“I am never getting my security deposit back,” said Magnus glumly. He sat on top of the table, among the pizza boxes and coffee mugs, watching as the rest of Team Good did their best to clean up the destruction left by Azazel’s appearance—the smoking holes pocked into the walls, the sulfurous black goo dripping from the ceiling pipes, the ash and other grainy black substances ground into the floor. Chairman Meow was stretched across the warlock’s lap, purring. Magnus was off cleaning duty because he’d allowed his apartment to be half-destroyed; Simon was off cleaning duty because after the pentagram incident no one seemed to know quite what to make of him. He’d tried to talk to Isabelle, but she’d only shaken her mop at him in a threatening manner.
“I have an idea,” Simon said. He was sitting next to Magnus, his elbows on his knees. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“I have a feeling you’re right, Sherwin.”
“Simon. My name is Simon.”
“Whatever.” Magnus waved a slender hand. “What’s your idea?”
“I’ve got the Mark of Cain,” said Simon. “That means nothing can kill me, right?”
“You can kill yourself,” Magnus said, somewhat unhelpfully. “As far as I know, inanimate objects can accidentally kill you. So if you were planning on teaching yourself the lambada on a greased platform over a pit full of knives, I wouldn’t.”
“There goes my Saturday.”
“But nothing else can kill you,” Magnus said. His eyes had drifted away from Simon, and he was watching Alec, who appeared to be battling a Swiffer. “Why?”
“What happened in the pentagram, with Azazel, made me think,” said Simon. “You said summoning angels is more dangerous than summoning demons, because they might smite down the person who summoned them, or scorch them with heavenly fire. But if I did it…” His voice trailed off. “Well, I’d be safe, wouldn’t I?”
That snapped Magnus’s attention back. “You? Summon an angel?”
“You could show me how,” said Simon. “I know I’m not a warlock, but Valentine did it. If he did it, shouldn’t I be able to? I mean, there are humans who can do magic.”
“I couldn’t promise you’d live,” Magnus said, but there was a spark of interest in his voice that belied the warning. “The Mark is Heaven’s protection, but does it protect you against Heaven itself? I don’t know the answer.”
“I didn’t think you did. But you agree that out of all of us I probably have the best chance, right?”
Magnus looked over at Maia, who was splashing dirty water at Jordan and laughing as he twisted away, yelping. She pushed her curling hair back, leaving a dark streak of dirt across her forehead. She looked young. “Yes,” Magnus said reluctantly. “Probably you do.”
“Who is your father?” asked Simon.
Magnus’s eyes went back to Alec. They were gold-green, as unreadable as the eyes of the cat he held on his lap. “Not my favorite topic, Smedley.”
“Simon,” said Simon. “If I’m going to die for you all, the least you could do is remember my name.”
“You’re not dying for me,” said Magnus. “If it weren’t for Alec, I’d be…”
“You’d be where?”
“I had a dream,” Magnus said, his eyes distant. “I saw a city all of blood, with towers made of bone, and blood ran in the streets like water. Maybe you can save Jace, Daylighter, but you can’t save the world. The darkness is coming. ‘A land of darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as darkness.’ If it weren’t for Alec, I’d be gone from here.”
“Where would you go?”
“Hide. Wait for it to blow over. I’m not a hero.” Magnus picked up Chairman Meow and dumped him onto the floor.
“You love Alec enough to stick around,” said Simon. “That’s kind of heroic.”
“You loved Clary enough to wreck your whole life for her,” said Magnus with a bitterness that was not characteristic of him. “See where that got you.” He raised his voice. “All right, everybody. Get over here. Sheldon’s had an idea.”
“Who’s Sheldon?” said Isabelle.
The streets of Prague were cold and dark, and though Clary kept her ichor-burned coat wrapped around her shoulders, she found the icy air cutting into the buzzing hum in her veins, muting the leftover high from the battle. She bought a cup of hot wine to keep the buzz going, wrapping her hands around it for warmth as she, Jace, and Sebastian lost themselves in a twisting labyrinth of ever narrower, ever darker ancient streets. There were no street signs or names, and no other pedestrians; the only constant was the moon moving through thick clouds overhead. At last a shallow flight of stone steps took them down into a tiny square, one side of which was lit by a flashing neon sign that said KOSTI LUSTR. Below the sign was an open door, a blank spot in the wall that looked like a missing tooth.
“What does that mean, ‘Kosti Lustr’?” Clary asked.
