Cities and rivers, Clary thought as she took her fingers from the gold ring on her right hand and turned away from the view off Charles Bridge, back to Jace and Sebastian. They were on the other side of the old stone bridge, pointing off at something she couldn’t see. The water below was the color of metal, sliding soundlessly around the bridge’s ancient struts; the sky was the same color, pocked with black clouds.
The wind whipped at her hair and coat as she walked over to join Sebastian and Jace. They all set off again, the two boys conversing softly; she could have joined the conversation if she’d wanted to, she supposed, but there was something about the still loveliness of the city, its spires rising into mist in the distance, that made her want to be quiet, to look and to think on her own.
The bridge emptied out into a twisting cobblestone street lined with tourist shops, shops selling blood-red garnets and big chunks of golden Polish amber, heavy Bohemian glass, and wooden toys. Even at this hour, touts stood outside nightclubs, holding free passes or cards that would give you discounts on drinks; Sebastian gestured them aside impatiently, snapping his annoyance in Czech. The press of people was relieved when the street widened into an old medieval square. Despite the cold weather, it was filled with milling pedestrians and kiosks were selling sausages and hot, spiced cider. The three of them stopped for food and ate around a tall rickety table while the huge astronomical clock in the square’s center began to chime the hour. Clanking machinery started up, and a circle of dancing wooden figures appeared from doors on either side of the clock—the twelve apostles, Sebastian explained as the figures whirled around and around.
“There’s a legend,” he said, leaning forward with his hands cupped around a mug of hot cider, “that the king had the eyes of the clock maker put out after this clock was finished, so he could never build anything as beautiful again.”
Clary shuddered and moved a little closer to Jace. He had been quiet since they’d left the bridge, as if lost in thought. People—girls, mainly—stopped to look at him as they passed, his hair bright and startling among the winter-dark colors of the Old Square. “That’s sadistic,” she said.
Sebastian ran his finger around the rim of his mug, and licked the cider off. “The past is another country.”
“Foreign country,” said Jace.
Sebastian looked at him with lazy eyes. “What?”
“‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there,’” Jace said. “That’s the whole quote.”
Sebastian shrugged and pushed his mug away. You got a euro for returning them to the stand where you bought the cider, but Clary suspected Sebastian couldn’t be bothered to fake good citizenship for a measly euro. “Let’s go.”
Clary wasn’t finished with her cider, but she set it down anyway and followed as Sebastian led them away from the square, among a maze of narrow, twisting streets. Jace had corrected Sebastian, she thought. Certainly it had been over something minor, but wasn’t Lilith’s blood magic supposed to bind him to her brother in such a way that he thought everything Sebastian did was right? Could this be a sign—even a tiny sign—that the spell that connected them was starting to fade?
It was stupid to hope, she knew. But sometimes hope was all you had.
The streets grew narrower, darker. The clouds overhead had completely blocked out the lowering sun, and old-fashioned gas lamps burned here and there, illuminating the misty dimness. The streets had turned to cobblestones, and the sidewalks were narrowing, forcing them to walk in a line, as if they were picking their way across a narrow bridge. Only the sight of other pedestrians, appearing and disappearing out of the fog, made Clary feel that she had not stepped through some sort of warp in time into a dream city out of her own imagination.
Finally they reached an archway of stone that opened out into a small square. Most of the stores had turned off their lights, though across from them one was lit up. It said ANTIKVARIAT in gold letters, and the window was full of old display bottles of different substances, their peeling labels marked in Latin. Clary was surprised when Sebastian headed toward it. What use could they possibly have for old bottles?
She dismissed the thought when they stepped over the threshold. The store inside was dimly lit and smelled of mothballs, but it was stuffed, every cranny, with an incredible selection of junk—and not-junk. Beautiful celestial maps warred for space with salt and pepper shakers shaped like the figures from the clock in the Old Town Square. There were heaps of old tobacco and cigar tins, stamps mounted in glass, old cameras of East German and Russian design, a gorgeous cut-glass bowl in a deep emerald shade sitting side by side with a stack of water-stained old calendars. An antique Czech flag hung from a mounting pole overhead.
Sebastian moved forward through the stacks toward a counter in the back of the store, and Clary realized that what she had taken for a mannequin was in fact an old man with a face as creased and wrinkled as an old bedsheet, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed. The counter itself was glass-fronted and held heaps of vintage jewelry and sparkling glass beads, small chain purses with gem clasps, and rows of cuff links.
Sebastian said something in Czech, and the man nodded and indicated Clary and Jace with a jerk of his chin and a suspicious look. His eyes were, Clary saw, a dark red color. She narrowed her own eyes, concentrating hard, and began to strip the glamour from him.
It wasn’t easy; it seemed to stick to him like flypaper. In the end she managed to pull it away only enough to see in flashes the real creature standing in front of her—tall and human-shaped, with gray skin and ruby-red eyes, a mouth full of pointed teeth that jutted every which way, and long, serpentine arms that ended in heads like an eel’s—narrow, evil-looking, and toothy.
“A Vetis demon,” Jace muttered in her ear. “They’re like dragons. They like to stockpile sparkly things. Junk, jewels, it’s all the same to them.”
Sebastian was looking back over his shoulder at Jace and Clary. “They’re my brother and sister,” he said after a moment. “They are entirely to be trusted, Mirek.”
A faint shudder ran under Clary’s skin. She didn’t like the idea of posing as Jace’s sister, even for a demon’s benefit.
