"So, my father was a genealogist," Simon began, "who compiled a list of people for Valentine to kill? And now we're trying to destroy the list he spent so long creating?" He shook his head. "I won't believe this. I refuse to believe this. He wouldn't have handed those identities over like pigs for slaughter."

"Simon," Isabelle admonished. "You never even knew the man. Not well, at least." She pressed her lips together. She knew she was being insensitive, but Simon was drifting into delusional thoughts, and it was her job to yank him back to earth. "And from what I've heard, Valentine is very charismatic. For all we know, your father hated those with the genetic mutation - I think Jon called them Nephilim - just as much as he did. And if not, then a wife and two children is an easy item of blackmail."

Isabelle saw the moment her words sink in. Simon clenched his fists, which had begun to shake. But his voice was clear - contemplative - as he said, "So, Max was targeted? He's Nephilim?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Yes. What of it?"

"He's your brother, Isabelle." Simon said, and she bristled at his tone, like he was speaking to an idiotic child. "Odds are, if he's Nephilim, you are too."

"That's not important right now." Isabelle snapped, but her heart hand begun to race at the thought. That she was in this much more danger than she thought. . .

"Of course it's important!" He shouted, standing very suddenly and sending various stationery tumbling across his desk. "It's important, because you might die, Isabelle! Has that not occurred to you yet!"

"Of course I've realised it!" She shouted back. A fierce, giddy laugh bubbled in her throat and she squashed it. Still, she couldn't deny how good this felt, shouting again, letting out all the angst that had slowly been accumulating. "Of course I've realised it, and of course I'm afraid. Hell, you think I'm not?" She ran her hands through her hair. "I am terrified, Simon. Absolutely terrified. For me, for my family, for Maia, for you. But I have to look past it, because otherwise more people will die, and I will. Not. Accept. That."

Simon was silent for a long time; so long her composure began to crack. His eyes shone as he looked at her then, took in the tears sliding down her cheeks, the brows creased as though worry was a stone weighing them down like it was suspended on a tightrope. "You're afraid?"

She nodded then, and it as like her body made the decision to move before she did. He apparently had the same problem, because a moment later she was gripping his shoulders and they were kissing each other with everything they had.

They broke away when the intensity got too much, and Isabelle fixed her gaze on something - anything - over Simon's shoulder. It landed on the computer, and the still open document displayed on the screen, and she absently read a single name before a thought clicked into place,

The name was Trueblood.

Isabelle was in Simon's chair before she recalled moving, leaving the boy himself standing awkwardly behind her. She raced through the document, eyes scanning over her mother's family tree, then hers, finding names both familiar and alien staring back up at her. Then she did the same for the Lightwood family.

But not once was there a mention of any Lightwood on that list, other than herself, Alec and Max.

"Isabelle?" Simon had regained his composure and was watching her work in a confused frenzy. "What did you find?"

"My father was murdered by the same assassins who tried to kill Max, presumably for the same reason." She stated slowly, eyes widening as she went on. "But there's no mention of him or his bloodline in these records. He's not Nephilim."

"So?" Simon's brow was furrowed.

"So, why did they kill him? I'd understand if he'd walked out of the Clave alongside us, but the fact is, he didn't. He remained loyal to the cause until the end. So why was he killed?"

Silence dropped like a pin.

It was Simon who finally broke it as he said, staring into space, frowning, "It appears that the moment we think with understand this messed up situation, something else is uncovered that proves we don't."

"So, in short," Jon summarised, rubbing his temples. "You two are telling me that not only did your father not create the computer, but rather simply gave Valentine a list? One that my esteemed father deemed secret enough to warrant slaughtering the man who'd given it to him? Oh, and also, you're absolutely no help to my siblings because you have no idea how to get them to do whatever it is they need to do?"

"They'll need to wipe any of this data from Valentine's computer, and destroy any hard drives or disks he might keep it on." Simon said. "We have the memory stick, which we can destroy ourselves, but our priority needs to be getting that information out of his hands." Isabelle didn't think she was imagining the worried look that flickered to her for a moment.

"'We'. 'Our'." Jon sneered at him. "Since when were you a part of this? We only asked for your help because you might have some useful information for us, but now we've find out that you're no use whatsoever, why are you still here, other than to follow Isabelle around like a lovesick pup?"

