Chapter Twelve

Brothers in Arms

Sebastian grinned a madman's grin. He was holding a young woman, a girl with golden hair and streaming blue eyes. Her dress, a white cotton thing, had been pushed off one of her shoulders. Her lips were swollen and it had been clear she had been crying. Her eyes were still red from it. No doubt another victim of Sebastian's mania. He had arrived just in time. He was going to put an end to this—to Sebastian—like he thought he had by the river, with Isabelle.

"If you had wanted my attention," Jace drawled almost lazily, leaning one hip against the doorframe, "you could have sent a postcard."

Jonathan let out a ferocious laugh, his grip on Arella's arms so tight, she knew there would be bruises. How did they know each other? The name Jace was familiar—and not just because of what had happened to poor Bryan. In some of his worst fever-dreams, Jonathan had uttered the name, snarling and thrashing in the sheets of her bed. Sometimes he had called for someone named Clary. More than a few times he had called for her, Arella.

"Little brother," Jonathan said, his voice gone strange, distant and cold. He released Arella, nearly flinging her away. Then slowly, deliberately, he stood and placed himself in front of her. He was protecting her, she thought distantly. She sat, numbed, staring at the two. They were so similar, though they looked and sounded nothing alike. The way they held themselves, cocked their heads and moved so gracefully, each examining the other. They both moved like dancers on a stage.

"You have the worst timing, Brother. Miss me so much, so soon?"

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt your plans. What comes after the pillaging and murder? Rape?"

Jace bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. They were speaking, taunting each other, but Arella couldn't hear it over the roar of blood pounding through her ears. The Golden One had noticed Jonathan's hand and had tried to cover his shock with a cavalier threat about how it could be removed again. Her dream came back in a cold wave, the fight, the smell of charred something, the blood. And she could smell it now. She could feel it. There would be blood.

"Jonathan," she said shakily, stumbling to her feet with the assistance of her mother's chair. "Jonathan, who is this? What's going on? Who is this? You don't have a brother."

Jace for a moment looked almost surprised. Then the cool, arrogant mask was back in place, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"You found someone who can actually stomach to be near you, Sebastian? How nice for you. What a shame it's all going to end now, isn't it?"

Jonathan's green eyes flicked to Arella. "Arella, get upstairs. I will be with you shortly."

"Jonathan, you don't have to do this. Remember what we were talking about? You don't have to do it any more! You can walk away." She stood on shaking legs and held out her hand to him. Her eyes were so big, so bright as she stared at him, that same mixture of hope and love on her face. "We can walk away. Together."

And then she smiled and Jonathan forgot almost everything for a moment. She was offering him a new life. If he took her hand, if he went with her now, everything would be different. He knew, in that moment, that if he took her hand and went with her he would never kill again. He would never steal another life from God. He would go with her, and she would do as she had promised. She would heal him with her angelic nature. In a flash of something—some inspiration he couldn't name—he saw a child. A little boy with white-blond hair, haughty features tempered by huge blue eyes. He was stuck on Arella's hip as she went about an apartment, doing something mundane like chores.

But if he went with her, he would never feel the rush of the kill again. Never feel a life draining away in his bare hands. Never feel that glittering, satiating satisfaction at having stolen a life as God sat back and watched and did nothing. God! Which did he want more?

The choice, when it came down to it, was an obvious one.

As he turned, his mind made up, Jace grinned a lion's feral smile and drew a long, clear blade of—what? Glass? Arella had never seen anything like it before. She had never been trained, never allowed to fight. Every aspect of her upbringing had been nurturing, loving—so she might one day be the pliant balance to Jonathan's violence.

"He isn't going anywhere. You have to answer for your crimes, Sebastian."

"Sebas—? Why does he call you that? Jonathan?"