“I don’t like this,” the Vetis demon said. “You said we would be dealing only with you, Morgenstern. And while I know Valentine had a daughter”—his head dipped toward Clary—“I also know he had only one son.”
“He’s adopted,” said Sebastian breezily, gesturing toward Jace.
“Adopted?”
“I think you’ll find the definition of the modern family is really changing at an impressive pace these days,” said Jace.
The demon—Mirek—didn’t look impressed. “I don’t like this,” he said again.
“But you’ll like this,” said Sebastian, taking a pouch, tied at the top, from his pocket. He turned it upside down above the counter, and a clattering pile of bronze coins fell out, clinking together as they rolled across the glass. “Pennies from dead men’s eyes. A hundred of them. Now, do you have what we agreed on?”
One toothed hand felt its way across the counter and bit gently at a coin. The demon’s red eyes flickered over the pile. “That is all very well, but it is not enough to buy what you seek.” He gestured with an undulating arm, and above it appeared what looked to Clary like a hunk of rock crystal—only it was more luminous, more sheer, silvery, and beautiful. She realized with a jolt that it was the stuff seraph blades were made from. “Pure adamas,” Mirek said. “The stuff of Heaven. Priceless.”
Anger crackled across Sebastian’s face like lightning, and for a moment Clary saw the vicious boy underneath, the one who had laughed while Hodge lay dying. Then the look was gone. “But we agreed on a price.”
“We also agreed you would come alone,” said Mirek. His red eyes returned to Clary, and to Jace, who hadn’t moved but whose aspect had taken on the controlled stillness of a crouching cat’s. “I’ll tell you what else you can give me,” he said. “A lock of your sister’s pretty hair.”
“Fine,” Clary said, stepping forward. “You want a snip of my hair—”
“No!” Jace moved to block her. “He’s a dark magician, Clary. You have no idea what he could do with a lock of your hair or a bit of blood.”
“Mirek,” Sebastian said slowly, not looking at Clary. And in that moment she wondered, If Sebastian wanted to trade a lock of her hair for the adamas, what was to stop him? Jace had objected, but he was also compelled to do what Sebastian asked of him. In the crunch, what would win out? The compulsion or Jace’s feelings for her? “Absolutely not.”
The demon blinked a slow lizardlike blink. “Absolutely not?”
“You will not touch a hair on my sister’s head,” said Sebastian. “Nor will you renege on our bargain. No one cheats Valentine Morgenstern’s son. The agreed upon price, or—”
“Or what?” Mirek snarled. “Or I’ll be sorry? You are not Valentine, little boy. Now, that was a man who inspired loyalty—”
“No,” said Sebastian, sliding a seraph blade from the belt at his waist. “I am not Valentine. I do not intend to deal with demons as Valentine did. If I cannot have your loyalty, I will have your fear. Know that I am more powerful than my father ever was, and if you do not deal fairly with me, I will take your life, and have what I have come for.” He raised the blade he held. “Dumah,” he whispered, and the blade shot forth, shimmering like a column of fire.
The demon recoiled, snapping several words in a muddy-sounding language. Jace’s hand already had a dagger in it. He called out to Clary, but not fast enough. Something struck her hard on the shoulder, and she fell forward, sprawling on the cluttered floor. She flipped over onto her back, fast, looked up—
And screamed. Looming over her was a massive snake—or at least it had a thick, scaled body and a head hooded like a cobra’s, but its body was jointed, insectile, with a dozen skittering legs that ended in jagged claws. Clary fumbled for her weapons belt as the creature reared back, yellow venom dripping from its fangs, and struck.
Simon had fallen back asleep after “speaking” with Clary. When he awoke again, the lights were on, and Isabelle knelt on the edge of the bed, wearing jeans and a worn T-shirt she must have borrowed from Alec. It had holes in the sleeves, and the stitching around the hem was coming undone. She had the collar pulled away from her throat and was using the tip of a stele to trace a rune onto the skin of her chest, just below her collarbone.
He raised himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”
“Iratze,” she said. “For this.” She tucked her hair back behind her ear, and he saw the two puncture wounds he’d made in the side of her throat. As she finished the rune, they smoothed over, leaving only the faintest white flecks behind.
“Are you… all right?” His voice came out in a whisper. Smooth. He was trying to bite back the other questions he wanted to ask. Did I hurt you? Do you think I’m a monster now? Have I creeped you out completely?
“I’m fine. I slept a lot later than I normally ever do, but I think that’s probably a good thing.” Seeing his expression, Isabelle slid her stele into her belt. She crawled toward Simon with a catlike grace and positioned herself over him, her hair falling down around them. They were so close their noses touched. She looked at him unblinklingly. “Why are you so crazy?” she said, and he could feel her breath against his face, as soft as a whisper.
He wanted to pull her down and kiss her—not bite her, just kiss her—but at that exact moment the apartment door buzzer sounded. A second later, someone knocked on the bedroom door—banged on it, really, making it shake on its hinges.
“Simon. Isabelle.” It was Magnus. “Look, I don’t care if you’re asleep or doing unspeakable things to each other. Get dressed and come out to the living room. Now.”
Simon locked gazes with Isabelle, who looked as puzzled as he did. “What’s going on?”
“Just get out here,” Magnus said, and the sound of his retreating feet was loud as he stalked away from their room.
Isabelle rolled off Simon, much to his disappointment, and sighed. “What do you think it is?”
“No idea,” said Simon. “Emergency meeting of Team Good, I guess.” He’d found the phrase amusing when Clary had used it. Isabelle, though, just shook her head and sighed.
“I’m not sure there is any such thing as Team Good these days,” she said.