Lost and Found

by TheIXMuse

Sebastian comes back for Clary and Jace and they are hidden away where no one will be able to find them. When Sebastian begins to torture them, he shares just how dark his desires are, and Clary quickly realizes how far will go to attain them. Will they ever be able to make it out together? M for rape, incest, torture, and lots of other nasty things. Not for the faint of heart!

28. Chapter Twenty Four

Author's Note: This chapter contains mentions of character death, grief, illness, fighting/demon gore, psychological manipulation, captivity, mentions of incest, mentions of rape.

Hello, all. I have returned. Here's a nice long chapter for you. (Apologies for formatting errors. really hates when I try to use italics. I can't tell if it's uploading the italiziced text properly; I will try and correct it tomorrow. In the meantime, you can read the chapter on AO3 if it's too confusing here without the italics.)

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Chapter Twenty Four: Fire Message

[January 13th, 11:30AM; Alicante, Idris.]

Alec stared hard at the floor, trying with some difficulty to keep from restlessly tapping his boot against the stone floor of the Consul's office. It was buffed to shiny perfection, a glare from the surrounding lighting striped cleanly across the surface, and the dirt and wear on his boots was especially evident in comparison.

The shoes weren't deteriorated to the point of possible defection during a fight, they were just old. Normally, he liked them that way—comfortable, scuffed, and broken in—it was just that right now they just looked especially worn, and he was finding their dull, dirty surface annoyingly distracting.

To be fair, he'd been wearing gear for days now, and although he'd changed shirts and pants, he hadn't bothered to clean the boots before portalling here. Not that he normally had to clean them; he was good at his job, and didn't often get hurt, and so he usually didn't have to worry about anything but mud, which flaked off easily with one good stomp on a doormat.

But because he hadn't cleaned them, his attention kept falling back to the big brown splotches across the leather covered steel toes. He suspected the stains passed as dirt or clay, but Alec knew they weren't.

It wasn't mud on the boots—it was blood.

Not the blood of a demon, which would crumble to ash and float away upon the death of its body, nor the blood of an Endarkend, which would dry up and disintegrate hours later like their corpse, but the blood of a human, dried out and stained from the days that had passed since it was spilt. Likely Jace's, from when Alec carried him from his cell.

And it was bugging the shit out of him.

He knew he shouldn't be looking at the floor, that he should be making eye contact with those present out of respect, or at least so as not to come across as ashamed or scolded, but since he'd finished speaking, they hadn't really been addressing him anyway, too busy bickering amongst themselves and picking apart his report to notice.

"Alec. I don't think you understand how detrimental the effect of this insubordination is."

At his name, he snapped out of his daze and looked up, trying not to appear too tired or nettled by having to be there, but Jia's sighed words sounded just as exhausted as he felt.

"I do," he replied, attempting to work a hint of guilt into his tone, but the small group of Council members that had gathered for the unofficial meeting—it was an informal interrogation, really—didn't seem convinced. He could tell that at least Jia was trying for a degree of tact in her questioning, or else was stretched too thin to concern herself with assigning blame, but the rest of the room didn't seem to care about the delicacy of the recent events Alec had been through. He couldn't really say he blamed them.

"Do you?" Councilwoman Chen snapped, and Wayburn finished her question with the accusation on everyone's tongue. "The only advantage we've had in months: Jonathan Morgenstern's location, an opportunity to end this war. And you threw it away with an unauthorized, improvised attack. You went directly against Clave orders, and you saved one life at the potential cost of thousands."

Alec wished he could retort that she was exaggerating. But she wasn't. In fact, if anything, she was downplaying the cost , and they all knew it. With the unknown abilities of the Endarkened and his apparent ability to summon and control demons at the snap of his fingers, Sebastian had the potential to take a lot more than thousands of lives. He had the potential to destroy everything. Maybe even end-of-the-world-as-they-knew-it level destruction.

The possible effects of Sebastian getting away—that was a risk that Alec had no right to have chosen to take.

But still, he knew how the Council worked. Some remorse was expected, but backing down entirely on a call made in the heat of the moment was as stupid as rolling over.

"We didn't know Sebastian was there. The parabatai tracking only told us where Jace was."

He had chosen his words carefully, but Jia was quick to call him out on the half truth. "If you truly believed Morgenstern wasn't there, you wouldn't have gone behind the Clave's back."

"Jace and Clary have risked everything for the Clave," Alec said, trying to keep a snap from his tone. "For all Nephilim. Time and time again. The Clave owed it to them to at least arrange a rescue effort before they were killed. But you were too busy gathering resources to—"

A wave of vicious quarreling cut Alec off as several members burst out in argument.

"Killed? Do you truly believe he would have killed them—?"

"What, you think Jonathan Morgenstern is beneath killing his siblings—?"

"Being Turned is as good as dead—"

"We don't know that—!"

"You say we owed it to them? It could be argued that those two are the very reason we are in this war," said Pontmercy, his voice rising above the others. "And the gathering of resources you were too impatient to wait for? Forces, intel, a plan? Without these Jonathan got away, and Clarissa was Turned. If she wasn't already on her brother's side, she is now—"

"Already? " Alec balked, "Clary was never—"

But he was drowned out again.

"Besides, that is a Shadowhunter's job . To risk their lives for others. We have no debts to each other for our service," Balogh scoffed, nodding in agreement towards Pontmercy.

"That fact that the Inquisitor was present and didn't stop this mutiny—" Wayburn began, and at that, Alec spoke up again. " Mutiny?! It wasn't his fault. We acted without my father's knowledge—"

"Do not worsen your position by lying," Pontmercy snapped.

"If he did not blatantly support your efforts, he still turned a blind eye," Jia said, and although it wasn't said entirely without malice, another Council member spoke over her.

"As Inquisitor, it is not something that can go without penalty."

"That's not only your decision to make," Jia corrected.

"Is that truly what you are concerned with right now? Punishing Shadowhunters when we are on the brink of war?" Alec asked, raising his voice. It was almost laughable, that accountability for the rescue might be placed above focusing all efforts on Sebastian.

"If it was anyone else the situation might be different. But I cannot help but notice that a pattern is forming in regard to your family's insubordination, one that cannot be perpetuated. You're forcing us to dole out punishment when we have so much else to worry about."

"Again, if any reprimands are made, it is not only your decision," Jia said firmly, rising from her seat.

"Either way, neither Alec nor his father were acting alone. We can't place the fault of the group on just one," Helen added hastily in an attempt to calm the immediate debate, glancing at Jia for support.

"Yes," the Consul sighed. "Helen is right. And we cannot have an official meeting until all parties are present. Where are the others?"

The room fell into begrudging silence as all turned back to Alec, who resisted the urge to look back at his boots. He'd already told them most of what had occurred—the tracking, the rescue attempt, the attack on the Institute—but he hadn't shared much further than that.

The Council was about to be a lot more upset.

"My father was injured during the attack and has not recovered enough to portal," he said, repeating what he'd shared earlier. "You received the report from Catarina: she estimates he'll be well enough to in another two or three days. My sister stayed with him. Jocelyn and Luke stayed with Isabelle, due to concerns of another attack."

"I see. And why is it that, despite direct orders to report immediately to the Gard, Jace did not arrive with you this morning?"

This was the question he'd been waiting for.

Jia fixed him with a look harder than the polished floors, stern, and quietly pleading for anything but the answer they both already expected. But it was her next question that caught Alec completely off guard.

"Why is it," she continued when he made no reply, "that we received word from the faerie Council representative that Jace left the Court last night after an audience with the Queen?"

Alec suppressed a look of surprise. He hadn't heard from Jace since he left the Institute, and he hadn't expected the Council to hear of his trip to the Court until at least a bit later. But surely if the Seelie had any way to help track Sebastian, Meliorn would have reported that to the Clave as well, right?

"Meliorn said that?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"Yes."
"Did he say what they discussed?"

"Right now we are trying to discern what information you are aware of. We've given you the courtesy of the morning to do as you needed. So now answer the Council's questions, and do so truthfully, before we test your word by the Sword," Chen said, and Alec tensed at the double edge to her response: the jab at allowing him time upon his arrival to the city to transport his mother's body to where it would be cremated, and the mention of the Mortal Sword. In regard to the former, he wanted to shout that his mother wasn't even interred yet, that his family had been ripped apart and all the Clave was concerned with was gathering them together for an interrogation. But in regard to the latter, he knew the threat of that interrogation wasn't a bluff. The Sword would be used on all of them once the Clave had them together for a trial.

He wanted to be furious with them for being so heartless. But instead he just felt the pit in his stomach drop open further, and like his lungs were cinching up close to his heart so each beat, each breath, felt rapid and constrained. Because it wasn't just his mother that had died; there were so many others. Twelve Institutes, full of Shadowhunters, all in the last six days. And, perhaps, if it was any family other than his own at the center of it, Alec would have had the same militaristic way of thinking as the Council was now, the same way all Shadowhunters were trained to react—that the only thing that was important was what was best for all Nephilim.

