Magnus hadn’t been inside the Hunter’s Moon since it had been a speakeasy during the years of Prohibition, a place where mundanes had gathered quietly to drink themselves blackout drunk. Sometime in the 1940s it had been taken over by Downworlder owners, and had catered to that clientele—primarily werewolves—ever since. It had been seedy then and was seedy now, the floor covered with a layer of sticky sawdust. There was a wooden bar with a flecked countertop, marked with decades of rings left by damp glasses and long claw scratches. Sneaky Pete, the bartender, was in the middle of serving a Coke to Bat Velasquez, the temporary head of Luke’s Manhattan wolf pack. Magnus squinted at him thoughtfully.
“Are you eyeing up the new wolf pack leader?” asked Catarina, who was squeezed into the shadowy booth beside Magnus, her blue fingers curled around a Long Island Iced Tea. “I thought you were over werewolves after Woolsey Scott.”
“I’m not eyeing him up,” Magnus said loftily. Bat wasn’t bad-looking, if you liked them square-jawed and broad-shouldered, but Magnus was deep in thought. “My mind was on other things.”
“Whatever it is, don’t do it!” said Catarina. “It’s a bad idea.”
“And why do you say that?”
“Because they’re the only kind you have,” she said. “I have known you a long time, and I am absolutely certain on this subject. If you are planning to become a pirate again, it’s a bad idea.”
“I don’t repeat my mistakes,” Magnus said, offended.
“You’re right. You make all new and even worse mistakes,” Catarina told him. “Don’t do it, whatever it is. Don’t lead a werewolf uprising, don’t do anything that might accidentally contribute to the apocalypse, and don’t start your own line of glitter and try to sell it at Sephora.”
“That last idea has real merit,” Magnus remarked. “But I’m not contemplating a career change. I was thinking about . . .”
“Alec Lightwood?” Catarina grinned. “I’ve never seen anyone get under your skin like that boy.”
“You haven’t known me forever,” Magnus muttered, but it was halfhearted.
“Please. You made me take the Portal job at the Institute so you wouldn’t have to see him, and then you showed up anyway, just to say good-bye. Don’t deny it; I saw you.”
“I didn’t deny anything. I showed up to say good-bye; it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it.” Magnus tossed back a slug of his drink.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Catarina said. “What is this about, really, Magnus? I’ve never seen you so happy as you were with Alec. Usually when you’re in love, you’re miserable. Look at Camille. I hated her. Ragnor hated her—”
Magnus put his head down on the table.
“Everyone hated her,” Catarina went on ruthlessly. “She was devious and mean. And so your poor sweet boyfriend got suckered by her; well, really, is that any reason to end a perfectly good relationship? It’s like siccing a python on a bunny rabbit and then being angry when the bunny rabbit loses.”
“Alec is not a bunny rabbit. He’s a Shadowhunter.”
“And you’ve never dated a Shadowhunter before. Is that what this is?”
Magnus pushed himself away from the table, which was a relief, because it smelled like beer. “In a sense,” he said. “The world is changing. Don’t you feel it, Catarina?”
She looked at him over the rim of her drink. “I can’t say that I do.”
“The Nephilim have endured for a thousand years,” said Magnus. “But something is coming, some great change. We have always accepted them as a fact of our existence. But there are warlocks old enough to remember when the Nephilim did not walk the earth. They could be wiped away as quickly as they came.”
“But you don’t really think—”
“I’ve dreamed about it,” he said. “You know I have true dreams sometimes.”
“Because of your father.” She set her drink down. Her expression was intent now, no humor in it. “He could just be trying to frighten you.”
Catarina was one of the few people in the world who knew who Magnus’s father really was; Ragnor Fell had been another. It wasn’t something Magnus liked to tell people. It was one thing to have a demon for a parent. It was another thing when your father owned a significant portion of Hell’s real estate.
“To what end?” Magnus shrugged. “I am not the center of whatever whirlwind is coming.”
“But you’re afraid Alec will be,” said Catarina. “And you want to push him away before you lose him.”
