Chapter 101 – The Morgenstern Plan

- 2.5 hours before sunset. -

Jonathan didn't want to waste any more time, so he explained his plan to the Inquisitor and me in calm words, while Brother Zachariah checked his condition and inscribed him with strengthening runes. I would have applied them myself, but Jonathan still didn't want to be touched by me. My only solace was that the runes of a Silent Brother held a special power.

Even before his transformation, Jonathan had been the harmonious and reserved type of person. When I had thrown myself headlong into a task, he had stayed in the background with his arms folded and had waited until he felt his intervention was necessary. Not out of insecurity, but because he had not felt the urge to act on every impulse immediately, unlike me. He had asked Valentine the questions I had forgotten; had dealt with the opponents I had overestimated myself against; had made his point known only after Jocelyn and I had already lost ourselves in disagreements.

Valentine would have claimed this character trait for himself, but I doubted that this was true. Where our father maintained a cool calm, Jonathan's calm had always been warm – not for the sake of external representation, for Valentine enjoyed being the center of attention, but out of genuine modesty.

Even the demon had not been able to completely erase this prudence. It had suffered from the demonic blood, had driven him to impulsiveness – but Jonathan's patience had made it cunning and sly.

Now I wasn't sure whether his calmness was due to this prudence. He explained his idea without many words, and answered Imogen's questions precisely, but his former harmony was nowhere to be found. As if he had lost the center that had kept his character traits in balance. Lost in this new and yet old body, he seemed like a stranger, not just to me, but to himself too. Not desperate, but as if he didn't know what to do with himself. Done in a way that gave me goosebumps, even though today everything had finally jumped back to the beginning. Except that he only knew what to do with this beginning to a limited extent.

Contrary to what I would have expected based on our heated past together, the Inquisitor didn't act in any way hostile towards Jonathan. The few sentences she interjected following his explanations were all carefully worded, polite and respectful. As if she undoubtedly valued and judged his every thought without prejudice. This surprised me because after almost three months I still didn't feel that I was on the same level as Imogen.

It was only when a second Silent Brother delivered armor and weapons for Jonathan and me, and he retreated into the next room to dress, that Imogen gave me a glimpse of her cards. I had no qualms about changing in front of her or anyone else, so I squirmed out of my linen clothes as soon as the door creaked shut behind Jonathan. Brother Zachariah had already left, so only the Inquisitor remained, turning her head in embarrassment.

I didn't know where I suddenly got the courage to raise my voice. Perhaps it was death, lurking like a ghost on my shoulders; indignant that I had escaped its grasp. "Why are you so nice to him?"

Imogen frowned, either in confusion or irritation. "Nice?" As if she didn't know the meaning of that adjective.

"I know you can't be nice. But your behavior towards my brother is probably the closest thing to that." I slipped into the gear-trousers and caught her piercing gaze on the top of my head. Like an invisible heat that was trying to bore through my head. "Why do I dare to speak to you like that? I've picked up a few things from my Parabatai. Besides ... I doubt Heaven will allow us to cheat death twice. So be honest with me, I'll take it to the grave." A forced grin twisted my lips, but Imogen saw through it easily.

"You are not going to die," she said, sounding surprisingly as sincere as she had with Jonathan. This distance in her pupils would likely never fade as long as she looked at me. But she no longer looked as though she despised the idea of my existence. "I will make sure you both make it home alive."

Home.

"You'd better not make such promises," I replied, tightening the buckles of my silver breastplate. "Especially not to me. Otherwise I might start to believe them."

I didn't see Imogen step beside me, I just heard her boots glide across the marble. Her height wasn't much higher than mine. But the closer you were to her, the more the power of her presence took hold of you. Like the demanding pull of a whirlpool. My fingers automatically stopped at the buckles to give her my full attention. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.

"Turn around," the Inquisitor ordered. The two words rolled effortlessly from her lips. An order that was preceded by hundreds and would be followed by hundreds more.

I did as I was told. I didn't question. I faced the windows and looked out at Angel Square, my shoulders slumped. Only to jump into readiness when her thin, rough fingers brushed against my back. My jaw had already dropped in question when she tightened the buckles with a skilled precision. My eyes widened as soon as I realized what she was doing. I was grateful that she could not see the astonishment.

