City of Lost Souls

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?”