thick mist with them. It didn’t hide what was happening on the roof, just laid a sort of dimming fog over everything else. The buildings rising all around them were murky pillars of light, and the moon glowed barely, a muffled lamp, through the low scudding clouds. The broken bits of the glass coffin, scattered across the tiled ground, shone like shards of ice, and Lilith, too, shone, pale under the moon, watching Simon as he bent over Sebastian’s still body, drinking his blood.
Clary could hardly bear to watch. She knew Simon hated what he was doing; she knew he was doing it for her. For her, and even, a little bit, for Jace. And she knew what the next step in the ritual would be. Simon would give up his blood, willingly, to Sebastian, and Simon would die. Vampires could die when their blood was drained. He would die, and she would lose him forever, and it would—all of it—be her own fault.
She could feel Jace behind her, his arms still tight around her, the soft, regular beat of his heart against her shoulder blades. She remembered the way he had held her on the steps of the Accords Hall in Idris. The sound of the wind in the leaves as he’d kissed her, his hands warm on either side of her face. The way she had felt his heart beating and thought that no one else’s heart beat like his, like every pulse of his blood matched her own.
He had to be in there somewhere. Like Sebastian inside his glass prison. There had to be some way to reach him.
Lilith was watching Simon a
s he bent over Sebastian, her dark eyes wide and fixed. Clary and Jace might as well not have been there at all.
“Jace,” Clary whispered. “Jace, I don’t want to watch this.”
She pressed back against him, as if she were trying to snuggle into his arms, then pretended a wince as the knife brushed the side of her throat.
“Please, Jace,” she whispered. “You don’t need the knife. You know I can’t hurt you.”
“But why—”
“I just want to look at you. I want to see your face.”
She felt his chest rise and fall once, fast. A shudder went through him, as if he were fighting something, pushing against it. Then he moved, the way only he could move, so swiftly it was like a flash of light. He kept his right arm tight around her; his left hand slid the knife into his belt.
Her heart leaped wildly. I could run, she thought, but he would only catch her, and it was only a moment. Seconds later both arms were around her again, his hands on her arms, turning her. She felt his fingers trail over her back, her bare, shivering arms, as he spun her to face him.
She was looking away from Simon now, away from the demon woman, though she could still feel their presence at her back, shivering up her spine. She looked up at Jace. His face was so familiar. The lines of it, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the faint scar over his cheekbone, another at his temple. His eyelashes a shade darker than his hair. His eyes were the color of pale yellow glass. That was where he was different, she thought. He still looked like Jace, but his eyes were clear and blank, as if she were looking through a window into an empty room.
“I’m afraid,” she said.
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