Clary's heart was beating fast in her chest, probably because they have just dived numerous flights of stairs. The club was indeed unexpectedly buried deep under the ground, much deeper than she had thought.
As they were climbing down, she noticed, with much surprise, that instead of going dimmer, the light was actually getting glossier. The steps were no longer crumbled, but unswerving and uniform. They had landed in a long paved entryway, bordered by alleys filled with black sand mixed with what looked like coral powder. Bushes of hydrangeas flowered densely here and there on each side of the doors, and poison ivy had conquered the whole façade. She did not even bother to wonder how flowers could grow underground: little could surprise her now.
It was only after passing the glassed doors, now they were taking their first steps on the polished marble of the Jailhouse Den, that she realized the luxury of the location. All three of them stood still on the first step that made way down in the place, indeed, looked miles away from her expectations.
It was set out on two levels, separated by flights of five large white steps, like the one they were handing on. The painted ceiling, was sustained by immense greek-like colonnades. Despite the lack of natural light, the limestone made it look spacious and immaculate. Bulbs of light were shining everywhere and a colossal golden chandelier, hung high above their heads, gleamed radiantly, spilling soft lamplight all over. On the left, stood a carved wooden counter, furnished with stools which seats were filled and covered with deep red leather. Most of them were taken. Hundreds of old-fashioned bottles of liquor, and crystal glasses were displayed on mirrorlike shelves behind the bar. The rest of the room was filled with round tables, cloaked with pearly white flax ; at the center of each one, an opulent bouquet of white orchids was arranged delicately. None of the high-back seats, which were matching the leather of the stools by the counter, were occupied.
Waiters, attired in black from head to toe, were carrying large silver trails, some empty, some plated with silver dishes, whirling all over the room and stopping momentarily at one of the tables like bees hoarding honey, as they dressed the tables for lunch. At the other side of the room, a woman, all dressed in white, was talking to a pianist on the stage. She was very tall but well proportioned. Clary could not see her features yet, but she guessed the woman must be beautiful, with her platinum blond hair pouring like a waterfall down to her waist. Clary shifted her looks from the heavy red velvet curtain retained on each side of the stage with golden loops to the right wall, and realized it was actually made of looking-glass. The reflection of the room made it appear even wider and clearer, and for a moment, she got completely lost in its contemplation.
"Well, that's what one could call a striking contrast."
She turned to Simon, who had just spoken aloud her exact thoughts.
They left the stairs and followed Isabelle towards the counter. Clary was too distracted to notice that Isabelle had stopped midway, and bumped into her.
"Ouch…Sorry," she said.
But Isabelle stood still ; she had paled, and her hands were shaking.
"What's wrong?" Simon asked.
"I can't see him. I can't see him anywhere."
Isabelle's voice was just a whisper, and Clary could feel the panic gaining her friend.
"Ok…Is that a good or a bad thing?" Simon asked then.
"It's bad, Simon!" Isabelle almost shouted. "It's very bad! What are you thinking?"
She was shaking now, and in a gesture full of frustration, she broke from Clary's clasp on her left hand.
"Argh! Just wait here."
They both watched her walking angrily at the bar and leaning on it to murmur at the barman's ear. Clary had just noticed his presence behind the counter. He was tall and muscular, fair haired, and had a square jaw. As he bent down towards Izzie, Clary thought she had seen a tattoo curving at the base of his neck, which made her think of the brand new Marks her mother had applied on her own collar weeks ago. Could he be Nephilim? Was this why Isabelle was not afraid to come here? But when she tried to have a closer look, she could not distinguish anything.
Simon teared her away from her thoughts: "What do you think of this place, huh?"
"I think they're trying to be funny." Clary answered, lifting her head to examine the painted ceiling.
Now the surprise was passed, she could pay a closer attention to it. The angels, no longer appearing sweet and naive, seemed to grin evilly down at them.
Izzie was back.
"Ian said he saw Alec this morning, as usual." She said. "But when he came back from the reserve ten minutes ago, Alec wasn't at the bar anymore."
Simon tucked his hands in the pockets of his blazer, an expression of disgust pinned on his face as he gave a look to the bartender.
"Can we trust this guy?"
"Yeah, he's a friend." frowned Isabelle.
"What kind of a friend?" Simon quizzed, his eyes shifting from Isabelle to the bartender with animosity.
Clary could see where all this was getting. Isabelle was about to snap back at Simon, but Clary was faster ; she lifted up her hands to impose the silence to her friends.
"Ok! Let's focus. Alec could not have left the den, we would have crossed path upstairs…"
Isabelle closed her mouth and nodded.
"Yeah, and I doubt there's another exit, and even if there is, Alec couldn't possibly…"
"Maybe he's in the men's room? I'll check." proposed Simon, shrugging his shoulders.
Without another word, the three of them walked toward the other side of the room, near the stage, where a polished glass wall was concealed by bushes of hydrangeas, just like outside. They slid in the corridor.
Isabelle and Clary waited for Simon to check the inside of the men's room, posted like guardians on each sides of the wooden door, their eyes scrutinizing the ball room. But there was no trace of Alec.
"Izzie…Look!"
At the other end of a room, on the second level, two men were escorting a third, cloaked in black, retaining him by the arms. His legs were dragging on the marble floor. They seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Suddenly, the hood of the third man fell, discovering his dangling head: he was unconscious. Clary hold a gasp.
"What the…? Come on."
Izzie started to walk towards them.
"Wait!" whispered a voice behind them.
Clary, Simon and Isabelle turned in the same movement. Clary recognized the figure of the woman who stood on the stage earlier. She was now behind an ajar door that none of them had noticed. But how did she get there without being seen?
"What?" said Isabelle, her hand drawing to her golden whip. "Who are you?"
"Follow me", she simply said, staying in the shadows.
She had a light accent, probably from eastern Europe. Clary turned to Simon, and guessed that the same worried look was probably painted on her own features.
"I don't think that's answering my question." Izzie said and then repeated, threat in her voice: "Who are you?"
The woman sighed with impatience, and took a step into the light. She was slightly taller than Izzie, thin, and athletic. She had a square, but delicate jaw, big, almond-shaped grey eyes, with long eyelashes, coral full lips and an exceptionally perfect complexion, even more embellished by the color of her clothes. Her blond hair was spilling on her shoulders in soft waves. Her beauty was bewitching. She was literally radiant.
"Please", she said, giving a worried look across the room behind them. "Follow me. I…I know where your brother is."
At those words, Izzie's shoulders startled, and with a gesture, she ordered to Simon and Clary to follow them. The three of them passed the door.