Alec swallowed, and continued speaking. "Jace left after the official notice we provided to the Clave upon returning from the mountains, but before we could discuss the fact that he was to report to the Gard. We had only just returned. The Clave had only just discovered that we were not the only Institute that was attacked. A lot had happened. And Jace was especially torn that—"

"—Clarissa was left behind?" a Councilman said, jumping in to finish Alec's sentence, and though the man had been quiet the entire meeting, he now stepped forward, his tan face red with anger, his graying hair thinning, his eyes dark and tired.

"Do not speak for me—!"

But the man continued anyway, and as the Council members parted to give the man space, Alec recognized him as a member of the Vatican City Institute. One of the other Institute's that had been attacked. For the life of him, Alec couldn't remember his name. "—That your unpreparedness forced Jonathan's hand? You understand that he may not have forced her to drink from the Infernal Cup had he not been cornered? That you were not there during the attack on the New York Institute, to defend your own family and home?"

"Don't pretend to care about Clary now," Alec scoffed, "and don't you dare insinuate that my mother died because of our absence! No other Institute had surviving members, we may have all been killed regadle—"

"And why weren't you? No others survived, and yet—"

"Silence!" The command was given to the Vatican Councilman, but the whole room fell dead quiet at the Consul's order, and Alec shut his mouth against the riposte rising in his throat—something about the man projecting his own guilt onto Alec, about the man being in Alicante while his own family in Italy was slaughtered and Turned by Sebastian and his Endarkened.

"Alexander, continue," Jia said, exasperated, and Alec tore his glare away from Vatican Councilman to once again address her.

"What I meant was that Jace was not aware of the Consul's personal order for questioning. He knew only that the Clave was requesting Shadowhunters to return to Idris."

" Requesting . How convenient an interpretation," someone muttered at the back of the room, but Alec pressed on. "When I last spoke to him, I tried to dissuade him from leaving. All I know is that he thought the Seelie Queen might be able to offer assistance in locating Clary."

"Why did he think this?"

"You know as well as I that the Queen has her ways."

"If the Seelie Court had been able to locate Jonathan Morgenstern, they would have reported it to the Clave months ago."

So that meant the Queen hadn't been able to help Jace. Honestly, Alec found it to be a bit of a relief. The last thing Jace needed was to owe a favor to the Fair Folk. And though he believed the fae would abide by the Accords, he wasn't so sure they wouldn't deliberately stand just outside of the debates to avoid Sebastian's wrath.

"We cannot allow another rogue Shadowhunter to further disrupt the Clave's efforts to stop Jonathan," Balogh said.

"Rogue?" Alec scoffed, but the look in the man's eyes was deadly serious.

"If Jace Herondale does not report immediately to Alicante, we will track his location and return him to the Gard as a person of interest."

"What?! That's ridiculous!" he shouted, shoving up from his seat, and the Consul quickly paced around to the front of the table to de-escalate. "Alec, the Council's methods might be extreme in this case, but their intentions are not," she said. "We have no way to know what occurred while Jace was with Sebastian. And we have already seen the effects of his possession."

"He isn't being controlled," Alec said tightly, fingers curling into his palms.

"Regardless, he may have information that could be useful to us. And besides, even if he managed to locate Morgenstern on his own, outside all of the efforts of the Clave, he cannot be trusted to not act rashly. And we cannot lose another to the Infernal Cup. If you happen to be in contact with him, do pass this along. If he does not arrive with the rest of your family…" Jia said, trailing off, and he could tell that the implied threat, although spoken only to accommodate the anger of the Council, was no less real. They really might keep Jace locked in the Gard until satisfied that he had no further information they could use. Or to ensure Sebastian was unable to reach him again.

And even with Jia vouching for the Lightwoods, he'd seen before how easily she could be overruled by Council majority.

"He'll be here," Alec assured.

"You know this?"

"He has to be. For the funeral."

Jia's eyes softened, if only a fraction, and Alec saw Helen clutch tightly at the cuff of her sleeve. The rest of the room seemed unphased, though, at the reminder of their fellow Councilwoman's death.

Again, he wanted to hate them for it. He wanted to despise them for their casual cruelty. But he couldn't. His mother's wouldn't be the first funeral within the past week, and it certainly wouldn't be the last of this war.

"Very well," Jia sighed, clearly relieved to have come to some partial understanding, and she stepped back toward the meeting table to pick up a stack of papers. "This meeting is dismissed."

For a moment, no one moved to leave, but then Alec, all too glad for the dismissal, pushed back his chair, and the Council slowly began to break apart. But as he headed for the door, someone stepped in front of his path, boots black and shiny clean. Polished, unlike Alec's own.

"Bersani," Alec said, a note of warning in his voice as he glanced up to address the owner of the shoes, at last recalling the Vatican City Councilman's name when he saw the phoenix on the family crest that was stamped on the man's belt. Bersani looked him up and down in disdain. " …Your siblings may have a history of disregarding the law, but you, Alexander. The Council expected more of you."

Alec took a step back, working his jaw.

He couldn't say the comment didn't sting. Because they were right. They were all right. Alec had been reckless and childish to attempt the mission, and had forced his family and friends to risk their life for it. Bersani hadn't even been granted the knowledge that his family needed rescuing until it was too late, but Alec had willingly risked the rest of his family—his sister, Clary's family, Magnus—in an attempt to save two.

But Alec couldn't afford to waste time or effort now in worrying about whether it was the right choice. It was done. And his parabatai, his brother, was alive.

He would take the consequences as they came. That didn't mean he had to take shit from these stuck up assholes, though.

"I can admit that I was reckless in leading an attack on Sebastian's hideout, if you can admit that you were just as unprepared to fight him as we were. There were demons, Endarkened, black magic. Sebastian used a portal like I've never seen before. If we were any larger a group, Sebastian would have seen us coming, and he would have had even more time to get away, with Clary and Jace. It may have been a decision not fully calculated, but what the Council can expect of myself and my family is that we will protect each other at all costs. I will not apologize for that. I am only sorry that you weren't allowed warning to do the same for your family," Alec said, unable to keep his tone from turning sharp, and the nerve he struck had Bersani's face turning bright red in anger.

But just as the Councilman began to respond, Jia cut between them.

"Enough of this. Arguing gets us nowhere. You're dismissed ," she repeated, and Bersani's mouth snapped shut as he reluctantly backed down, fixing Alec with a stiff glare.

Without another word, Alec shouldered past the other Council members to the door. Only when he was out of the room and into the tall, empty hallways of the Gard did he let his posture collapse, the firm, official set to his shoulders that he held when with the upper levels of the Clave curving inward as he struggled to take a full breath. He leaned forward a moment, holding his knees and resisting the urge to pull at his hair in frustration, but he didn't let himself pause long enough to be caught in a minor meltdown in the hall.

His gaze fell to the blood stains on his boots again.

He straightened himself and headed for the exit.

When he at last stepped out onto the streets of Alicante, squinting against the sunlight—blinding in comparison to the dim runic lighting inside the Gard—he was almost disappointed when the tightness in his chest didn't dissipate, as if his anxiety was simply the result of being with the Council.

Instead of relief that the meeting was over, he just felt exhausted. Aggravated. On edge.

Perhaps that was a part of the grief. Or perhaps it was just the jet lag of having left New York at two a.m. and arriving in Alicante one second later at eight a.m., and not having slept at all the night before.

Still, as tired and angry as he was, he had to admit that the meeting could have gone worse. It might have, if the Clave wasn't already overwhelmed with everything else that had happened. And although Councilwoman Chen had been harsh to leverage it in the meeting, it was true that the Council had been kind in giving him a few hours that morning to make arrangements for his mother before having to report to the Gard. It wasn't a decency he had expected, nor particularly wanted to receive; he'd simply been hoping to ensure her body arrived safely at the cremation site before worrying about the rest later, but instead he'd had to pick out the funeral clothes, help cloak her, ensure everything was prepared.

At least it was done.

Really, it was also true that the Council could have chosen to keep him in the Gard until the rest of his family arrived. But instead they were letting him wait at home.

Well, not home—house . That's all it was.

After their parents' banishment to New York, Alec and Izzy had never known a home in Alicante. But one came with his father's promotion in the Clave, with the title of Inquisitor—a gorgeous house of stone and glass, built big enough for a family, but which had only been sheltering his father, alone, for the past few months. Despite the brief amount of time he'd spent there that morning, he'd instantly noticed how odd it was. It felt like being in a stranger's house, or that of a distant relative one only saw every so often.

Even though his father had only been the Inquisitor for a short time, there were things, memorabilia, there, from a life that Alec and Izzy weren't a part of. That his mother wasn't a part of. This house had none of the little traces of her—the things that Alec had grown so used to seeing at the Institute that he didn't fully realize they were tiny signatures of his mother's presence until he felt their absence in this mockery of a home. An ever changing stack of fiction books on the gathering room coffee table, never historical or educational, just regular fiction, modern as often as it was classical. Hand written notes to herself about any number of things, left all over the place. Shoes and coats left by the door in order of eldest to youngest.

