HOUSE RULES
No shape-shifting in the hallways.
No howling.
No silver.
Clothes must be worn at all times. ALL TIMES.
No fighting. No biting.
Mark all your food before you put it in the communal refrigerator.
The smell of cooking breakfast wafted through the air, making Maia’s stomach grumble. Praetor Scott sounded amused. “I’ll have someone make us up a plate of snacks if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” Maia muttered. They had reached the end of a hallway, and Praetor Scott opened a door marked OFFICE.
The older werewolf’s eyebrows drew together. “Rufus,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Maia peered past him. The office was a large room, comfortably messy. There was a rectangular picture window that gave out onto wide lawns, on which groups of mostly young people were executing what looked like drill maneuvers, wearing black warm-up pants and tops. The walls of the room were lined with books about lycanthropy, many in Latin, but Maia recognized the word “lupus.” The desk was a slab of marble set upon the statues of two snarling wolves.
In front of it were two chairs. In one of them sat a large man—a werewolf—hunched over, his hands gripped together. “Praetor,” he said in a grating voice. “I had hoped to speak with you regarding the incident in Boston.”
“The one in which you broke your assigned charge’s leg?” the Praetor said dryly. “I will be speaking to you about it, Rufus, but not this moment. Something more pressing calls me.”
“But, Praetor—”
“That will be all, Rufus,” said Scott in the ringing tone of an alpha wolf whose orders were not to be challenged. “Remember, this is a place of rehabilitation. Part of that is learning to respect authority.”
Muttering under his breath, Rufus rose from the chair. Only when he stood up did Maia realize, and react to, his enormous size. He towered over both her and Jordan, his black T-shirt straining over his chest, the sleeves about to split around his biceps. His head was closely shaved, his face scored with deep claw marks all across one cheek, like furrows dug in soil. He gave her a sour look as he stalked past them and out into the hall.
“Of course some of us,” Jordan muttered, “are easier to rehabilitate than others.”
As Rufus’s heavy tread faded down the hall, Scott threw himself into the high-backed chair behind the desk and buzzed a joltingly modern-looking intercom. After requesting breakfast in a terse voice, he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head.
“I’m all ears,” he said.
As Jordan recounted their story, and their request, to Praetor Scott, Maia couldn’t keep her eyes and mind from wandering. She wondered what it would have been like to have been raised here, in this elegant house of rules and regulations, rather than with the comparatively lawless freedom of the pack. At some point a werewolf dressed all in black—it seemed to be the regulation outfit of the Praetor—came in with sliced roast beef, cheese, and protein drinks on a pewter tray. Maia eyed the breakfast with some dismay. It was true that werewolves needed more protein than normal people, much more, but roast beef for breakfast?
“You’ll find,” Praetor Scott said as Maia drank her protein shake gingerly, “that, in fact, refined sugar is harmful to werewolves. If you cease consuming it for a period of time, you will cease desiring it. Hasn’t your pack leader told you that?”
Maia tried to imagine Luke, who liked to make pancakes in odd and amusing shapes, lecturing her about sugar, and failed. Now was not the time to mention that, though. “No, he has, of course,” she said. “I tend to, ah, backslide in times of stress.”
“I understand your concern for your pack leader,” said Scott. A gold Rolex glinted on his wrist. “Normally we maintain a strict policy of noninterference regarding matters not related to new-fledged Downworlders. We do not, in fact, prioritize werewolves over other Downworlders, though only lycanthropes are allowed into the Praetor.”
“But that’s exactly why we do need your help,” said Jordan. “Packs are by their nature always moving, transitional. They have no opportunity to build up things like libraries of stored knowledge. I’m not saying they don’t have wisdom, but everything is an oral tradition and every pack knows different things. We could go from pack to pack, and maybe someone would know how to cure Luke, but we don’t have time. Here”—he gestured at the books lining the walls—“is the closest thing werewolves have to, say, the archives of the Silent Brothers or the Spiral Labyrinth of the warlocks.”
Scott looked unconvinced. Maia set her protein shake down. “And Luke isn’t just any pack leader,” she said. “He’s the lyncanthrope’s representative on the Council. If you helped cure him, you would know that the Praetor would always have a Council voice in their favor.”
Scott’s eyes glinted. “Interesting,” he said. “Very well. I’ll have a look through the books. It’ll probably take a few hours. Jordan, I suggest that if you’re going to drive back to Manhattan you get some rest. We don’t need you wrapping your truck around a tree.”