"When Stephen was a boy, he had a passion for history," Imogen said, her voice oddly toneless, not acknowledging her nimble hands. "He wanted to learn all about the epic battles of Angels and Nephilim, and he soaked up their knowledge, only to reenact them with his friends. How many suits of armor did I have to replace because they were slashing at each other with sharp weapons. All his life, he sought the thrill that came with world-changing battles. Not because of the glory, but because he was never better than when holding a blade in his hand." She paused and pulled the last buckle into place. I didn't dare move – I was too afraid that she would snap out of her bubble of memory. That she would snap at me, stare at me with all the hostility she reserved for her son's killers. "He probably thought he would find that thrill in Valentine's Circle. Only then did it become the glory he chased after. Not for long." Imogen's voice wavered like an impregnable barricade that had turned out not to be as insurmountable as initially thought.

"He came to me, shortly before his death," she whispered now, the pain still evident in every syllable after all these years. "Confronted with more and more of Valentine's misdeeds, he finally realized his mistake. He wanted to leave the Circle but knew the possible consequences. He left me to go on one last mission. Less than three days later, he was dead, taking his change of heart to the grave."

Imogen carefully turned me around by my shoulders until we were face to face – blue of the sky, green of the earth. The depth of her expression seemed to suck me in. I had never seen anything but hardness, strength or rejection in it. There had been pity when Valentine had officially cast me out, yes – pity that one felt for a kicked dog, not for an equal person. It was the first time that Imogen Herondale looked at me as if I were her equivalent.

"You are like him, in some ways," she murmured now, looking surprised at her own words, as if she had only just come to this realization. "You believed in Valentin's ideals. You were blinded by his person, by his lies. You were just a child. But you saw the truth, just like he did. But unlike him, you will live. You are stronger than my Stephen, stronger than all those who have gone before you. You are their concentrated rectification, because you carry on your shoulders what they all took to the grave. But this burden will be your shield. Because you know what is at stake. Something Stephen never understood. You and Jonathan, you will destroy every dream Valentine ever dared to set his mind on. Because you are the product of his dreams."

No words in this world could describe what I was feeling. No words in this world could describe what she had just revealed. My head moved in a mechanical nod, but the room was spinning. Suddenly my lips were as dry as Jonathan's had looked.

As if he had heard my thoughts, my brother took that exact moment to knock on the door. Both Imogen and I flinched as it jolted us out of our bubble. Eyes still locked, she took a step backwards and invited him in. Then she turned to face the door and her back to me as if the past five minutes had never happened.

I didn't have time to dwell on her words any longer because Jonathan entered the small room, and the next shock hit me. I had no idea how they had managed it in such a short time, but the Iron Sisters had restored our armor so that Jonathan now looked exactly as he had this afternoon – when we had run into each other on the Demon Tower.

The black gear that every Shadowhunter wore was reinforced by Adamas plates that covered his most important body parts like a second skin. More noble than my armor, sponsored by the Lightwoods, and significantly lighter than my iron armor thanks to the Adamas. Strapped Phaesphoros to his back, the weapons belt was free for an excessive number of knives and seraph blades. It seemed almost ridiculous when you considered that he was the strongest Nephilim of all. It was reflected in his posture: unconscious but nevertheless there was the self-confidence that made him seem several centimeters taller than he actually was. As if the armor could hide the turmoil in his heart, he again looked like the Jonathan Morgenstern I had learned to fear.

I could stop the hairs on the back of my neck from standing up; my hand slipping of its own accord to Heosphoros's grip on my own back. For too long I had convinced myself that this sight meant danger.

Jonathan's pupils, missing nothing, immediately flew to me. His closed expression only became more inscrutable, but he lowered his chin as if he could not withstand my judgment.

His eyes were green. Not demon black. Not bottomless holes in the darkness. Green like the fruitful forests in summer. Green like our mother's eyes.

The Inquisitor said something, but I didn't hear it. Out of the corner of my eye, my consciousness caught her walking to the other door, but my attention was solely on my brother. His stature took up the doorway and he had to look down at me as if I were a child. I could see that something displeased him, but the emotion disappeared from behind his eyes as quickly as it had flashed.

"My emotions have lost their intensity," Jonathan finally said. I turned to the exit, but Imogen had already left the hospital room. "It is like I am stuck in a dream."

It was obvious that he wanted to say more; that he was leaving out something that was too much to say. I looked at his hands, which were in tactical gloves. I approached Jonathan hesitantly, his eyes watching me closely. A tremor went through Jonathan's arm as I squeezed his right hand. Firm enough for him to get the message – short enough for him to pull away. He didn't.

"You have only been yourself for a few hours. Give your body time to remember."

oOo

"Are you sure you're up to the task?" I asked a short time later.