A tangible reminder of the fact that his mother carved out space for everyone in the family, a literal representation of her love for each of them, one that went unnoticed until that morning when Alec entered the Inquisitor's house and saw a single coat rack with only his father's jackets hanging on it. No spot for Alec's or Izzy's or Maryse's coats. No spot for Max. Alec hated his father a bit for that. He didn't have to come home to Max's things. He didn't have to look at Max's coat still on the hook.

He wondered if being in this house made the loss of Max easier to manage. And as he turned down the street towards the house, he wondered how much these little differences were going to bother Iz when she arrived.

Thinking of her sent a pang of guilt through his chest. It had felt so wrong to leave her at the Institute after everything that had happened, but considering Alec was nineteen and she wasn't yet an adult, they'd decided it was best he be the first to deal with the Clave. Still, he knew she didn't want to stay with their father. She didn't want to sit and stay and wait. And he couldn't blame her. As awful as it was to deal with an angry Council, perhaps he should be grateful that being here allowed him to keep busy. Being busy at the very least lessened the burden of not being able to do anything to help—to help in this war, to help Jace, to help Clary.

At least Jocelyn and Luke had stayed in New York. It made him feel just a bit less uneasy about the fact that Iz was staying there after the attack. But for some eerie reason he didn't feel like Sebastian would be sending the Endarkened there again.

He should check in with her, let her know all that had happened in the meeting.

But first, he was going to clean his fucking boots.

So when he entered the home, he knelt to undo the laces before slipping them off and carrying them straight to the kitchen. He turned on the water, wet the corner of a dish towel, and began scrubbing.

Alec scrubbed like there was no tomorrow, like he wanted to take the dye itself off the leather, until there wasn't a spec of blood or anything that even remotely resembled it on the toes of the shoes—not a single flake of dirt. The rag came away brown; the tops of the boots shone. And then he turned them over and saw all the built up soil in the treads, and found himself angrily throwing the towel in the sink before rifling through unfamiliar kitchen drawers looking for a butter knife— who the fuck needed this many drawers?

When he at last found one, he held the shoes over the sink and began using the dull blade to free the packed dirt, letting it fall over the stupid bloody rag and under the stream of running water to slowly wash down the drain. And when all the grooves of the treads were bare, he moved on to wiping down the eyelets, and the tongue. Until the boots looked brand new, or as new as they could look after years of wearing them. Until his fingers were pruney from the water.

Until, instead of angry and sad and frustrated, he just felt empty. Hollow.

He needed to stay busy.

With a sigh, Alec left the boots on the counter and entered the study, scanning for a scrap of paper and a pen. But just as he was reaching for a notepad that was on the desk to message Isabelle, a burst of orange light appeared in front of him. With eager fingers, he snatched the burning paper from the air and unfurled it.

It was a fire message. Even before he read the letter, he breathed a sigh of relief at Jace's signature at the bottom.

In Jace's characteristic, scrawling half-cursive, it read: Might have a lead from my visit to the Court. Going to investigate. Ask Magnus what he knows of Azomos.

Alec blinked, then read the message again.

The Consul had alluded that Meliron's report stated the fae had nothing to offer to Jace in regard to assisting his search for Clary. So had the Seelie Court lied? Or did he get a lead elsehow?

The second line was even more confusing. Did this Azomos have to do with the lead, or was it referring to something else? Was it a place? A name?

And then…there was Magnus. God. Alec hadn't thought of Magnus at least for the past few hours. And thinking about him was like swapping one headache for another. Like as soon as he set down the anxiety of one problem, his mind refocused on another.

Jace must have assumed that Magnus reported to Alicante to speak to the Clave about the tracking, and that's why he was asking Alec to ask the warlock, but Alec hadn't seen Magnus since Catarina took over Robert's care.

Granted, that had been at Alec's request. Because they'd had a fight. Again. And he hadn't really had time to worry about it, all things considered.

For a couple who was technically broken up, they sure did fight a lot.

Which, really, was sort of what the fight was about. They were still broken up. And yet, when they found out Jace and Clary had been taken, everything between them had instantly changed. Magnus had justified the change by saying that even not dating, he still cared about Alec. And Alec believed him. But what Magnus didn't have to say was that despite his concern, his pity, things hadn't actually changed between them. Alec wasn't forgiven for going behind Magnus' back to speak to Camille. Magnus wasn't forgiven for never opening up. But there he was, all supportive and caring—empathetic touches on the shoulders and hands, holding him in the spare bedroom when he felt like he might fall to pieces—and even knowing it didn't change anything, Alec took advantage anyway.

He'd given in. Because it meant that, for a moment, he could pretend like just one thing in his life was right.

And it took returning to find his mother killed for Alec to realize that he couldn't stand to lose Magnus a second time. He couldn't stand getting his hopes up just because Magnus wanted to be supportive, only to be reminded later that Magnus still didn't want him. He'd taken it out on Magnus in a fit of rage after Jace had left, and Magnus, saying nothing, had departed and sent Catarina in his stead to continue care for Robert.

But Jace couldn't have known any of that.

Still, it didn't make it hurt any less. And it especially didn't hurt less realizing that Alec owed Magnus an apology. Because even as much as Alec hated Magnus' pity, he had been the one taking advantage of that sympathy so he could pretend like they never broke up in the first place, just before unfairly taking all of that frustration out on Magnus.

But any apologies that were due would be best given in person. He would apologize, and let go, and they could go their separate ways. And there would be no more fighting.

For now, he had a message to pass along.

Taking up the paper and pen, he scratched out a quick note.

What do you know of Azomos?

He stared at the sheet, the single request looking far too small and demanding on the page. He cut a sheet in half and tried again, attempting brevity without such a commanding tone.

When Alec finished, he signed his name, drew his stele from his pocket, and Marked the page, letting it burn up in his palm.

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[January 13th, 8:30AM; Manhattan , New York.]

Catarina sat across from him in the booth, and after a moment's debate nodded to herself and handed the menu over to the waitress, who—part fae by the looks of her ears—took down his companion's order before turning to Magnus. He shook his head, motioned nothing with his hand, and with a shrug the young woman turned and started back for the kitchen, her blonde, pony-tailed hair flipping behind her back with each step.

Catarina, who was unglamoured, her dark blue skin and bright white hair highlighted in brilliant yellow from the neon Taki's sign outside the window, gave him a questioning glance.

"Haven't had much of an appetite recently."

She nodded in understanding, and Magnus pulled his coffee cup towards him, nursing the mediocre dinner brew slowly. The caffeine was doing little to improve his mental energy; he was exhausted, and it was the kind of tired coffee couldn't begin to touch. Still, it didn't stop him from drinking it, if at least to have something to do with his hands.

"I assume you asked to meet to discuss the… current events ," Magnus said, and Catarina again nodded, taking a sip of her own drink.

"Yes. Plus, I figured I should inform you on where things landed at the Institute."

"And why would I need to know that?" Magnus scoffed half-heartedly, and immediately regretted it when Catarina fixed him with a sarcastic, amused look, one that clearly implied that his question warranted no response.

Fair enough. He was perhaps being a bit dramatic.

He just always forgot how well she could read him.

" Fine. How is Robert?" he asked, reluctantly dropping the unbothered farce.

"Stable. But I couldn't actually pin down what the issue was. He sustained a pretty severe head injury during the attack, and suffered moderate blood loss, which explained that he was unconscious for a short period after the fight, but that was resolved well enough with regular runes and treatments. His other symptoms though—the lightheadedness, the vomiting, the fevers, the general instability and weakness when walking—are all healing far too slowly to be the result of a concussion."

"I agree. I thought the same thing when I examined him."

"After you left, I thought this all seemed to match envenomation symptoms, but testing for demon venom was negative. But that was a long shot anyway, seeing as there weren't any demons present during the attack. Regardless, he seems to be recovering. It could have been the delay in treatment that caused the slower healing."

"Perhaps," Magnus said, "or it could simply be that he lost his wife. Such a cruel thing. To tie yourself to someone so completely through a rune."

Catarina hummed in mournful agreement, and though he'd hoped to move on from the subject, something in his expression must have caught her attention, because she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What is it?"

Magnus drummed his fingers quietly on the side of his coffee mug. "I think I know why."

"What do you mean?"

"Why Robert couldn't stand his ground. And why he's been sick."

"What are you talking about?"

He clenched his jaw, flexed out his fingers, then debated shifting topics. Afterall, it was just a hunch. And even if it was true, there was nothing to be done about it now. But the suspicion still sat heavy in his stomach, and if he was going to get it off his chest with anyone, it would be Catarina.