“You said not to do anything that might accidentally contribute to the apocalypse,” Magnus said. “I know you were joking. But it’s less funny when I can’t rid myself of the feeling that the apocalypse is coming, somehow. Valentine Morgenstern nearly wiped out the Shadowhunters, and his son is twice as clever and six times as evil. And he will not come alone. He has help, from demons greater than my father, from others—”
“How do you know that?” Catarina’s voice was sharp.
“I’ve looked into it.”
“I thought you were done helping Shadowhunters,” said Catarina, and then she held up a hand before he could say anything. “Never mind. I’ve heard you say that sort of thing enough times to know you never really mean it.”
“That’s the thing,” Magnus said. “I’ve looked into it, but I haven’t found anything. Whoever Sebastian’s allies are, he’s left no tracks of their alliance behind. I keep feeling like I’m about to discover something, and then I find myself grasping at air. I don’t think I can help them, Catarina. I don’t know if anyone can.”
Magnus looked away from her suddenly pitying expression, across the bar. Bat was leaning against the counter, playing with his phone—the light from the screen cast shadows across his face. Shadows that Magnus saw on every mortal face—every human, every Shadowhunter, every creature doomed to die.
“Mortals die,” said Catarina. “You have always known that, and yet you’ve loved them before.”
“Not,” Magnus said, “like this.”
Catarina inhaled in surprise. “Oh,” she said. “Oh . . .” She picked up her drink. “Magnus,” she said tenderly. “You are impossibly stupid.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Am I?”
“If that’s the way you feel, you should be with him,” she said. “Think of Tessa. Did you learn nothing from her? About what loves are worth the pain of losing them?”
“He’s in Alicante.”
“So?” said Catarina. “You were supposed to be the warlock representative on the Council; you unloaded that responsibility onto me. I’m unloading it back. Go to Alicante. It sounds to me like you’ll have more to say to the Council than I ever could, anyway.” She reached into the pocket of the nurse’s scrubs she was wearing; she had come directly from her work at the hospital. “Oh, and take this.”
Magnus plucked the crumpled piece of paper from her fingertips. “A dinner invitation?” he said in disbelief.
“Meliorn of the Fair Folk wishes for all the Council Downworlders to meet for supper the night before the great Council,” she said. “Some kind of gesture of peace and goodwill, or maybe he just wants to annoy everyone with riddles. Either way it should be interesting.”
“Faerie food,” Magnus said glumly. “I hate faerie food. I mean, even the safe kind that doesn’t mean you’ll be stuck dancing reels for the next century. All those raw vegetables and beetles—”
He broke off. Across the room Bat had his phone pressed to his ear. His other hand gripped the counter of the bar.
“There’s something wrong,” Magnus said. “Something pack-related.”
Catarina set her glass down. She was very used to Magnus, and knew when he was probably right. She looked over at Bat as well, who had snapped his phone shut. He had paled, his scar standing out, livid on his cheek. He leaned over to say something to Sneaky Pete behind the bar, then put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.
It sounded like the whistle of a steam train, and cut through the low murmur of voices in the bar. In moments every lycanthrope was on his or her feet, surging toward Bat. Magnus stood up too, though Catarina caught at his sleeve. “Don’t—”
“I’ll be fine.” He shrugged her off, and pushed through the crowd, toward Bat. The rest of the pack stood in a loose ring around him. They tensed mistrustfully at the sight of the warlock in their midst, shoving to get close to their pack leader. A blonde female werewolf moved to block Magnus, but Bat held up a hand.
“It’s all right, Amabel,” he said. His voice wasn’t friendly, but it was polite. “Magnus Bane, right? High Warlock of Brooklyn? Maia Roberts says I can trust you.”
“You can.”
“Fine, but we have urgent pack business here. What do you want?”
“You got a call.” Magnus gestured toward Bat’s phone. “Was it Luke? Has something happened in Alicante?”
Bat shook his head, his expression unreadable.
“Another Institute attack, then?” Magnus said. He was used to being the one with all the answers, and hated not knowing anything. And while the New York Institute was empty, that didn’t mean the other Institutes were unprotected—that there might not have been a battle—one Alec might have decided to involve himself in—
“Not an Institute,” Bat said. “That was Maia on the phone. The Praetor Lupus headquarters were burned to the ground. At least a hundred werewolves are dead, including Praetor Scott and Jordan Kyle. Sebastian Morgenstern has taken his fight to us.”