Back in the Inquisitor's office, reality seemed to finally catch up with me. It had only been this morning when Isabelle and I had undergone the Parabatai ceremony in this very room. The Parabatai rune was still emblazoned on my chest, but my near-death state had weakened it, had made it almost completely fade away. It was already recovering, but so far, I could only feel the bond in the distance among the mass of Iratzes. Isabelle was alive, that much was certain – I could not find out more at this point. Did she know that I was still alive? I wondered how they had all believed I was dead if Isabelle's Parabatai rune had never completely disappeared. It should have been enough of a sign. First and foremost for Isabelle. A premonition began to form in my head that made me roll my eyes.

"We're aware of the risks," I heard a voice answer from far away, tearing me from my thoughts.

The table in the shape of Idris separated Jonathan and me from the two young Shadowhunters who had been chosen by Imogen for the first part of the plan. The Morgenstern Plan. This was my half.

"Valentine will find out about our supposed deaths by the time of the summoning, at the latest. It will not take him long to see through the masquerade," said Jonathan from my right. "But that is exactly the goal. If he thinks the Clave is appeasing him with an imitation of his dead children, he will think he is safe."

My shadow, who only opened his mouth when he deemed it most necessary. I tried to conceal his stature from the two Shadowhunters, who could barely conceal their distrust. "Jonathan is right," I interjected, more sharply than I intended. The eyes of the two chosen ones standing in the south of the map locked on me, erasing any suspicion from their faces. Whatever they saw on mine, respect bordering on fear, made them shift their weight uneasily as they lowered their gazes to the map. "We need to direct his focus to Alicante, out of the camp – in case the unit fails. Then we need every second we can get. Currently, the spell around Brocelind forest is still active, but that could change at any stage of our journey to the camp. If it's still active when we arrive, we'll take care of it ourselves. And of Valentine."

"He will be easier to take out if he fears the enemy from outside, rather than looking for him within his people," Imogen added with a nod. She stood on the western edge, between the Shadowhunters and us, as if she wanted to act as some kind of shield from the shock of seeing Jonathan. Not that it would have changed anything.

Only the warlock Catarina Loss seemed completely unmoved by his presence. For our plan we needed the help of a powerful warlock, and, in view of Magnus's absence, Imogen had enlisted the help of a close friend of his. I had expected an equally extroverted personality, but the only thing that stood out about Catarina was her pale blue skin, which should have made her unmissable. Like calm itself, she was a master at blending into the background. She followed both my and Jonathan's explanations with reserve and a friendly, interested expression.

"My power won't be enough for that," she said a while later, while a blue finger thoughtfully curled a strand of her snow-white hair. It fell like a curtain around her cheekbones. "I can open two, three portals at most. For that many I'll have to call in a lot more warlocks."

"As long as they only find out about their task shortly beforehand. Secrecy only plays a role until the spell is lifted," I replied, trying to show all the gratitude I felt at that moment on my face. Gratitude for the loyalty of the Shadowworlders.

A loyalty that obviously made Jonathan uncomfortable, if I believed the looks on the back of my neck. He didn't trust her, that much was clear. Unlike the Cohort, who had never made a secret of their dislike of the Shadowworlders, Jonathan took after our father in this respect. He didn't show any of these emotions on the outside, didn't back them up with any of his actions. No, he kept his feelings to himself because we had been raised differently. Putting on a brave face. After all, the enemy should not see the knife in the back coming.

It would pass. Jonathan was now exactly where I had been three months ago. Despite Valentine's cooperation with the faeries, he still saw the Shadowworlders as the enemy. If we were lucky, the war would change his views, but sooner or later he would change. I was sure of it. Not only because I had changed, but because he carried our mother's compassionate heart within him.

With time running out, I finally pulled out my stele and waved over the two Shadowhunters that Imogen had chosen for phase two of our plan. "It's very simple." I rummaged through my pocket, unfolded a crumpled piece of paper, and showed them the rune I had hastily scribbled at the beginning of the meeting. A rune which origin made me blush with shame. When I closed my eyelids, I could see the moment clearly in front of me, while the rest of my dreams were lost in the rush of the fire. Golden curls, golden irises, golden rune.

Thinking of Jace was like ripping my own heart out. The pain he had endured, the pain he was still enduring – because of me – was unforgivable. If we survived today, I would have to crawl on my knees before him and beg him to forgive me anyway.

I don't want to take a single breath in a world where you're no longer here.

This rune had its origin in Jace – it was solely the result of my love for him.

I beg you, just for a minute, to put yourself in my place.

It was the key to bypassing death. Even if not actually. I didn't have the power to bring the dead back to life. But it would look damn real.