"I drained a lot of my magic performing the parabatai tracking spell," Magnus said. "Honestly, Catarina, I can't believe it even worked. But it was hard. On Alec and myself. So, just before we portaled to the mountains, Robert gave me his energy."

He watched as Catarina's eyes widened ever so slightly in understanding before she schooled her expression. She was quiet for a moment, her eyes unfocusing in thought.

"...Did Maryse give you hers as well?" she asked.

"No. But I spoke to Jocelyn. Maryse died trying to save Robert. Because he was weaker than usual."

"Maryse Lightwood didn't try to save Robert, she did save him. And I'm willing to bet she would have done it for anyone. But, Magnus, it's unlikely that that made a significant difference. There haven't been any survivors of these attacks, except for Robert and Jocelyn. Whether you borrowed their energy or not likely wouldn't have affected their survival anyway. Besides, you ended up needing that strength, yes? To rescue Jace, and to protect Alec and Isabelle? Maryse would have wanted her children safe at all costs. And you helped in that."

Magnus nodded absently, and although the logic itself made sense, the consoling nature of her words put him off.

"You couldn't have known that this was going to happen. That the Institute would be attacked right after you left. The timing of all of this was just some massive coincidence," she said.

"Except we're never lucky enough that things are just coincidences, are we?"

Catarina frowned. "No. Typically we are not."

"And about Alexander?" Magnus asked, taking another big sip of coffee.

"I didn't speak to him much besides informing him about his father's condition. He and Isabelle are holding up about as well as expected considering the circumstances. But that Jace took off…that I cannot see ending well."

"Nor I."

"I'm concerned about how the Clave is going to react."

"Not well, I'm sure," Magnus offered drably, and thought, but what's new?

"Alec is going to need support."

Magnus couldn't help but to bristle defensively at the statement. "And he'll have it," he replied, leaning back into the booth. "Isabelle and his father will be there. Simon, too. Jocelyn and Luke will stand up for the decision to attempt the rescue as well."

"Yes, but, you were involved too. The Clave is going to want to hear from you anyway. You should be there, to give a report and to be with Alec," she urged.

"I don't think that is a good idea. You know, considering he was screaming at me a little over twelve hours ago."

"Well," she laughed, "then you're really not going to like my next proposal."

"Which is?" he asked dubiously, setting down his coffee.

"That you take the Council seat for the warlocks."

Magnus blinked, and a beat passed before he found his voice. "What?"

"Ah, well, you should have taken the job from the start," she said with a shrug. " Not because you're a better warlock," she added, before he could get out any witty retorts, "but because you have more influence. You're more familiar with the Shadowhunters nowadays."

"That's precisely why I shouldn't be chosen. I've already become too involved; the last thing I need is to further entwine myself. And you know what? The system is still rigged, even after the Accords. How can one person of any kind speak for its entirety anyway? Remind me again how many Councilmen the Nephilim get, and why Downworlders only get one each, despite outnumbering them when combined?" Magnus said, throwing up his hands in tired exasperation.

"Hey, no argument from me on that. But I didn't take the position for the Clave. I took it for warlocks. For Downworlders. For all of the good that could come from trying. Trust me, as much as I dislike Shadowhunters in general, this whole attitude of 'being done with Nephilim' isn't going to get us anywhere. Keeping a distance from the governing soldiers of the Shadow World is pointless. If anything is ever going to work, if this world is ever going to have a chance at healing from wherever this war leads us, then we have to work together."

Magnus raised a brow skeptically. "Why me? Why now?"

"Because I think you can make more of an impact than I can. I think I'm better doing what I do best—healing people."

"And we're going to need a lot of that real soon," he muttered.

"Unfortunately, yes, that's what I suspect. I'll still be with you, helping anywhere I'm needed, but I think you're needed there."

Magnus said nothing, less because he didn't know what to say than he didn't want to respond. Because he knew she was right, and yet…. He didn't want this. It felt like fighting someone else's battle, though he knew that wasn't exactly the case. This wasn't just the Shadowhunters' problem to deal with. This was going to affect everyone. Including many of the people he cared about.

Perhaps that was part of the reason.

He wasn't ready to see more of his loved ones die. Magnus himself almost died at the Burren, Alec could have died rescuing Jace, Shadowhunters were dropping like flies, and demon attacks on Downworlders and mundanes were increasing day by day. He'd seen and survived so much, but something about what was coming was different than anything he'd been alive for before. And taking the position on the Council felt like willingly signing up for a front row seat to a very literal bloodbath that he very much did not want to be witness to.

He didn't want his loved ones to be a part of it either, though, but that didn't seem like it was going to be an option.

What was he left with, then? Jumping into the heat of it all? Or running, hiding, maybe surviving another half-century or two, if it was even worth living?

Or was it already too late? Was he already too involved to back out? His connection to Alec had certainly kept him within the inner circle of recent events, which he hadn't really thought twice about since it was for Alec, but now….

Since their breakup, it had felt like some sort of twisted relief to detangle himself from Nephilim matters, but if he was being honest, it might have been more out of spite towards Alec that he did so, or the fact that he knew, to some extent, that he would cave if he had to be around his ex. And then Jace and Clary went missing and Alec's life was put at risk, and all of that uninvolvement went out the window. Now though, it really did feel like it was over. The look on Alec's face when he kicked him out of the Institute the night before….

"Look," Catarina sighed, running a hand back through her bangs, "the Clave has already had us put up layers of extra wards within Alicante to alert for even the smallest hint of demon blood passing through. Downworlders are no longer even permitted to enter the city through the North gate—only by approved portals. As soon as the last of the Nephilim are within the wards, they're going to lock the place down. I'm sure of it. And it's going to make it hell of a lot harder to get in or out of the city.

Warlocks around the world are setting up emergency portals to evacuate the last of the Institutes to Idris. I was charged with making one for those still in the New York Institute in a few days, the instant Robert is well enough. But you should be the one to make it. You should take the Council seat, and portal with them, and be a voice for warlocks where there is none." She took a breath, before adding, "You're a better leader than you give yourself credit for."

Magnus was saved from responding by the waitress' return; dainty hands set a dish of eggs benedict down in front of Catarina, who thanked her and slid the dish a bit to the side. It looked marvelous, well displayed and garnished—he did always find the human food here to be oddly well made—but it made him nauseous to look at it regardless.

"Refill on the coffee, hon'?"

He looked down at his half empty mug, and felt the bland coffee roll in his empty stomach and the subtle pain of a developing headache swell at the back of his neck.

"Oh, screw it. Make it a Russian. White," he said, and the young woman gave an affirmative nod as she set down silverware for his companion. If she had judgments about his ordering a cocktail at 8:30 AM, she made no show of it. Catarina, on the other hand, snickered.

"That's bound to help your appetite," she commented, and Magnus laughed. "To hell with appetite. That's for my nerves."

"Nerves, huh? Well, then, same for me, please."

As the waitress retreated to the kitchen to order their drinks, they fell back into silence. Only once she realized Magnus wasn't going to offer a reply did Catarina breach the topic again. "Why not?" she asked, as if he'd spoken his answer aloud. "Is it because of your relationship problems?"

Magnus sighed, deflating further into the booth, and his silk button down bunched up as it slid against the cheap vinyl of the seat. "It's more than that. That dream I told you about…it wasn't just a dream, Catarina. We've lived through a lot, but this…it scares me," he admitted quietly. "But besides all that, it's not just problems in the relationship. There is no more relationship."

Catarina's eyes narrowed. "But you still care about him," she said, more observation than question.

"Of course I do. But I really think I made a mess of it this time. I mean, the past few weeks we've either been ignoring each other or arguing. And then Jace and Clary went missing, and I saw the look on his face, and I just caved. All I wanted to do was to be there for him. And I…was. There for him. I just took it too far."

"How so?"

"Do you know what it's like to be next to someone who all you want to do is hold them, and you can't? Or you shouldn't?"

"There are other ways to support a person."

"And I offered every one of those. Helped in every way I possibly could, despite us being broken up—despite him having broken my trust. And I would do it again. But I just. I wanted to hold him, so I did. And I shouldn't have."

"What, you hugged him? C'mon, that's not—"

"I slept with him," Magnus exhaled, and before he could clarify, Catarina gasped with all the gossipy theatrics of an 80's sitcom drama, her brows rising judgmentally. "Magnus," she scolded, and he couldn't stop from chuckling.

"Oh, get your head out of the gutter. No, we literally slept together, in the same bed. And I shouldn't have, because nothing has really changed between us."

"It sounds to me like you both want to be with each other but aren't letting yourselves. Alec is an adult. If he didn't want you there he would have told you."

"Well, he did, eventually. When we got back to the Institute, after he found out about his parents, he yelled at me to leave. Said that it was too much. Having someone there pretending to care. Having a reminder of what he couldn't have. Receiving love out of pity. And he wasn't entirely wrong. I wasn't supporting him by being caring, I was being selfish. He was mourning the potential loss of Jace, the loss of his mother, his world crumbling around him, and I took advantage."

