Sebastian drew aside the dusty velvet curtain that closed off the alcove, and smiled.
A bench ran around the inside of the small circular room, and a man sat there, leaning his elbows on a stone table. He had long black hair tied back, a scar or mark in the shape of a leaf on one cheek, and his eyes were as green as grass. He wore a white suit, and a handkerchief with green leaf embroidery peeked from one pocket.
“Jonathan Morgenstern,” Meliorn said.
Sebastian did not correct him. Faeries took great stock in names, and would never call him by anything but the name his father had chosen for him. “I wasn’t sure you would be here at the appointed time, Meliorn.”
“May I remind you that the Fair Folk do not lie,” said the knight. He reached up and twitched the curtain shut behind Sebastian. The pounding music outside was discreetly muffled, though by no means inaudible. “Come in, then, and seat yourself. Wine?”
Sebastian settled himself on the bench. “No, nothing.” Wine, like the faerie liquor, would only cloud his thoughts, and faeries seemed to have a higher tolerance. “I admit I was surprised when I received the message that you wished to meet here.”
“You above all should know that the Lady has a special interest in you. She knows of all your movements.” Meliorn took a sip of wine. “There was a great demonic disturbance here in Prague tonight. The Queen was concerned.”
Sebastian spread his arms out. “As you can see, I am unharmed.”
“A disturbance so great will surely win the attention of the Nephilim. In fact, if I am not mistaken, several of them already disport themselves without.”
“Without what?” Sebastian asked innocently.
Meliorn took another sip of wine and glared.
“Oh, right. I always forget the amusing way faeries talk. You mean there are Shadowhunters in the crowd outside, looking for me. I know that. I noticed them earlier. The Queen does not think much of me if she does not think I can handle a few Nephilim on my own.” Sebastian drew a dagger from his belt and twirled it, the very little light in the alcove sparking off the blade.
“I shall tell her you said so,” muttered Meliorn. “I must admit, I have no idea what attraction you hold for her. I have taken your measure and found it lacking, but I have not my lady’s taste.”
“Weighed in the balance and found wanting?” Amused, Sebastian leaned forward. “Let me break it down for you, faerie knight. I’m young. I’m pretty. And I’m willing to burn the whole world to the ground to get what I want.” His dagger traced a crack in the stone table. “Like myself, the Queen is content to play a long game. But what I desire to know is this: When the twilight of the Nephilim comes, will the Courts stand with or against me?”
Meliorn’s face was blank. “The Lady says she stands with you.”
Sebastian’s mouth curled at the corner. “That is excellent news.”
Meliorn snorted. “I always presumed the race of humans would end themselves,” he said. “Through a thousand years I have prophesied that you would be your own deaths. But I did not expect the end to come like this.”
Sebastian twirled the bright dagger between his fingers. “No one ever does.”
“Jace,” Clary whispered. “Jace, anyone could come in and see us.”
His hands didn’t stop what they were doing. “They won’t.” He trailed a path of kisses down her neck, effectively scattering her thoughts. It was hard to hold on to what was real, with his hands on her, and her mind and memories in a whirl, and her fingers were so tightly bunched in Jace’s shirt that she was sure she was going to rip the material.
The stone wall was cold against her back, but Jace was kissing her shoulder, easing the strap of her dress down. She was hot and cold and shivering. The world had fractured into bits, like the bright pieces inside a kaleidoscope. She was going to come apart under his hands.
“Jace—” She clung to his shirt. It was sticky, viscous. She glanced down at her hands and for a moment didn’t comprehend what she saw there. Silver fluid, mixed with red.
Blood.
She looked up. Hanging upside-down from the ceiling above them, like a grisly pi?ata, was a human body, rope binding its ankles. Blood dripped from its cut throat.
Clary screamed, but the scream made no sound. She pushed at Jace, who stumbled back; there was blood in his hair, on his shirt, on her bare skin. She pulled up the straps of her dress and stumbled to the curtain that hid the alcove, yanking it open.
The statue of the angel was no longer quite as it had been. The black wings were bat’s wings, the lovely, benevolent face twisted into a sneer. Dangling from the ceiling on twisted ropes were the slaughtered bodies of men, women, animals—slashed open, their blood dripping down like rain. The fountains pulsed blood, and what floated on top of the liquid was not flowers but open severed hands. The writhing, clawing dancers on the floor were drenched in blood. As Clary watched, a couple spun by, the man tall and pale, the woman limp in his arms, her throat torn, obviously dead. The man licked his lips and bent down for another bite, but before he did, he glanced at Clary and grinned, and his face was streaked with blood and silver. She felt Jace’s hand on her arm, tugging her back, but she fought free of him. She was staring at the glass tanks along the wall that she had thought held brilliant fish. The water was not clear but blackish and sludgy, and drowned human bodies floated in it, their hair spinning around them like the filaments of luminous jellyfish. She thought of Sebastian floating in his glass coffin. A scream rose in her throat, but she choked it back as silence and darkness overwhelmed her.