"You must touch the person whose appearance you wish to take." I asked the female Nephilim to give me her hand. With the other hand, I handed her my stele and held up the piece of paper. "Now draw."

oOo

The effect of the rune had surprised even me, even though I had sent Isabelle and myself to Heaven. Jonathan, his face set in stone throughout the entire meeting, had leaned curiously over my shoulder and watched the process as the female Shadowhunter hesitantly took the stele and then transformed into a completely lifelike version of myself. He had been impressed, even though he had already seen what my runes were capable of. But each rune came with its own magic, so that my jaw dropped in amazement every time. Jonathan seemed to have felt the same way – at least until he suddenly found himself staring into the eyes of an exact copy of himself. That, however, had made him uncomfortable.

Not as much discomfort, however, as handing them our very real Morgenstern swords. A look at Jonathan's face confirmed my own feelings: as if I had given up a part of myself. We had learned to fight with these very swords our whole lives. Heosphoros and Phaesphoros weren't only an extension of our limbs, but also mementos. As if a child was forced to give up its favorite toy.

"Your abilities are not tied to the swords, that is pure misconception," Imogen remarked after sending our clones away to the safety of the Silent Brothers, who would protect them from prying eyes.

"Would you be comfortable parting with your Herondale ring?" Jonathan asked in a strained voice. Breathless, as if the Heavenly Fire was interfering with his respiratory system – the glow in his veins had become more intense since he had parted ways with Phaesphoros. His only constant in the months of anarchy.

The Inquisitor didn't answer but instead pressed her lips together in a thin line in response, as if that would seal the matter.

"The warlocks are very sentimental about objects," said Catarina, without raising her head from a thick magic book that she had carelessly opened on the map of Idris. "In immortality, only objects endure the test of time. The only way to keep memories alive – because our memory weakens after centuries of impressions."

I thought of Magnus and his apartment in Brooklyn, whose furnishings had seemed completely thrown together at first glance. Now I wondered if each individual item had a special meaning for him. Did he sit on his sofa and remember a friendship he had had two hundred years ago? Immortality was a strange thing. Something that seemed impossible to me, although I knew the opposite. Death was the price of immortality. Not your own death, of course, but the death of those you loved. A life I was definitely not made for.

So far, I had only met two warlocks, but neither Magnus nor Catarina seemed unhappy with their existence. But what did I know? Perhaps infinity made them deaf to the intensity of certain emotions.

"It is time," Jonathan interrupted me. His hands were intertwined in a nervous gesture. Only the flash on his ring finger convinced me otherwise and I remembered that we would not need a portal on this trip.

Catarina let out an impressed whistle. "Teleportation magic." She looked at the silver ring with great interest.

It was the silver Morgenstern ring, which I had previously thought was a simple family heirloom. To me it had always been just a ring – Jonathan's ring. My own was somewhere on our estate, in case Valentine had not taken it with him. Although the engraved M had worn down over decades of wearing, the quality of the craftmanship was evident at first glance. Solid, dark iron, interrupted only by the finest, detailed star patterns. I wondered if my ring also contained teleportation magic.

I took a final step towards Jonathan, who was already raising his arm so that I could hook onto his. Again, careful not to make direct physical contact. Although I knew the reason for the Heavenly Fire, I could not ignore the pain that came with it. My hope of freeing Jonathan from the demon had been buried further with each passing day in Alicante – and had finally burned out completely a few weeks ago. Now that I had my brother back, I became painfully aware that in my dreams I had never considered the consequences of his transformation. I had only ever dreamed of freeing him from the demonic blood. I had never even thought about the fact that he would no longer be the same person.

Before I could wrap my arms around Jonathan's, I caught a reaction out of the corner of my eye. Imogen, almost swaying toward us. Her blue eyes round and alert, I could not shake the feeling that she wanted to say something but didn't know how to begin. As she kept her features locked in her usual sternness, I began to get the impression that it wasn't an expression of hostility, as I had always assumed – much more an expression of self-protection. Like Jace, who had initially hidden his emotions behind a wall of arrogance, she hid hers behind cool authority.

For a moment, Imogen and I stared at each other. If she was finally ready to see more in me than the cunning daughter of Valentine Morgenstern, perhaps I should admit that she, too, was more than the merciless, vengeful Inquisitor. I felt like I owed her something – for opening up to me when the occasion didn't call for it.

A deep, weary sigh rose in my lungs and I lowered my chin, not fast enough to miss the hint of fear flickering in her eyes. Everything Imogen Herondale had done since the death of her son Stephen had been dedicated to the only goal that still had any meaning in her world: to bring down Valentine Morgenstern. A goal that had only one weak point: Jace. The words she had spoken after Jonathan had run off with Mellartach were forever burned into my brain.