"And that's when you called me and asked that I finish Robert's treatments," she noted, and Magnus nodded. "So, just to clarify… you broke up with him?"

"...Yes," he said, a bit dumbly.

"Do you regret it?"

"Frankly, I don't know. But I know it was for the best. Things wouldn't have worked between us, not the way they were going."

"How do you know that?" Catarain asked, crossing her arms, and when he returned the dubious look at her question, she continued. "If you want something to work that isn't working, you try and fix it."

"Well, aren't you a glass half-full. Since when did you become an optimist?"

"I'm serious."

"It's not that simple."

"Why? Because you live forever and he doesn't? When you enter into any relationship with expectations of forever, you've already made your first mistake. Does love only have value if it's for infinity? If you were to never see him again, would the relationship that you did have with him mean any less?"

"You don't understand. Alec was so scared of my immortality that he—"

"I think I understand plenty. You've ended something that you didn't think all the way through. Besides, it sounds like you don't think there will be a forever for much longer anyway. It sounds like you think there won't be any future for this world at all. So why are you letting forever stop you? No matter what Alec did, I'm sure you made your own mistakes," she argued, pointing an accusatory finger at him, and he felt his face heat ever so slightly. Because she was right, wasn't she?

Her words echoed something Alec had said, when he'd come to Magnus' apartment to confront him, just before they found out Clary and Jace had been taken.

" It was my fault, what happened. But it was your fault too. I could have learned not to care that you're immortal and I'm mortal. Everyone gets the time they get together, and no more. Maybe we're not so different that way. But you know what I can't get past? That you never tell me anything. I don't know when you were born. I don't know anything about your life—what your real name is, or about your family, or what the first face you ever loved was, or the first time your heart was broken. You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you. That's the real problem. You act like you're the wronged party, but you had a hand in this, Magnus."

"Yes, I suppose I did," he'd replied, but, at the time, it didn't mean anything at all.

Maybe he hadn't had time to process Alec's words until now, or maybe Catarina was simply putting them into perspective, but the little pieces of the puzzle that was the issue of their break up started to fall into place.

Magnus saw the root of the problem—trust. Or, that's what he'd thought when he ended things.

You don't trust me. You never have. That was what he'd said to Alec in the abandoned subway tunnel all those weeks ago. He'd felt it true, at the time, but perhaps it wasn't entirely right.

Was it trust to blindly accept someone without any knowledge or understanding of who they were? Or was that faith? And wasn't faith such a horribly unfair thing to ask of a partner? Magnus had been calling it a lack of trust, when the problem was a lack of foundation for the trust to ever have been built upon. Alec didn't know anything about him. As far as general personality was concerned, it didn't really qualify as knowing a person. And sure, it wasn't fair—Alec was nineteen; Magnus could hear all of his life stories in two days, but Magnus' life would take ages to share. If he even wanted to share it, which he did not.

And maybe that was okay. To have a surface level relationship—all physical intimacy and acts of service, and none of the emotional depth that came with truly opening up. That's what he'd always settled for in the past, after his heart had been broken for the dozenth time. But what he didn't realize in asking for that was that it placed the burden of trust all on Alec.

No, Alec had trust in him. He just didn't have the blind faith that Magnus was asking for. To trust his every word, to never ask questions, to completely ignore his past—it wasn't a fair thing to ask. And that was Magnus' fault, not Alec's.

But still, coming to that understanding felt as hopeless to Magnus as the initial issue. Because knowing all of this, did it change anything at all?

No, not really.

"We petrify, you know, immortals, like fossils turn to stone," Magnus had said. " I thought when I met you that you had all this wonder and all this joy and everything was new to you, and I thought it would change me, but—"

"Change yourself," Alec had said softly, almost pleadingly. But all he could do was shake his head. Because it was true then, and still true now, even realizing his mistakes, that he couldn't give Alec what he wanted.

Because fixing this meant giving away a part of himself. It meant sharing who he was. It meant no more snarky, evasive comments when asked questions about his history. It meant risking the pain of another heartbreak.

It meant being willingly vulnerable.

And even for Alexander Lightwood, the first person Magnus had loved in such a long time, change seemed impossible.

"Magnus," Catarina began, after he'd been silent for a time, "you know that I know how hard love can be when you're immortal. I still mourn each and every friend and lover I've ever had. But if I could, I wouldn't choose not to have ever had those relationships. Not for a second. If you love Alec, make it work. Especially if you truly believe this dream of yours could become a reality. If we're headed into a world of fire, we should take advantage of every chance we can get with our loved ones."

He closed his eyes and his dream danced behind his vision: the ivory towers of bone; a red city, the color of the Endarkened's robes; the crimson of Nephilim blood flooding the streets; and the afterimage of the neon yellow Taki's sign, burned into the backs of his eyelids, was like fire overtop the whole scene.

With a sigh, he rubbed away the unpleasant images with the heel of his palm, not caring that it was surely smearing his eyeshadow, and when he looked back to Catarina, he could tell from her tight expression that he must look utterly exhausted.

But just as he was about to say something, the air crackled in front of him, like the snapping static electricity, and a flame began to form over the center of the table. On instinct, he slid one hand over the top of his coffee mug to protect the final dregs from ashes, and reached up with the other to grab the smoldering roll of paper materializing before them.

As the little note finished smoking, Catarina sat back in the booth and Magnus unfurled it with anxious haste.

He hadn't been expecting a fire message. Was something wrong? Could it be from—?

"It's Alexander," he said, eyes skipping to the signature at the bottom of the page.

"What's he say?" Catarina asked, just as the waitress arrived to set down their drinks before stepping away.

Magnus glanced back down at the paper. The message was terse. Just two sentence fragments and a question. So very Alec that Magnus heard the Shadowhunter's voice in his head when he read the words.

Arrived in Alicante. Heard from Jace. Do you know anything of Azomos?

That final word sent an instant spark of anxiety through Magnus' chest, and he sat bolt upright.

"Well?" Catarina urged, leaning forward.

"He says he's in Alicante and that he's heard from Jace. And he asks…about Azomos."

Catarina's head cocked at the word, and Magnus watched as her brows pinched and her eyes darted to the side in concerned thought. He knew her well enough to know she was thinking the exact same thing as he was.

"I know I know what that is. But I…."

"Can't put your finger on it," he finished for her, folding the note over on itself. "Me either."

"Magnus…." Her voice was tense with warning.

Magnus cleared his throat. "I know. I know—whatever it is, it's not good."

"Why would he ask that?"

"I don't know…" he began, and then added, "unless he's not the one asking. Maybe Jace is."

But it didn't matter whether it was Jace or Alec that the question had come from. Because whatever trouble one was in, so was the other.

He tucked the fire message into his pocket and grabbed at his beverage, downing it in a few gulps, the cream and coffee liquor heavy and cloyingly sweet on the back of his tongue, the warm rush of the vodka a welcome burn.

"Your offer still stands?" he asked when he'd swallowed the last drop, and Catarina answered without hesitation.

"Of course."

Without another word, they threw on their coats and waved down the waitress to pay. Catarina packed her now cold food into a to-go box, and then they left, hurrying out onto the cold streets of New York without her ever having taken a bite.

---

[January 13th, 9AM; New York Institute, New York.]

Day break came far too slowly.

It felt to Isabelle like she'd been sitting here for days awaiting sunrise, and by the time the vibrant hues of dawn finally did begin leaking through the infirmary windows, painting the plain white linens a cool red, she felt like she might explode.

It wasn't as though she had to stay in the room with him. She didn't even want to. But she did, because she couldn't sleep, and she didn't know where else to go. Because the library was a mess. Because her room felt too colorful and cheery for how she felt. Because Jace and Alec were gone, and her mother and little brother were dead. Because he was all that was left, right now, in this moment.

And because she was owed some fucking answers.

Jocelyn could tell her a hundred times over what happened during the attack, but Jocelyn wasn't who she needed to hear it from. She needed to hear her father tell it.

But he was out cold. From his injuries, from exhaustion, from the recovery spells Catarina worked—pick one. He had a multitude of viable excuses for not being awake right now. But it didn't make her any less angry.

What made it worse was the fact that he had been awake when they got home. For the first time since the attack, for the first time in nearly two days, he'd woken up. Just in time to see his children return safely to the Institute. Scarred and terrified, but safe. Just in time to hear his children wailing over their mother's body, just around the corner from his room. And yet, he hadn't gotten up to join them. To console them. To mourn with them. She didn't care if he couldn't walk straight, he should have dragged himself down the hall, nauseous and aching to be there when her eyes were covered. To let Izzy and Alec know that they were going to figure things out, and to steady Jace, who'd just been rescued from one hell to be thrown into another, to hold his adopted son tight to his chest and thank the angels he was alive.

But instead he just sat listening from his cot.