Isabelle swallowed as Simon flushed. "Enough." She cut in. She glared daggers at the blond in front of her. "No need to be an arsehole. We didn't know what we'd find, and we can't change the truth. Just because you made the wrong assumption, doesn't mean you get to treat Simon like shit."

Jon sighed, and passed a hand over his face. "Fine." He didn't apologise. "I'll call Sebastian and see where we need to go from here." He cast a dry look at Simon. "You do. . . whatever. I guess that now you're here you have the right to stay."

Sebastian swore, low and vicious.

Clary looked up, startled. Throughout everything, she'd never heard her brother swear with such vigour. And yet here he was, muttering a jumbled mix of unintelligible language and curse words under his breath as he hung up the phone.

They were in the room that had been assigned to Clary once they'd come in. The sun had just collapsed into the skyline, and they'd stumbled upstairs to find a note from their father lying on the bed, saying that he'd been regrettably called away for the night and couldn't join them for dinner. Grateful to avoid an interrogation, Clary had just sighed with relief and flopped onto the bed. Sebastian hadn't left, but she'd been unresponsive to all his attempts at starting a conversation until his phone began to ring.

"There's been a slight change of plan."

Immediately her throat dried up. "How 'slight'?"

"As in, we're not even entirely sure what we're looking for anymore."

Her tongue was made of sandpaper. "What? How?"

"Clary," Sebastian turned then, and met her eyes. "If you want to pull out now, you can. I'm sure we can arrange a way for you to return to Jace and the Lightwoods unharmed, and you don't need to follow through with this absurd change of plan-"

"I'm going to stop you right there with my previous answer," she cut him off, standing from the bed in a huff. "No. Stop treating me like a child." She waved her hand. "Now, explain this change of plan."

He blinked. "Alright then." He swallowed. "Simon and Isabelle discovered that in fact it wasn't a computer that Simon's father designed. Remember what Jocelyn said about the Nephilim, and how it's an inheritable trait?" He waited for her to nod before continuing with his story, staring at his hands in a sort of ghostly horror. "Simon's father created list upon list of family trees, and created multiple copies of each one. He traced lineages back to the original event, to find who was present, and marked everyone within a hundred mile radius who had the possibility of being Nephilim. So now, instead of simply destroying the computer, we have to hack into it and erase any digital records, then pass on any physical records to Luke to be disposed of."

Her heart began to beat faster and faster and faster. "Ah."

"If you don't think you can do it, or want to help, I'm sure you can-"

"Do you have a computer?" She asked, acting as though he hadn't said anything.

"What?"

"Valentine trusts you, right? Do you have your own computer?"

His confusion was evident on his face. "Yes."

She smiled, and he just looked more confused. "Perfect."

"So, what makes you so sure you'll be able to do this?" Sebastian asked for the umpteenth time, even as he tapped away at the keys to his computer and unlocked it.

She rolled her eyes. "I've done it before."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"How?"

"You know that I managed to sneak around the manor without getting caught. You think I didn't know about that extensive security system Valentine rigged the place with, that was perfectly designed to play on the manor's out of date design, so no one would think there were cameras watching them? I had years confined to my room, politely discouraged from wandering the house; you really think I wouldn't, casually even, try to hack it? Just for fun?"

"There's no way-"

"Then explain how I did. Explain how I, a mere mortal girl, managed to sneak around the manor for years without getting caught. Explain how Jon was able to set the fire and get away with it. Just because you claim it's impossible, doesn't mean it is." He glanced up from the computer then; the light from the screen lit up the hurt expression on his face. He passed it to her, and she opened up the files she'd need. "He's not some immortal god, Sebastian, no matter what you think of him."

Her brother's bottom lip quivered but by the time he leaned over her shoulder to watch her work, the expression had dropped from his face, only to be replaced by amusement. "So you could've technically gotten into my computer without me going to all the effort of typing in the password."

"I felt like being courteous." She shared a grin with him. "But yeah, effectively. Solitude is a fine teacher." She tapped a few more keys, then set the computer aside. "I'm done."

"Oh." Silence stretched between them. It was like a dropped egg; anticipatory quiet as it fell, followed by mess and noise when it shattered. "So what now? Do we just waltz right into his office in the dead of night and hack into his computer as well?"