Thank you, Clarissa. Thank you for saving my boy. I'm glad you did, otherwise I would have had to expose myself as a traitor.

Because all of Imogen's goals meant nothing if she lost her Jace. The only blood relative she had left. The only thing Stephen had left her. And right now, far from the safety of Alicante's magical wards, Jace was on the verge of becoming collateral damage within her goal.

I knew she would not ask me to save Jace. But she wanted to, I read it in her briefly unguarded gaze. What was my life worth, I, who had already lost everything? Mother, father, brother. If I died, who would be waiting for me? If I died, the world would return to its original state of three months ago and it would be as if I had never existed. But if Jace died ... his demise would leave holes. But Imogen would not ask me to. Because Imogen Herondale may have locked away her shattered heart long ago, but she had accepted that there were bigger battles to fight; that we were all just foot soldiers on the chessboard of a much greater power.

"Jace ..." It was only when his name rolled off my tongue like a hundred tiny needles that I understood the reason for Imogen's hesitation. Suddenly I didn't have the strength to continue speaking.

Her Adam's apple trembled before she parted her lips. As if her existence depended on it, she fought through the next sentence, even though it burned her tongue. "I am grateful that you are alive, Clary. For the Nephilim, but also for him. I do not wish him the life I was forced to lead."

Next to me, Jonathan shifted impatiently, not understanding the meaning of these words. "I want you to know that ..." I hesitated. "If he doesn't come home, I won't either."

I should not make promises. It felt like a moment of complete clarity, like I was above earthly things. Making the promise felt right. Because she was right: if only one of us was meant to live, then Jace – it had always been Jace. Just the thought of his death hurt like a knife that would not stop cutting into flesh.

A thin-lipped, distorted smile spread across Imogen Herondale's face. "Thank you."

I nodded and looked up at Jonathan, who, to my surprise, was eyeing the Inquisitor with a sudden accusation. His eyes were piercingly fixed on her, almost like a warning. Before I could ask, his fingers slid to the ring and turned it three times.

The Inquisitor's office vanished in the blink of an eye. Unlike stepping through a portal, a split second later we were immediately surrounded by the dark shadows of fir trees. No whirlpool or blur, no nausea in my stomach. Suddenly we were in the heart of the Brocelind forest. In the middle of a snowy clearing that, with its high treetops and low tree stumps, reminded me a little too much of our last training fight. The day when Jonathan had attacked me under the watchful eyes of our father.

"Where are we?"

A glance up at the sky revealed the looming spectacle of the setting sun, soon to completely replace the blue, which was merging into shades of red. The cool winter air scratched my throat and burned my nose. After months of being surrounded by blossoming spring, the cold here reminded me a little more of Blake Ashdown than I would have liked. The change of seasons, however, didn't spare even the most stubborn of weather, for the snow lacked the fresh, pure scent – for it had absorbed the smells of the surroundings. The last snowfall must have been at least a week ago. A sign, however negligible, still made me hopeful. The thought that Jace was out there, perhaps very close, made my heart beat faster.

"Very close to the patrol," Jonathan replied between pressed lips. His watchful eyes roamed the clearing, between the icy trees and into the dark forest. The snow was silently compressed under his boots as he seemed to practically glide over to the first row of trees. I stepped in his footsteps and followed him just as silently. "They have split up, each of them has their own little sector. We are currently on the border between the sectors of the two Shadowhunters." He looked down at me over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. Not a single emotion betrayed his perfectly smooth features. I almost flinched in surprise when his left hand shot over to me and pulled the hood over my head. "Your hair can be seen from a mile away." Offended, I furrowed my brows. "You stay in the background, as discussed. It will be quick, they know me and will not expect an attack."

From that moment on, we fell into the familiar silence of concentration. Jonathan marched into the forest, abandoning any attempt to be silent. He broke into a relaxed jog, making branches crack and stones clatter. I followed him at a distance of about ten meters, turning into a ghost and practically floating behind him – always careful to follow in his footsteps.

It didn't take long for the first Nephilim to notice Jonathan. How easy it is to break through a blockage when you know it inside and out, I thought to myself. The hours of pondering that I could have saved myself if Jonathan's inside knowledge had been available to me earlier. He knew every trap, every trick, every patrol.