“I could drive—,” Maia began.
“You look equally exhausted. Jordan, as you know, there will always be a room for you here at the Praetor House, even though you’ve graduated. And Nick is on assignment, so there’s a bed for Maia. Why don’t you both get some rest, and I’ll call you down when I’m finished.” He swiveled around in his chair to examine the books on the walls.
Jordan gestured to Maia that this was their cue to leave; she stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. She was halfway to the door when Praetor Scott spoke again.
“Oh, and Maia Roberts,” he said, and his voice held a note of warning. “I hope you understand that when you make promises in other people’s names, it falls upon your head to make sure they follow through.”
Simon awoke still feeling exhausted, blinking in the darkness. The thick black curtains over the windows let in very little light, but his internal body clock told him it was daytime. That and the fact that Isabelle was gone, her side of the bed rumpled, the covers turned back.
Daytime, and he hadn’t talked to Clary since she’d gone. He drew his hand out from under the covers and looked at the gold ring on his right hand. Delicate, it was etched with what were either designs or words in an alphabet he didn’t know.
Clenching his jaw, he sat up and touched the ring. Clary?
The answer was immediate and clear. He nearly slid off the bed with relief. Simon. Thank God.
Can you talk?
No. He felt rather than heard a tense distraction in the voice of her mind. I’m glad you spoke to me, but now isn’t good. I’m not alone.
But you’re all right?
I’m fine. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m trying to gather information. I promise I’ll talk to you the moment I hear anything.
Okay. Take care of yourself.
You too.
And she was gone. Sliding his legs over the side of the mattress, Simon did his best to flatten his sleep-mussed hair, and went to see if anyone else was awake.
They were. Alec, Magnus, Jocelyn, and Isabelle sat around the table in Magnus’s living room. While Alec and Magnus were in jeans, both Jocelyn and Isabelle wore gear, Isabelle with her whip wrapped around her right arm. She glanced up as he came in but didn’t smile; her shoulders were tense, her mouth a thin line. They all had mugs of coffee in front of them.
“There’s a reason the ritual of the Mortal Instruments was so complicated.” Magnus made the sugar bowl float over to himself and dumped some of the white powder into his coffee. “Angels act at the behest of God, not human beings—not even Shadowhunters. Summon one, and you’re likely to find yourself blasted with divine wrath. The whole point of the Mortal Instruments ritual wasn’t that it allowed someone to summon Raziel. It was that it protected the summoner from the Angel’s wrath once he did appear.”
“Valentine—,” Alec began.
“Yes, Valentine also summoned a very minor angel. And it never spoke to him, did it? Never gave him a sliver of help, though he harvested its blood. And even then he must have been using incredibly powerful spells just to bind it. My understanding is that he tied its life to the Wayland manor, so that when the angel died the manor collapsed to rubble.” He tapped a blue-painted fingernail on his mug. “And he damned himself. Whether you believe in Heaven and Hell or not, he damned himself surely. When he summoned Raziel, Raziel struck him down. Partly in revenge for what Valentine had done to his brother angel.”
“Why are we talking about summoning angels?” Simon asked, perching himself on the end of the long table.
“Isabelle and Jocelyn went to see the Iron Sisters,” said Alec. “Looking for a weapon that could be used on Sebastian that wouldn’t affect Jace.”
“And there isn’t one?”
“Nothing in this world,” said Isabelle. “A Heavenly weapon might do it, or something with a seriously demonic alliance. We were exploring the first option.”
“Summoning up an angel to give you a weapon?”
“It’s happened before,” said Magnus. “Raziel gave the Mortal Sword to Jonathan Shadowhunter. In the old stories, the night before the battle of Jericho, an angel appeared and gave Joshua a sword.”
“Huh,” said Simon. “I would have thought angels would have been all about peace, not weapons.”
Magnus snorted. “Angels are not just messengers. They are soldiers. Michael is said to have routed armies. They are not patient, angels. Certainly not with the vicissitudes of human beings. Anyone who tried to summon Raziel without the Mortal Instruments to protect them would probably be blasted to death on the spot. Demons are easier to summon. There are more of them, and many are weak. But then, a weak demon can help you only so much—”
“We can’t summon a demon,” said Jocelyn, aghast. “The Clave—”
“I thought you stopped caring what the Clave thought of you years ago,” Magnus said.