"Go upstairs, Arella!" When she showed no sign of moving, Jonathan cursed heartily at the stupidity of the female half of the species. The front was blocked by Jace, which left Jonathan two options: Upstairs (a horrible idea); and out the back. Faster than was possible, the door out back, to where the tub was sitting, waiting on the porch for when they needed it, was flung open. Jonathan was outside in the blink of an eye, and Jace, in movements so clear and clean yet so fast—faster even than Jonathan—was right behind.

"Ithuriel!" Jace cried, his voice clear and strong, and suddenly his blade shone with a holy fire that scalded Arella's eyes with its brightness. Arella felt the name like a slap to her face. That had been the Angel, hadn't it? That had been the name Jonathan had called her…her father.

She was moving but it wasn't enough. She reached the back porch with feet that seemed stupid with slowness. It was like she lived her life wading through quicksand, compared to the speed at which Jonathan and the Golden One were moving. She stumbled towards the back porch steps, clinging to the railing around the veranda, unable to take her eyes off of the beautiful and deadly dance going on between the two young men. Jonathan had pulled out a long, curved knife the size of his forearm. He brandished his kukri but it wouldn't be enough. The other man had a blade two and a half times as long.

Something else was clear. Though Jonathan was fast, though his reflexes were excellent, something was different. He was growing frustrated. Jace, with every stroke, every jab and parry and elegant arc of his blade, moved with speed and fluidity that was inhuman. Jonathan's speed and grace, though astounding, was absolutely and unequivocally human.

Arella inhaled sharply, her fingers biting into the wood. His eyes, suddenly turning green; the way he had said he didn't have to kill anymore, but he still might; the sudden lack of the strength and speed and surety he had always possessed before. She had done it. She had made him human, and at the worst possible time. She had been worried at first that they were going to kill each other, these two forces battling with such animosity. But no, she was wrong. They weren't going to kill each other. The Golden One was simply going to kill Jonathan.

Footsteps came pounding around the edge of her home. A girl, short and slender and with a natural beauty that reminded Arella of fire somehow, bright and burning and so vibrant, was the first to come around the bend. She was yelling something at the Golden One, something about not leaving by himself—alone—like that ever, ever again. She was quickly followed by a young man with tussled black hair and fair skin, with large blue eyes, then a tall young woman with similar features as the young man. Both were striking in their beauty; cold as marble where the shorter girl was all heated movement and sparkling life. Then everyone was shouting, and Arella couldn't keep track of what was being said. The girl with black hair had out a long, dangerous looking whip. Her brother—he had to be—drew his own blade and yelled out, "Jophiel!"

The Golden One's face had gone white with rage and he had re-doubled his efforts against Jonathan—Jonathan who was showing the signs of fatigue as the new group of people began to make a circle around him. The red-headed girl looked on, a little bewildered it seemed, now that she had arrived. She had no weapon and when she tried to move forward, the black haired girl shoved her back.

"Stay back, Clary! It's our right to revenge our brother," she said, her blue eyes trained on Jonathan as she and her brother slowly moved behind the two fighters, cutting off any chance for Jonathan to retreat.

And then the Golden One's sword was swinging down in such a graceful arc and Arella knew, she just knew, that that was it. It was going to be the final blow. She was moving before she had the time to think about it—before her brain had processed that one foot was going after the other. She had never moved so quickly in her life. It felt like, for a single moment, that she was flying. She could almost feel wings moving her over the ground. And she could hear singing—a single note, calling out like gentle sunshine after a spring rain. It lifted her, made her fly.

There was a streak of white through the air, then blinding light everywhere and a heat so profound she thought for a moment that she had swallowed the sun. For a moment, she thought she saw a face: a warm, beautiful face looking upon her with absolute love. Ithuriel…she was seeing her father's face. The image dissipated as quickly as it had come. There was a sound, a scream of absolute agony and she thought it might have come from her, but then she realized it was too deep to have come from her throat.

She looked down at her chest, where the sun seemed to have settled, blinding in its heat. Golden light was spilling out of her and running down her front. Sunlight. She was bleeding sunlight. Then her knees buckled and arms, pale and strong but human, caught her.