From a distance and due to the dim lighting conditions of the dense fir trees, I could just about make out that it was a man thanks to his broad stature. His dark hair, the color of petroleum, was combed straight down to just above his ears, as I noticed as soon as I got closer. As soon as he recognized Jonathan, he put the seraph blade away and nodded to him without saying a word. He turned his head again, probably assuming that Jonathan would walk straight past him. Instead, Jonathan shot out his hands like two attacking vipers and aimed at the man's neck. The man had just managed to widen his eyes when Jonathan had already broken his neck with a hair-raising crack.

Still careful not to disturb the overwhelming silence of the forest, I silently hurried to Jonathan's side. He had already drawn his steel and was clutching the Shadowhunter's now lifeless arm, about to draw the rune that I had already shown our doppelgangers. With my mouth pressed into a fine line, I watched as Jonathan transformed before my eyes into an exact copy of the deceased. He was now almost four inches taller than before, with dark brown eyes, not unlike Isabelle's. The dead Shadowhunter must have been around twenty-five, his face oval with slightly prominent cheekbones.

"His name is Milo Coldridge," Jonathan whispered in a harsh tone, deeper and less rhythmic than his own. A matter of getting used to it, I supposed. Under the stranger's piercing gaze, I clenched my hands nervously. I would have to get used to looking beneath the layers of his appearance and paying attention only to his gestures. It reminded me of how much I hated it when strangers looked at me, because I was always afraid they would immediately judge me. "I am glad I could remember a few names at all. Demonic Jonathan did not give a damn about cannon fodder."

"The fact that you remember shows that Demonic Jonathan wasn't in full control," I replied in a convincingly firm tone, rising from my crouch. "How ... how are you? Because of the Heavenly Fire, I mean."

"Well, it feels like I am burning from the inside out," he explained slowly, and when I saw my shocked expression, he clarified. "As long as I keep my emotions under control, it is bearable. It is like a very persistent muscle ache. The Silent Brothers put me through a few tests before you woke up. As soon as I lose control, the fire seeks its way out of me."

"Like a pot boiling over?"

Jonathan gave me a long, disapproving stare. "A pot. Seriously, Clary?"

Even my tightly closed mouth trembled with the snorts that were escaping. "Because of the pressure. Pure science."

He opened his mouth as if he were about to answer, only to close it again in resignation. "Maybe," he finally sighed, rolling his eyes as if I were an unbearable burden imposed on him. I grinned in response. "No. I am not going to become a fire-breathing dragon, if that is what you are thinking. It has nothing to do with body orifices, but with body control. Since our dear father has been training us practically our entire lives, controlling the fire is not too difficult for me."

"But in the Basilias you seemed so–"

"Weakened?" Jonathan interrupted, frowning. "Of course the fire is overpowering me. Burning from the inside out is not pleasant, especially when you get a fatal sword wound on top of it for nothing. The Brothers healed our wounds. Or do you still feel as weak as when you woke up?"

"No." Instead of looking at him, I peered through the darkening forest. Everything here reminded me of then – of before. Jonathan by my side, the safety of the forest, the snow. As if I had only dreamed the last three months and had now finally woken up again.

Milo Coldridge's strange brown eyes were on me as if we were more than just familiar with each other. Milo's eyes, but Jonathan's emotions – and thus the absence of any emotions. Just like Valentine had taught us. "I have my feelings under control, so you do not have to worry."

I wanted to scream at him that this was what was bothering me. That he had been a demonic sociopath for months and now acted like none of it mattered. But we were both the product of our upbringing, and I would have to be patient. Anything else would be unfair. It didn't change the fact that I longed for an emotional outburst. A voice in my head whispered that if he trusted me more, he would give me more than this emptiness.

If I survived the day a second time, I would have the rest of my life to wallow in self-pity. The smile appeared on my cheek muscles as if by itself. I felt like I was talking to the demon again – unapproachable and unreachable by any kind of rationality. "You're right. Come on, I feel like dressing up."

Considering the death of Milo Coldridge, that was probably a rather insensitive statement. I didn't care. Milo had chosen the wrong side and by standing here, he had been ready to die for my father. Now he was dead – the harvest followed the sowing.

The new version of me must have been as strange to Jonathan as his new version was to me, for his new eyes slid thoughtfully over my face. "I probably should not tell you who she is," he said carefully, tracing a fire rune on his corpse. A smoky aroma filled the air, then Milo Coldrige's body burst into flames. Jonathan didn't speak again until we were walking back to the clearing in the shadows of the forest, both of us intent on following in his former footsteps. "She's Blake Ashdown's cousin."