When she'd come to him in his room, miserable and grief-stricken, angry and terrified, her clothes still ragged from the mountains, her sleeves damp from wiping at her nose, he'd offered no more than a hollow shake of his head before wordlessly, tearlessly, turning away.

He wouldn't even speak to Magnus when he examined him, nor to Alec who attempted to ask him for guidance with his return to the Clave. No, he let Alec handle that himself. As if Alec needed more on his plate than he already had. As if Alec should have to deal with everything alone—Jace, the Council, their mother.

When Catarina came to replace Magnus—one more problem Alec had to handle—and told them it would be a few days before their father could travel, Isabelle practically begged to return to Alicante in Alec's place. She'd do anything to be doing something . The last thing she wanted was to stay here, in this cursed Institute. In this place that had been a home but had now somehow turned into a prison.

It felt wrong knowing the Endarkened had been here—that some part of Sebastian had once more invaded their space—and more wrong that, in all the months they'd waited on edge for his attack, he happened to send his soldiers when the Institute was least guarded. Sebastian couldn't have known they wouldn't be there, of course. If he had, he wouldn't have been surprised when they showed up on his doorstep. But the odds of it all happening the way it did made her sick to her stomach. That, and the fact that this was the second family member to die at that monster's hands.

Really, the third, if she was being truly pessimistic. If she counted Clary.

She recalled Luke's face when Simon had told him what happened, recalled hearing Joceyln crying nearly as hard as Alec and Izzy were when Luke broke the news, and although she didn't know Jocelyn all that well, she'd never heard anyone sound so hopeless, and she found herself thinking It must all be over. Jocelyn doesn't cry.

Later, after Jace snuck out and everyone had gathered to discuss next steps, Jocelyn was composed, back to that serious, scolding expression she always wore, the one that reflected the depths of what she'd gone through in life, but which Izzy couldn't help but see as the very same stoic expression Sebastian often wore.

When Jocelyn and Luke had offered to stay at the Institute until the rest of them left to meet Alec in Alicante, Isabelle had asked if they really thought Sebastian would attack the Institute a second time.

She remembered Jocelyn's haunting words in response: Jonathan doesn't like to lose.

"So you think he'll come back? To finish the job?"

"I don't know. I…don't think so," Jocelyn had said, staring down at the table.

"Then why stay? Why not go ahead to Alicante?" Isabelle had asked.

"It's better not to risk it, don't you think?"

Joceyln was right, of course. Why risk leaving anyone alone right now? But still, it only deepened her feeling of helplessness. It was a stark reminder that, once again, all they could do was hunker down and wait.

She shook her head and turned her attention back to her father.

He looked somehow larger than he was, on the twin-sized infirmary mattress, and yet smaller than ever, bundled up under the thin blankets with a strip of white cling bandage encircling his forehead.

Isabelle couldn't help but see silk.

It was strange to see him so…humbled. Sickly. He'd never not been a looming figure in her life, both literally and figuratively. He'd always commanded and received respect, even after the banishment. He was a man of action—able to act in any situation, make cool-headed decisions in the heat of the moment. He was strong. Honorable.

But he wasn't any of that now. Right now he just looked small.

She stared at him, as if it were a complete stranger in front of her, for what felt like another eternity, until the sunlight was the warm yellow of morning and he finally began to stir.

When he awoke with a moan, dragging a hand free of the blankets to scrub over his face before peeling his eyes open, she picked up the glass of water on the side table and held it out to him.

Robert turned to look at her, sleep still in his eyes, expression dazed, and it seemed to take him a moment to recognize that it was his daughter at his bedside. He pushed himself upright and took the glass with a shaking hand. With his first sip he winced slightly as he swallowed, and then began gulping down the glass.

She straightened, her heartbeat picking up as all the questions she had for him piled to the front of her brain.

"Once you've wet your throat," Izzy said, skipping any formalities, "you're going to tell me what happened."

Her father seemed to startle a bit at the firmness in her voice, and he lowered the cup, which was nearly empty now. He turned to look away, as if to once again dismiss her, and she leaned forward to snatch away the glass.

"No. You may be recovering from your injuries, but last Catarina checked, the Endarkened didn't cut out your tongue."

"Is—" he croaked, his voice still dry. "Isabelle—" he tried again, clearing his throat.

"You gave me nothing when I saw you earlier. We came home to our mother dead, and you said nothing . I won't let you put this off any longer. I need to know what happened," she demanded, and, seeming to recognize the severity in her tone, he sat up straighter and pushed back the covers despite the nauseous look on his face.

When he at last began to speak, his tone was bland. Vacant.

He told her about the portal the Endarkened came through, black and ugly, like the one Magnus described seeing in the mountains. He told her about how many there were, fourteen total, about how they piled out one after the other, how they arrived just after Simon went through Magnus' portal in the library.

He spoke about trying to barricade themselves in the library, about how two of them managed to burst in before they could try to lock the doors, about how they yanked Jocelyn away from the portal and then they were engaged in battle. He spoke of the advantage the Endarkened had, that they'd managed to pin them in a room with little to no weapons, only what was on them and the few display items; he spoke of the Endarkened strength; of how Jocelyn and Maryse and him were able to kill the first few, just before the doors were broken in by the rest.

She knew the rest of the story from there, but she let him keep speaking.

Let him continue on about how he was unable to keep up; how he was already drained; how an Endarkened managed to cut a blade into his side; how Maryse sustained an injury to her leg; how Jocelyn was kicked to the floor; how, when there were five of them left, he was struck hard over the head, hard enough that he became disoriented and fell; how through blurry vision he saw an Endarkened lifting a broadsword above him, and then Maryse diving between the falling metal and himself.

And though she had asked for this, the more he talked, the more enraged Isabelle became. It wasn't the recounting of her mother's death. No, it was the way it was told. Dry, cold, and distant—emotionless, like he was giving an official account.

"Will you stop talking to me like I'm the Council?!" she blurted angrily, balling her fists at her sides, and her father fell silent, taking in her fury blankly. "Will you just talk to me like I'm your daughter? Do you feel nothing about her death? She gave her life for you, and you just—you just talk about it like it's some report, like this didn't even happen to you, like this isn't your family —"

"Isabelle."

The way he said her name halted her fit, and she hated how much it made her feel like a child, how he spoke to her as if this was some tantrum he could correct with a firm command. But his face softened when he saw her expression fall, when he saw her shoulders begin to tremble.

"Did you ever even care about her at all?" she asked miserably, and she saw the muscles in his temple tighten beneath the bandage as he clenched his jaw.

He knew what she was referring to. She'd already come out with the knowledge of his affair when she first tried to get a response out of him the night before.

"You know it's not like that," was all he said, and she despised the way he was able to so casually dismiss it, as if it didn't mean a thing. As if she was too young or ignorant to even bother explaining it.

"Really? It's not like what? Like you finding another woman, like you breaking mom's trust, like you not even concerned she's dead—"

"I mean that this is about more than us."

"This is only about us!" she cried, unable to keep her voice from quivering. "This is about our family. Your family, whether you like it or not. Whether you loved her or not, she was still your wife. Still your children's mother. Can't you spare some emotion for just a moment? "

His face paled, though she was unsure if it was due to guilt or being physically sick. He swallowed, leaned forward and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Tell me, does the death of a spouse still hurt, even though you didn't love her? Or did your wedded union rune shrivel up long ago?" she hissed, and Robert looked up, startled and angered.

"Grow up, Isabelle," he snapped. "Nothing is ever black and white. And love is never that simple."

"That sounds like something a cheater would say—"

"I cared about your mother!" he shouted, loud enough that she flinched away, and the quiet, stony expression he'd worn since she'd returned cracked, his lips tightening in a grimace as he pressed a hand to his side. He groaned, perhaps due to pain from his injuries, but the genuine wavering of his voice made her think it was grief, and it was almost enough to make her regret being so cruel.

His eyes were wet with tears when he looked back up. They didn't fall past his lashes, but it was still startling to see, and she shrank away in shocked, angry silence.

She hadn't even seen him get teary with Max.

"And I care about you!" he continued, when she said nothing, and her own lip wobbled with a restrained sob. "And Alec, and Jace. More than you all will ever know! So, yes, Isabelle, it hurts . But we are at the start of a war. I have a job to do."

"So that's it? Just back to Idris?" she asked solemnly, as whatever moment of fragility, of real emotion he had let slip, was again hidden behind a wall he let out a breath and sat up straighter.

"I have to go give a report."

"Oh, you aren't going anywhere for the next few days. Not until you're recovered. Besides, there's no need for a report. At least, not right now. Alec has already handled that. Alec has already handled everything, " she said bitterly, and her anger fell apart to the point that she couldn't even keep straight what she was originally mad at him for, and all of her frustration at all of his mistakes came bubbling to the surface at once. "Alec has done more to hold this family together than you ever have. And you don't even see it, do you? You can't even see what an amazing, capable person he's grown into. Why? Because of some stupid beliefs about tradition? Because he isn't following the exact path you want for him? He's had to do it all on his own. Because you can't get over yourself."