“It’s not just me,” said Jocelyn. “The rest of you. Luke. My daughter. If the Clave knew—”
“Well, they won’t know, will they?” said Alec, his usually gentle voice edged. “Unless you tell them.”
Jocelyn looked from Isabelle’s still face to Magnus’s inquiring one, to Alec’s stubborn blue eyes. “You’re really considering this? Summoning a demon?”
“Well, not just any demon,” said Magnus. “Azazel.”
Jocelyn’s eyes blazed. “Azazel?” Her eyes scanned the others, as if looking for support, but Izzy and Alec glanced down at their mugs, and Simon just shrugged.
“I don’t know who Azazel is,” he said. “Isn’t he the cat from The Smurfs?” He cast about, but Isabelle just looked up and rolled her eyes at him. Clary? he thought.
Her voice came through, tinged with alarm. What is it? What’s happened? Did my mom find out I’m gone?
Not yet, he thought back. Is Azazel the cat from The Smurfs?
There was a long pause. That’s Azrael, Simon. And no more using the magic rings for Smurf questions.
And she was gone. Simon glanced up from his hand and saw Magnus looking at him quizzically. “He’s not a cat, Sylvester,” he said. “He’s a Greater Demon. Lieutenant of Hell and Forger of Weapons. He was an angel who taught mankind how to make weapons, when before it had been knowledge only angels possessed. That caused him to fall, and now he is a demon. ‘And the whole earth has been corrupted by the works that were taught by Azazel. To him ascribe all sin.’”
Alec looked at Magnus in amazement. “How did you know all that?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” said Magnus, and, noting their expressions, sighed. “Okay, not really. But it is in the Book of Enoch.”
“Seems dangerous.” Alec frowned. “It sounds like he’s beyond a Greater Demon, even. Like Lilith.”
“Fortunately, he is already bound,” said Magnus. “If you summon him, his spirit form will come to you but his corporeal self will remain bound to the jagged rocks of Duduael.”
“The jagged rocks of… Oh, whatever,” Isabelle said, winding her long dark hair into a bun. “He’s the demon of weapons. Fine. I say we give it a go.”
“I can’t believe you’re even considering this,” said Jocelyn. “I learned from watching my husband what dabbling in raising demons can do. Clary—” She broke off then, as if sensing Simon’s gaze on her, and turned. “Simon,” she said, “do you know, is Clary awake yet? We’ve been letting her sleep, but it’s almost eleven.”
Simon hesitated. “I don’t know.” This, he reasoned, was true. Wherever Clary was, she could be asleep. Even though he had just talked to her.
Jocelyn looked puzzled. “But weren’t you in the room with her?”
“No, I wasn’t. I was—” Simon broke off, realizing the hole he’d just dug himself. There were three spare bedrooms. Jocelyn had been in one, Clary the other. Which would obviously mean he must have slept in the third room with—
“Isabelle?” said Alec, his eyebrows raised. “You slept in Isabelle’s room?”
Isabelle waved a hand. “No need to worry, big brother. Nothing happened. Of course,” she added as Alec’s shoulders relaxed, “I was totally passed-out drunk, so he could really have done whatever he wanted and I wouldn’t have woken up.”
“Oh, please,” said Simon. “All I did was tell you the entire plot of Star Wars.”
“I don’t think I remember that,” said Isabelle, taking a cookie from the plate on the table.
“Oh, yeah? Who was Luke Skywalker’s best childhood friend?”
“Biggs Darklighter,” Isabelle said immediately, and then hit the table with the flat of her hand. “That is so cheating!” Still, she grinned at him around her cookie.
“Ah,” said Magnus. “Nerd love. It is a beautiful thing, while also being an object of mockery and hilarity for those of us who are more sophisticated.”
“All right, that’s enough.” Jocelyn stood up. “I’m going to get Clary. If you’re going to raise a demon, I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want my daughter here either.” She headed toward the hallway.
Simon blocked her way. “You can’t do that,” he said.
Jocelyn looked at him with a set face. “I know you’re going to say that this is the safest place for us, Simon, but with a demon being raised, I just—”
“It’s not that.” Simon took a deep breath, which didn’t help, since his blood no longer processed oxygen. He felt slightly sick. “You can’t go wake her up because… because she isn’t here.”