The name stirred an old anger in my chest, and I nearly tripped over my own feet. Blake deserved more than a quick death by a simple knife. I had to tear my eyelids wide open to avoid being drawn into a whirlpool of images. There was no room for that here. "If she's here, she deserves to die," was all I said, and from Jonathan's analyzing eyes, I had failed to keep my tone neutral.

"It was strange," he admitted into the cold dusk. Coldridge had gelled his hair back so tightly that even the light wind didn't move the strands. "I hated Blake for what he did to you. I wanted to kill him, I hated Father for leaving you to him. I was under the twisted impression that only I or Father had the right to inflict pain on you. But as soon as someone else took that right, they were as good as dead in my opinion. If you had not taken him out, I would definitely have found a way myself in Alicante."

I didn't have an appropriate answer to that. It was a perfect fit for the Jonathan I had faced in recent months. Like Valentine, he had condemned the Nephilim's treatment of me as if he cared about my well-being – only to want to plunge a blade into my chest minutes later. Strange indeed.

As we crossed the border into the sector that Blake's cousin patrolled, I dropped further back. Jonathan, now in the form of Milo Coldridge, broke into a light trot again. Two minutes later, the silvery glint of a weapon flashed through to us between two fir trees that had practically grown together. A piercing whisper pierced the space between Jonathan and Blake's cousin.

"Milo? What are you doing here? What's going on?" Her voice had a haughty tone, though confusion spoke through it. She had one of those voices that always had an unpleasant note to it, no matter what emotion it was conveying. It suited her and the angular face that didn't resemble Blake but exuded a malice of its own. The young woman, about my age, came out from behind the wide log, her dark red hair tied back in an elaborate braid.

Maybe she saw me standing in the distance. Maybe it was just a gut feeling. Blake's cousin backed away when Jonathan tried to invade her private space. He muttered something, too quietly for me to hear, and her expression of concentration relaxed a little. Jonathan could not kill her fast enough to stop the squeaky scream she forced up her vocal cords.

"Her name is Vanessa," Jonathan said, jumping to his feet as soon as I knelt down beside him. Her scream would have alerted at least one faerie, so we had to be quick. His eagle eyes were already scanning the forest. "Vanessa Ashdown."

"Sounds awfully ordinary," I yawned, feigning boredom once the itch of transformation had washed over me. Disgusted, I dropped Vanessa's arm as if it were infected with a contagious disease and set it on fire. Her burning corpse did nothing to ease the pulsing anger, but it did a frightening amount to boost my mood. Beaming, I turned to Jonathan and twirled the axe I had stolen from her like a balancing stick. "In my opinion, we should do this to her entire family tree."

"You almost sound like my alter ego," Jonathan said, looking alarmed by my sudden change in mood. "Are you okay?"

The transformation had felt strange, but it had been painless. "I'm twenty centimeters taller than usual, I'm feeling fantastic! There's a faerie coming from the left, by the way." I grinned up at Milo Coldrige and was grateful for the moments of practice in getting out of my own skin. Isabelle, who could slip into a new role even without a new body, would definitely enjoy this, I was sure of that. The thought only made my grin broaden. I still had to practice being malicious, but the euphoria that this first step of our plan had worked made my pulse race.

"Remember the plan," Jonathan whispered to me with a frown before the faerie could hear him.

"I always think about the plan, love," I crooned, bursting into laughter at Jonathan's wide eyes.

"When this is over, we will have a detailed conversation about what you have been up to for the past few weeks," Jonathan promised, hissing and falling back into his role.

The faerie knight came to a graceful halt in front of us. Clad in thin steel armor with green and gold ornaments, he looked like the delicate stem of a flower before it had opened its blossoms. "What is going on here?" he demanded to know, his tone melodic, despite the demand, like the song from my dream.

"Border crosser," Jonathan replied curtly, his posture mechanical and prepared for attack. We had no idea whether fairies could possibly see through my rune. Magical glamour wasn't able to deceive them, after all.

The faerie knight didn't beat an eyelid at the sight of us. He looked at Jonathan's posture, then the banished body, and finally my broad smile. He relaxed more and more, but gave me a disgusting look over the charred corpse. Apparently, faeries didn't laugh after burning their enemies. Who would have thought?

"We took out two, probably a distraction," I explained, digging a charred piece of paper out of my jacket pocket. "We received a Fire-message. Half of our unit is being ordered back to base."

"Make sure the rest catch up with us as quickly as possible and then follow us," Jonathan ordered next to me, sounding very much like his true self. "No one is allowed to cross the border in our section! If there are more of the crossers, they should be found."

