City of Lost Souls

“Clary—”

“Is all right. She’s at Magnus’s with her mother.” Maia turned to Jordan. “Magnus called me and asked me to come and see you. He tried to reach you, but he couldn’t. He wants you to put him in touch with the Praetor Lupus.”

“Put him in touch with…” Jordan shook his head. “You can’t just call the Praetor. It’s not like 1-800-WEREWOLF.”

Maia crossed her arms. “Well, how do you reach them, then?”

“I have a supervisor. He reaches me when he wants to, or I can call on him in an emergency—”

“This is an emergency.” Maia hooked her thumbs through the belt loops on her jeans. “Luke could die, and Magnus says the Praetor might have information that could help.” She looked at Jordan, her eyes big and dark. He ought to tell her, he thought. That the Praetor didn’t like getting mixed up in affairs of the Clave; that they kept to themselves and their mission—to help new Downworlders. That there was no guarantee they would agree to help, and every likelihood that they would resent the request.

But Maia was asking him. This was something he could do for her that might be a step down the long road of making it up to her for what he’d done before.

“Okay,” he said. “Then, we go to their headquarters and present ourselves in person. They’re out on the North Fork of Long Island. Pretty far from anywhere. We can take my truck.”

“Fine.” Maia hoisted her backpack higher. “I thought we might have to go somewhere; that’s why I brought my stuff.”

“Maia.” It was Isabelle. She hadn’t said anything in so long that Jordan had almost forgotten she was there; he turned and saw her leaning against the wall by Simon’s door. She was hugging herself as if she were cold. “Is he all right?”

Maia winced. “Luke? No, he—”

“Jace.” Isabelle’s voice was an indrawn breath. “Is Jace all right? Did they hurt him or catch him or—”

“He’s fine,” Maia said flatly. “And he’s gone. He disappeared with Sebastian.”

“And Simon?” Isabelle’s gaze flicked to Jordan. “You said he was with Clary—”

Maia shook her head. “He wasn’t. He wasn’t there.” Her hand was tight on the strap of her backpack. “But there’s one thing we know now, and you’re not going to like it. Jace and Sebastian are connected somehow. Hurt Jace, you hurt Sebastian. Kill him, and Sebastian dies. And vice versa. Straight from Magnus.”

“Does the Clave know?” Isabelle demanded instantly. “They didn’t tell the Clave, did they?”

Maia shook her head. “Not yet.”

“They’ll find out,” said Isabelle. “The whole pack knows. Someone will tell. Then it’ll be a manhunt. They’ll kill him just to kill Sebastian. They’ll kill him anyway.” She reached up and pushed her hands through her thick black hair. “I want my brother,” she said. “I want to see Alec.”

“Well, that’s good,” Maia said. “Because after Magnus called me, he sent a follow-up text. He said he had a feeling you’d be here, and he had a message for you. He wants you to go to his apartment in Brooklyn, right away.”



It was freezing out, so cold that even the thermis rune she’d put on herself—and the thin parka she’d swiped from Simon’s closet—weren’t doing much to keep Isabelle from shivering as she pushed open the door of Magnus’s apartment building and ducked inside.

After being buzzed up, she headed up the stairs, trailing her hand along the splintering banister. Part of her wanted to rush up the steps, knowing Alec was there and would understand what she was feeling. The other part of her, the part that had hidden her parents’ secret from her brothers all her life, wanted to curl up on the landing and be alone with her misery. The part that hated relying on anyone else—because wouldn’t they just let you down?—and was proud to say that Isabelle Lightwood didn’t need anyone reminded herself that she was here because they had asked for her. They needed her.

Isabelle didn’t mind being needed. Liked it, in fact. It was why it had taken her longer to warm up to Jace when he had first stepped through the Portal from Idris, a thin ten-year-old boy with haunted pale gold eyes. Alec had been delighted with him immediately, but Isabelle had resented his self-possession. When her mother had told her that Jace’s father had been murdered in front of him, she’d imagined him coming to her tearfully, for comfort and even advice. But he hadn’t seemed to need anyone. Even at ten years old he’d had a sharp, defensive wit and an acidic temperament. In fact, Isabelle had thought, dismayed, that he was just like her.