"I will." Clary answered. "You're coming with me to search through the drawers and cabinets for any hard drives or paper copies. We'll get them to Luke as soon as possible, and he'll destroy them."

Her brother grunted, but raised no objection.

It was almost insultingly easy to sneak down the myriad of stairs and into Valentine's office. They passed no assassins or guards or underlings, and their muted footsteps was the only sound there. Clary had to rely on Sebastian's muttered warnings of where each flight of stairs began and ended, as neither of them dared risk a light in the dark, and she clutched the banister so hard she felt it must crack from the force of it.

"Here," was the only word Sebastian muttered when they paused outside a door that just looked identical to all the others.

"It looks just the same as the rest."

"That's the entire point, Clarissa." His tone had sharpened with sarcasm, and she caught herself wondering whether he was as fine with her rant from earlier as he let on. "Most of these rooms are empty, or used for storage anyway. We've only been here a few days; you really think he'll have had the time to replace everything destroyed in the fire and set it up all ready to use in that time?"

She chose to ignore his comment, and tried the door. It didn't budge. "It's locked."

"I wonder why."

"So the sarcasm's staying then, I see."

"Step aside, Clary; we don't have time for petty arguments. Nor is it practical. Father has a habit of getting up at random moments in the middle of the night and working until dawn."

"Then why did we decide to do this in the middle of the night? Why not during the day when he and his underlings are out somewhere?"

"Out killing someone you mean? Sorry, but I don't think that fits with your morals. Now let me get at the lock so I can pick it."

"You can pick locks?" she asked, but stepped aside anyway. She realised she'd said it in her normal voice, and not the reasonable hushed whisper, and clamped her hand over her mouth.

"It's a necessary skill of being an assassin, you know. Most victims would prefer to lock you out than let you in."

He said the words flippantly, but he also pointedly turned his face away, so she missed whatever expression crossed his face. All she had to go on about his reaction was the tightness of his shoulders, and his tone, harshly clipped, as the door swung inward. "There we go."

Only once they were inside, the door firmly shut with a soft click, the gap between the floor and the door jammed with Sebastian's jacket, did Clary switch the light on.

The room was meticulous, as anything under the supervision of Valentine Morgenstern would be, but there were unmistakeable signs of short-term residence. Papers sat in their ranks on the desk, but they weren't as ordered as Clary had observed in her nightly trips around the manor. The chair was plain and stiff backed and unadorned, with none of the grandeur Valentine praised and revered. The desk looked like it would hardly hold up under the sheer weight of the papers, and the light switch Clary flicked turned on a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, with no lampshade.

The computer was the centrepiece on the desk, and Clary made a beeline for it. She was planted in the seat with her hands whizzing over the keys before her brother could blink, though he swiftly caught on and began rifling through the drawers upon drawers of files.

The time passed, but she couldn't get in. The computer was carefully coded, in a completely different way to the security system, and it got increasingly complex the further into it she got. Sebastian's soft cries of frustration next to her told her he was making no more progress than she was.

The hour grew later and later, and through the tiny window just behind the desk Clary watched the moon recede and the sun begin to stain the sky lilac. Exhaustion dogged her movements, and the movement of her hands became sluggish, until she fell forward and caught herself before she slammed her face into the keys. She laid her head on the wood of the desk instead, and sighed. Sebastian's own movements slowed slightly, as though in acknowledgement.

Then a rhythmic pounding made them stiffen. Heavy, two beat pattern, consistent. Footsteps. They echoed along the corridor, then stopped just outside the door. The jangling of keys; the sound of one being inserted into a lock. The slow opening of a door.

Her father's face peering into the room, taking in his two children, exhausted and hopeless, in the middle of ruining his entire livelihood.

And although Clary knew that everything was falling apart all the more the longer he looked at them, she couldn't help but notice the silver hairs on his head, or the wrinkles on his face. He looked even more tired than they undoubtably did.

It was Valentine who broke the silence in the end.

"Sebastian? Clarissa? What are you two doing here?"

Then he glanced at the computer screen, and the files in disarray, and his face drained of colour. "You didn't."

They said nothing.

He shook his head in shock, his eyes wide with terror. "You didn't."