The knight didn't seem to notice anything, as he acknowledged the order with a brief nod. Jonathan and I immediately turned away and ran south, towards Lake Lyn. I heard Jonathan's footsteps next to me, barely audible over the snow and grass. For five minutes, our steady breathing was the only sound in our bubble.

"Well, that was easy." I grinned and showed him my teeth, and Jonathan responded by darkening his eyes. "Spoilsport."

For another five minutes, we sprinted through the undergrowth of Brocelind forest, thanks to stamina runes. Along towering fir trunks, across frost-covered grasses, and through sprawling thorn bushes. When we finally broke into a brisk jog, Jonathan raised his voice again.

"You should not let people like Imogen Herondale convince you that you are less than them."

"Excuse me?" My plastered-on smile faded before he had even finished the sentence.

"I know I did not see much of your time in Alicante. But it was enough to see how they treat you. The audacity with which Imogen tries to convince you that you should sacrifice your life for her grandson. That woman has no honor. You have already sacrificed everything, but she still demands more."

"She didn't ask for anything," I replied curtly, raising my hand to search for Heosphoros on my back, only to remember that I wasn't carrying it. Distraught, I clenched my fingers into a fist and shook them slightly so Jonathan would not notice. The sword was like the anchor of my soul. Not taking it into battle felt like I was making a fatal mistake. "Yes, she's selfish and yes, she can't see past her own grudges, but Jace is all she has left. Who knows what kind of monster I would have become if I had lived her life?"

"You are all I have left," he said after a moment of silence. My head snapped in his direction, but he skillfully avoided my stare, his focus entirely on the pathless road ahead. "I would burn the world to save you. Cost what it may."

"So you understand her," I said hesitantly. My warm breath rose in grayish clouds of mist.

"Of course. But the difference between her and me is that I am not a coward. She is the head of the serpent, but you are her executing hand of vengeance. She is the king of the chessboard, just waiting for the foot soldiers to reap the laurels that she can adorn herself with."

"She's lost everything, Jon–" I stopped before I said his name. We didn't know who might be eavesdropping. "She's been working toward this revenge for years. She's taken down more of Father's allies than anyone else in her position could."

"Please." Jonathan gritted his jaw as if that would ease his anger. "Yes, she got some of his allies, but she still did not stop the war. All she did was get herself elected to high office. Since then, she has sat in her office and let others do the dirty work. If Jace is as important to her as she claims, she could have joined your unit herself. She could have actively fought with us."

"And resign from her position in the middle of all this chaos?"

Instead of answering, Jonathan raised his arm in an abrupt gesture. I slid to a stop in the snow, a second behind him. "The fairies are closing in on us," he whispered. "No more private conversations."

Nodding, I started moving again. Jonathan followed me at a more leisurely pace. I turned around, searching, but there was still no sign of the fairies. Their steps were a barely perceptible, high-frequency patter approaching from the northeast. We approached the lake from the east and, as Jonathan had already told me in Alicante, we would not encounter another patrol until we reached the lake. However, as I listened out into the twilight and focused my attention entirely on the approaching running movements, my head tilted as if by itself.

"Are you sure we were the last patrol before Lake Lyn?" I breathed into a background noise that finally made Jonathan frown.

"Yes." His eyes flew to the ground, searching for the faerie traps. He knew the forest inside and out; knew exactly where he could go without being caught by them. So the fact that his expression was darkening increasingly didn't please me at all.

"Jon?" It was like a hiss.

Jonathan didn't answer.

"There's someone up left! Parallel to our path!"

Jonathan had strained to squint his eyes, as if this would enhance his senses. "More than one. A group. At least ..."

But I had already started running. With my heart pounding in my throat, I rushed left, to the south. Jonathan hissed behind me. Rightly so. He knew the way. He knew where the traps were placed. But I ...

Not a hundred meters, I was just flying past a fir tree twice my width, when they suddenly appeared in front of me. Jonathan behind me had turned into a ghost, I didn't hear his steps, only sensed his presence – his boiling anger at my foolishness. I had just enough time to swallow my mask of utter horror because their backs were turned to me; because they were several dozen meters ahead of us. So my feet stumbled to an unnoticed stop.

Just in time, because a wild heartbeat later, the golden-blond curls turned straight toward me. And when his golden irises found me and widened in disbelief, as if I were the ghost here, my frightened heart plunged into a pit of surprise for multiple reasons.

The chapter is a long one at 17 Word pages, but we want to finish the story at some point. So a lot happens here. How did you like it? Are Imogen and Clary finally getting closer? More importantly, how do you like Jonathan so far? I would be very happy to receive a review!

Skyllen