"That's hardly relevant at the moment. I am only trying to do what's best for everyone. For all Nephilim. I do care about Alec. I do care about you. And you mother. I just don't have time to mourn."

"Then make time to mourn! God, there's always some excuse with you. When Max died you used the Inquisitor position as justification to run away to Alicante. Now that mom's dead you're going to leave the rest of us, too?"

"We are all going to Idris. I'm not leaving you here."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Isabelle," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've made mistakes. Just like anyone else. I might not have loved your mother the way you wanted, but she was my partner. I respected her. I cared for her. This is not easy for me. Nothing has been easy in…in a long time. But I do love you and your siblings. I will still be here for you."

"You've been looking for an excuse to ditch us for years. How am I supposed to believe you? And I didn't even know it, until—until…. Were you just faking it, when you read to us as kids, when you trained us and studied with us, were you just pretending to care? How am I supposed to believe you? " she said, and like a receding wave the acrimony began to lessen, giving way to exhaustion and hopelessness and fear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and any other time she would be surprised, aghast that he would apologize, but Isabelle was just so tired of apologies.

"Look, I don't blame you for mom's death. It's just…I don't…."

I don't know what to do anymore .

But she let herself trail off, unable or unwilling to speak to him any longer.

Robert was quiet. After a moment, he lifted his hand from where it was clenched in the bedsheets and reached out to grip her knee. "We never spoke of it, but…you know Max's death wasn't your fault either."

A month ago, even a week ago, that would have been exactly what she needed to hear from him. Now, the words just felt moot.

"I know," she said, and his hand fell away from her as she stood and left the room.

When she reached her bedroom, Isabelle was almost surprised to find Simon sprawled out on her bed. She wasn't used to him being in her room, but the sight of him filled her with as much relief as she was capable of feeling in the moment, and she managed a small smile.

"Hey," she said quietly, and he looked up from the book he held in front of him, one of those strange comic books Clary had introduced to Max and could still be found lying around the Institute.

"Hey," he replied quickly, gathering himself to stand, but she entered the room and shut the door behind her, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting as she collapsed on the bed.

"Is he awake?" Simon asked hesitantly, and Isabelle turned her face into the covers and nodded.

"Okay," he said, breathing a sigh of relief, but he didn't push the subject further, and instead set the book on the nightstand and laid down on his back aside her. He lifted his arm, and she took the invitation, shuffling over to rest her head on his shoulder and curl up at his side.

They were silent for a while, the only sound her breath echoing back at her from where her face was tucked in the crook of his neck, and he let her lay wordlessly with him, present and undemanding. She felt herself begin to calm, her anxiety draining from her with each lazy stroke his fingers traced across her back until she felt nothing at all, and her exhaustion from staying up all night began to take over.

She groaned and raised her head slightly before she could begin to drift off.

"I got a fire message from Alec on the way back from the infirmary," she said, and Simon turned to look down at her. "Yeah? How did it go? The meeting with the Council?"

"As well as can be expected, he said. They're pissed, but there's not much they can do about it right now. They're going to hold a trial once the rest of us portal in."

"A trial? That doesn't sound good."

Izzy shrugged. "It's not out of the ordinary to question Shadowhunters when something big happens. It lets them see the full picture, to get everyone's side of the story all at once."

"And there's the benefit of that truth sense Jedi sword, huh?"

"Jedi?" she asked, and then, "Oh, you mean The Mortal Sword? Yeah, they'll definitely be using that."

Simon was quiet for a moment, and Izzy wondered if he was thinking about the Sword's effects, if Clary ever told him about how painful it was to endure it.

"He also said that Jace checked in," she continued, and he sat up further, propping his elbow behind his head so he could look her in the eyes.

"He's okay?"

"He's okay," she confirmed, "but he only has two days on his own. Alec said the Clave is ordering him to return with the rest of us. Which is also as expected."

"Probably for the best," Simon muttered, and Isabelle gasped, smacking his chest lightly. "You're one to talk! You let him leave. And without talking to me first, at that," she grumbled, and Simon laughed, his chest rumbling beneath her.

"If I let him leave, so did Alec. Besides, no one lets Jace do anything, and you know it."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, he shouldn't be alone right now. No one should," she retorted, echoing Jocelyn's words. "Speaking of which, when I wrote back to Alec, I asked him to get explicit permission from the Council for you to come with us to Alicante."

"What?" Simon exclaimed, the shock apparent in his voice.

"With everything that's happened, you shouldn't stay in New York alone. Especially since you don't have the Mark of Cain anymore. Sebastian knows who you are, and what you mean to Clary."

"But I wouldn't be alone. Maia and Jordan aren't going anywhere."

"I'd just feel better if you were there with us," she said, and then, more quietly, added, "I can't lose anyone else, okay?"

Simon caught his breath slightly in an old reflex, like there was something he wanted to say but decided not to, and instead just nodded and gripped her shoulder a bit tighter. "Well…is your father okay with me coming?"

At that, Isabelle almost chuckled. "I said you could stay with us, not that you could sleep in my bed," she said teasingly, and though the playful tone didn't reach her voice quite like she wanted it to, he still reddened slightly at the implication. "Although, honestly, I think he's a bit too checked out to care about my dating life right now," she added as an afterthought.

"Don't get me wrong, I want to be there. I just…feel bad," Simon said, his fingertips resuming tracing some imaginary pattern on her back as he looked back up at the ceiling in thought.

"Why?"

"It feels unfair. Like, all the other Downworlders are terrified—of the increasing demon count, of the war, of a world unprotected by Shadowhunters—but I, Simon Lewis, get into the golden gates of Alicante? The very, very well guarded gates."

Izzy sighed, dropping her cheek to his chest. "The New York vampire clan hates you for not joining them, and you don't owe anything to any of the other Downworlders."

"Still, Iz. It just feels wrong to get a pass when everyone else who's not Nephilim is getting left behind. Just because I'm not like other Downworlders doesn't mean I'm not other , just like them."

She wanted to argue, to say that he wasn't other, wasn't an outsider, but to an extent, he was right. The New York Institute and its members were among the smaller number of Shadowhunters that cared about Downworlders at all. And with the threat of war, it was starting to show who among the Council cared the least about the Downworld and only about themselves. Perhaps, at one time, Isabelle would have been counted among them. Before she met Clary and Simon, before all the craziness of Valentine, way back when she saw Downworlders as fun, adventurous hookups, or subjects to the Covenant law, or else dead on her blade for breaking it.

Maybe her father was right, at least in this regard: nothing was ever black and white.

"Yeah," she said quietly, "I guess that makes sense—feeling that way. So…you're staying in New York?"

He sighed, and closed his eyes as he turned his face down into her hair. She felt him shake his head, and then kiss the top of hers. "No. I'll come with you."

Isabelle let out a breath she'd been holding, and felt her eyes unexpectedly sting with tears. She blinked them away and pressed her face against his shirt, the fabric soft against her lips.

He smelled clean, like shampoo and laundry detergent. He must have showered and changed last night.

"Simon, you're right," she murmured. "We shouldn't be leaving the mundanes or Downworld unprotected. But, honestly…I think anyone that believes we'll be safe there is in denial."

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice scratchy and deep with concern.

"Well…you don't think Sebastian is going to find a way around the wards?"

Simon was quiet.

"I mean, we did," she said. "They might not have been as strong as Alicante's are, but we found a way around his wards in the mountains. And I have a really bad feeling he's going to return the favor. Except, unlike us, he's going to bring an army with him."

---

[January 15th, 12PM; Cooperstown, New York.]

His first thought when he saw the emaciated, pewter-colored body and the razor sharp beak was intrigue at its appearance, and the fact that it looked exactly like it was drawn in the Codex—lanky, and so skinny he could see each of it's bones rippling under its gray skin, its ribs and vertebrae poking out at sharp angles, the beast overall appearing as the result of a decomposing raptor with all its feathers plucked bred with a starving hybrid dog-man.

And his second thought was to curse Lalo. Because now he understood that the Downworlder barkeep's choice of words had been quite literal.

In the fraction of a second that Jace had to recognize the demon, it was already charging him, those bright, green-black eyes flashing as the creature passed next to the beam of sunlight that spilled into the dank room through the door he'd broken in. Naming and raising his seraph blade was instinct, a reaction so ingrained and familiar he didn't have to process it as it happened, but even now knowing what he was dealing with, it was still a shock when the demon that he'd just impaled on his sword hacked and squawked before exploding in a rush of black ichor. He threw up his free arm to protect his face, the demon blood splattering over his clothes and burning the bare skin on the backs of his hands.

So that's what Lalo meant when he said his demon problem was messy. Stupid freaking warlock and his coy descriptions.

He would have taken the time to don more protective gear if he knew he was walking into a den of Deumas. Just his luck to have to deal with one of the few demons that actually left behind remnants instead of instantly falling to ash.

