City of Lost Souls

Inside the circle, a pentagram had been drawn by Magnus, using a rowan stick that had burned the pattern of overlapping triangles into the floor. In between the spaces formed by the pentagram were symbols unlike anything Simon had seen before: not quite letters and not quite runes, they gave off a chilly sense of menace despite the heat of the candle flames.

It was dark outside the windows now, the sort of dark that came with the early sunsets of approaching winter. Isabelle, Alec, Simon, and finally, Magnus—who was chanting aloud from Forbidden Rites—each stood at one cardinal point around the circle. Magnus’s voice rose and fell, the Latin words like a prayer, but one that was inverted and sinister.

The flames rose higher and the symbols carved into the floor began to burn black. Chairman Meow, who had been watching from a corner of the room, hissed and fled into the shadows. The blue-white flames rose, and now Simon could hardly see Magnus through them. The room was getting hotter, the warlock chanting faster, his black hair curling in the humid heat, sweat gleaming on his cheekbones. “Quod tumeraris: per Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Azazel!”

There was a burst of fire from the center of the pentagram, and a thick black wave of smoke rose, dissipating slowly through the room, making everyone but Simon cough and choke. It swirled like a whirlpool, coalescing slowly in the center of the pentagram into the figure of a man.

Simon blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. A tall man with auburn hair, neither young nor old—an ageless face, inhuman and cold. Broad-shouldered, dressed in a well-cut black suit and shining black shoes. Around each wrist was a dark red groove, the marks of some sort of binding, rope or metal, that had cut into the skin over many years. In his eyes were leaping red flames.

He spoke. “Who summons Azazel?” His voice was like metal grinding on metal.

“I do.” Magnus firmly shut the book he was holding. “Magnus Bane.”

Azazel craned his head slowly toward Magnus. His head seemed to swivel unnaturally on his neck, like the head of a snake. “Warlock,” he said. “I know who you are.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Summoner. Binder. Destroyer of the demon Marbas. Son of—”

“Now,” said Magnus quickly. “There’s no need to go into all of that.”

“But there is.” Azazel sounded reasonable, even amused. “If it is infernal assistance you require, why not summon your father?”

Alec was looking at Magnus with his mouth open. Simon felt for him. He didn’t think any of them had ever assumed that Magnus even knew who his father was, beyond that he had been a demon who had tricked his mother into believing he was her husband. Alec clearly knew no more about it than the rest of them, which, Simon imagined, was probably something he wasn’t too happy about.

“My father and I are not on the best of terms,” said Magnus. “I would prefer not to involve him.”

Azazel raised his hands. “As you say, Master. You hold me within the seal. What do you demand?”

Magnus said nothing, but it was clear from the expression on Azazel’s face that the warlock was speaking to him silently, mind to mind. The flames leaped and danced in the demon’s eyes, like eager children listening to a story. “Clever Lilith,” the demon said at last. “To raise the boy from death, and secure his life by binding him to someone whom you cannot bear to kill. She was always better at manipulating human emotions than most of the rest of us. Perhaps because she was something close to human once.”

“Is there a way?” Magnus sounded impatient. “To break the bond between them?”

Azazel shook his head. “Not without killing them both.”

“Then, is there a way to harm Sebastian only, without hurting Jace?” It was Isabelle, eager; Magnus shot her a quelling look.

“Not with any weapon I might create, or have at my disposal,” said Azazel. “I can craft only weapons whose alliance is demonic. A bolt of lightning from the hand of an angel, perhaps, might burn away what was evil in Valentine’s son and either break their tie or cause it to become more benevolent in nature. If I might make a suggestion…”

“Oh,” said Magnus, narrowing his cat’s eyes, “please do.”

“I can think of a simple solution that will separate the boys, keep yours alive, and neutralize the danger of the other one. And I will ask very little of you in return.”

“You are my servant,” Magnus said. “If you wish to leave this pentagram, you will do what I ask, and not demand favors in return.”

Azazel hissed, and fire curled from his lips. “If I am not bound here, then I am bound there. It makes little difference to me.”

“‘For this is Hell, nor am I out of it,’” said Magnus, with the air of someone quoting an old saying.