“It means ‘The Bone Chandelier.’ It’s the name of the nightclub,” said Sebastian, sauntering forward. His pale hair reflected the changing neon colors of the sign: hot red, cold blue, metallic gold. “You coming?”
A wall of sound and light hit Clary the moment she entered the club. It was a big, tightly packed space that looked like it had once been the interior of a church. She could still see stained-glass windows high up in the walls. Darting colored spotlights picked out the blissed-out faces of dancers in the churning crowd, lighting them up one at a time: hot pink, neon green, burning violet. There was a DJ booth along one wall, and trance music blasted from the speakers. The music pounded up through her feet, into her blood, vibrating her bones. The room was hot with the press of bodies and the smell of sweat and smoke and beer.
She was about to turn and ask Jace if he wanted to dance, when she felt a hand on her back. It was Sebastian. She tensed but didn’t pull away. “Come on,” he said into her ear. “We’re not staying up here with the hoi polloi.”
His hand was like iron pressing against her spine. She let him propel her forward, through the dancers; the crowd seemed to part to let them through, people looking up to glance at Sebastian, then dropping their gazes, backing away. The heat increased, and Clary was almost gasping by the time they reached the far side of the room. There was an archway there that she hadn’t noticed before. A set of worn stone steps led downward, curving away into darkness.
She glanced up as Sebastian took his hand away from her back. Light blazed around them. Jace had taken out his witchlight rune-stone. He grinned at her, his face all angles and shadows in the harsh, focused light.
“‘Easy is the descent,’” he said.
Clary shivered. She knew the whole phrase. Easy is the descent into Hell.
“Come on.” Sebastian jerked his head, and then he was moving downward, graceful and sure-footed, not worried about slipping on the age-smoothed stones. Clary followed a little more slowly. The air grew cooler as they went down, and the sound of the pounding music faded. She could hear their breathing, and see their shadows thrown, distorted and spindly, against the walls.
She heard the new music before they reached the bottom of the stairs. It had an even more insistent beat than the music in the club upstairs; it shot through her ears and into her veins and spun her around. She was almost dizzy by the time they reached the last of the stairs and stepped out into a massive room that stole her breath.
Everything was stone, the walls bumpy and uneven, the floor smooth beneath their feet. A massive statue of a black-winged angel rose along the far wall, its head lost in shadows far above, its wings dripping strings of garnets that looked like drops of blood. Explosions of color and light burst like cherry bombs throughout the room, nothing like the artificial light upstairs—these were beautiful, sparkling like fireworks, and every time one burst, it rained down a glittering shimmer onto the dancing crowd below. Huge marble fountains sprayed sparkling water; black rose petals drifted onto the surface. And far above everything, dangling down above the packed floor of dancers on a long golden cord, was a massive chandelier made of bones.
It was as intricate as it was gruesome. The main body of the chandelier was formed by spinal columns, fused together; femurs and tibias dripped like decoration from the arms of the fixture, which swooped up to cradle human skulls, each holding a massive taper. Black wax dripped like demon blood to spatter on the dancers below, none of whom seemed to notice. And the dancers themselves—whirling and spinning and clapping—none of them were human.
“Werewolves and vampires,” said Sebastian, answering Clary’s unasked question. “In Prague they’re allies. This is where they… relax.” A hot breeze was blowing through the room, like desert wind; it lifted his silvery hair and blew it across his eyes, hiding their expression.
Clary wriggled out of her coat and held it pressed against her chest almost like a shield. She looked around with wide eyes. She could sense the nonhuman-ness of the others in the room, the vampires with their pallor and their swift and languid grace, the werewolves fierce and fast. Most were young, dancing close, writhing up and down each other’s bodies. “But—won’t they mind us being here? Nephilim?”
“They know me,” said Sebastian. “And they’ll know you’re with me.” He reached out and tugged the coat out of her grip. “I’ll go get that hung up for you.”
“Sebastian—,” But he was gone, into the crowd.
She looked at Jace beside her. He had his thumbs hooked into his belt and was looking around with casual interest. “Vampire coat check?” she said.
“Why not?” Jace smiled. “You’ll notice he didn’t offer to take my coat. Chivalry is dead, I tell you.” He tipped his head to the side at her quizzical expression. “Whatever. There’s probably someone he has to talk to here.”
“So this isn’t just for fun?”
“Sebastian never does anything just for fun.” Jace took her hands and pulled her toward him. “But I do.”