"Disgusting," he muttered, flicking his blade to fling off some of the ichor, but there was little time for a more snarky remark before the rest of the Deumas gathered around him, now aware they were under attack.

There were six of them, and though he thought it odd that so many of a relatively rare and solitary demon were all gathered in one place, he didn't find himself altogether that shocked. If he'd learned anything these past few days of scouring for information, it was that there was no such thing as predictable demon behavior anymore, not since Burren Hill.

Not since they'd begun slipping through into the mortal world more and more.

As Lalo had said, "The streets are getting crowded."

And six—seven counting the one he'd just killed—was a lot of demons to be gathered in one place, assuming they weren't summoned here. Then again, maybe they were. Maybe this was a trap. But Lalo was also the only lead he had so far, and if doing this granted him the information he was looking for, it was worth the risk.

But he was at least trying to play things safe. In opposition to the impulsive urge to barge in and finish the job, he'd scoped the place out. Knew there were a handful of some kind of demon crawling around inside. He had considered breaking in the ceiling before attacking, so he could kill a few with sunlight right off the bat, but it was overcast, the sun blinking in and out behind big white clouds, and he didn't want the demons scattering into the shaded alley where an unfortunate mundane might pass by.

So he went with the only other option. Mark himself up, and break in to take them out at once.

He knew he should be concerned that there were more than he expected. He knew he should retreat, change plans, figure out a way to separate them and pick them off. But he was finding himself dangerously short of care lately.

So instead of retreating, he backed into the small rectangle of sunlight, and drew a second seraph blade. The sun wouldn't be enough to force them to keep their distance—it was indirect, a diffuse reflection off the bricks outside—but if he stayed here he could block the exit.

With Adriel in his left hand and Cael in his right, Jace stood his ground.

It only took a moment for the braver of the bunch to lunge at him, and as soon as it did, the others followed.

Splayed feet and paw-like hands, both sporting a set of vicious claws, flung forward, and Jace sidestepped the first demon, bringing down his blade in a swift arc upon his back. It screeched and stumbled, and he took the moment of distraction to focus on another two approaching from either side. With his right hand he swung out, the nearest Deumas catching the edge of Cael against its claws, and he pushed up the blade to expose its torso before driving Adriel in between its ribs, visible through thin, mottled skin. Before it could explode, he spun the demon around, shoving it off his sword with his boot so it crashed into the demon on the right.

When it imploded in black goo, he had a moment to return his focus to the first demon, now at his back, and he turned just in time to block its claws with his sword. But it persisted forward, throwing Jace backward into the demon behind him, and he gasped as its talons raked across his back. He grunted sharply, the warmth of his blood rushing down his back and reigniting a pain there that had never truly faded since Sebastian's whip, and he cursed furiously as he hit the ground.

He had no time to worry about dirt in his wound, rolling so his back was on the dirty floor as the Deumas above him closed in, and he managed to block the scrambling arms that were reaching down to tear open his belly before driving Cael up under its beak. It made a horrid gurgling sound, its claws still scratching and pressing down on Adriel, and he grunted in an effort to hold it up.

When instead of dying it continued to flail above him, he pressed one foot against its stomach to push up some of its weight, shoving with one arm and one leg, and managed to lift it just enough to reverse his grip on the hilt of Cael, still partially impaled in its head. With the new grip, he pushed all of his force up, hammer punching the sword until he could hear the cracking of bone and feel a release of tension, until Cael pushed through to protrude out of the top of its head. When it finally exploded above him, he let go of the seraph blade dug under its jaw to once more protect his face from the ichor.

In an instant he felt the weight above him disappear, just as he registered the sickening sensation of its hot blood splattering his clothes and arms. He heard Cael clatter to the floor next to him as the body it was stuck in vanished, and saw another demon rise to take its fallen brethren's place. Before it could drop over him, he snatched up Cael, its hilt now slippery with ichor, and rolled back to his feet, slicing out at the Deumas' legs as he did so. Adriel passed through the stretched, lumpy flesh like butter, and as the demon fell to the floor, legless, he slammed both swords down into its back. Jace turned his face up as it exploded beneath him.

Four left to go.

They all attacked at once. And everything shifted into that altered and detached head space of a fight.

He had to admit it was almost soothing. Above all the gore and pain of fighting demons, Jace felt a sort of refreshing anger, a hatred he could focus on these creatures, and a gratitude for the assigned task—a problem he could solve right then and there with his own two hands and a seraph blade.

Even when they managed to nip him with a beak or scratch him with their claws, he was still faster, stronger, better than them. And within a minute another was dead.

By the time there were only two left, he was coated in their tarry, black blood, his hands and wrists smattered with blisters, his breathing heavy. Both demons were hissing and coiled for attack, one missing an arm, but neither with any injury to its face.

"Alright then, who's it gonna be?" he muttered, quickly wiping his hands of ichor and regripping his blades, before rushing in.

The one just to the left moved first, ducking beneath Adriel and reaching for his chest, and he had to bend back and to the side to avoid its claws and snapping mouth. It unbalanced him, and he corrected the stance by dropping back and throwing his foot into the joint in its leg with as much force as he could muster. As it fell forward, Jace rolled away, springing to his feet as the other—the one armed one—grabbed for him.

You're it , Jace thought, certain that the one missing an arm would be easiest to collar, but by the time it reached him, the other demon had recovered from its stumble and flanked him.

He had to drop to avoid being diced between them, and lashed out as he tried to shuffle around to the side, but the one-armed one, enraged, didn't fall back as Jace expected it to when he cut it deep across its side. Instead, it spun around, letting Cael dig into its stomach in exchange for a closer reach on him, its remaining arm grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him close.

Jace hissed as its talons dug into his skin, disoriented by its proximity, and just as its sharp, hooked beak drove down for his neck, he thrust Adriel up through its armpit, up until it protruded through the neck, before slicing backward. The demon's grip went limp as its upper torso detached from the rest of its body, and promptly erupted in ichor.

Without time to turn away, the blood coated his face, and he had to drop Cael again to scramble to wipe the black from his eyes. By the time he could see again, the final demon was attacking once more, pushing him away from the dropped seraph blade.

It tackled him to the ground, beak nashing, arms and legs scrabbling, and Jace shouted, using the momentum to roll them so it fell to the side.

He was too far from Cael to run for it, and the demon was already climbing to its feet. He mind jumped to locate the quickest killing blow, and he had to recalculate.

This was the last of them. He had to make this work.

As it charged, Jace ducked, dropping to one knee to draw Adriel across its legs, and with a screech it went tumbling to the ground. As fast as he could, he unclipped the silver collar that he'd looped on his belt earlier, the one Lalo had given him, and rushed to pin the thing, but as he reached for it, it flailed its arms, managing to grip his ankle, and dragged him to the ground.

Jace cried out in frustration as he hit the floor, kicking out to try and free his leg, but it held onto him as tightly as he gripped the collar in his right hand. It dragged him further along the floor, using its free hand to try to crawl over him, but when swung Adriel outward, careful not to hit its face, his aim was true, and it cut completely through the arm supporting its weight. As it fell, Jace rolled out from under it, using Adriel to pin its one remaining arm by its claws as he sat on its chest.

The pinned the demon bucked and screamed, thrashing its head as it tried to free itself, and he had to force all of his weight into Adriel to keep its talons safely to the side. He twisted the edge of the blade, pushing up until he caught the tip of the Deumas' beak, then pressing up further until its head was forced back and he could see the dark veins in its exposed neck.

Got you , he thought as he placed the open collar over its throat. The thing screeched, and jerked harder beneath him, but Jace was already pressing the silver loop close by the clasp in the center. With a click the collar snapped together, the metal the exact circumference as the demon's neck, and a flash of green symbols burned across its surface.

It howled, its eyes going wide as it continued struggling beneath Adriel, but it was too late. Even as it managed to free its beak from the point of his blade, Jace drew a Marked dagger from his belt.

"Burn in hell you—and I say this from personal experience with your mother—you disgusting son of bitch."

And he drove the dagger down into its heart.

The demon burst into ichor between his legs, and Jace reeled back to guard his eyes as the monster disappeared.

When he looked back, all he saw was black goop covering the floor, and for a split second, he thought Lalo's contraption might not have worked. But as he readjusted his eyes, he saw about ten feet away—propelled by its body's explosion—was a perfectly intact Deumas head, cut off just beneath the silver ring of the collar.

"You could have told me it would be Deumas demons," Jace said, and unceremoniously dropped the decapitated head onto the warlock's counter.

If he was upset at the ichor that splattered across the wood as the head rolled onto its side, or that Jace was tracking in with his blood-drenched clothes, the man didn't show it. Instead, Lalo simply flicked his fingers, and the open sign on the door to the empty bar flipped around as the latch bolted shut.

"Where's the fun in that?" he said, leaning forward on his stool, his long, knobby fingers pushing curiously at the head. "Besides, a surprise every now and then is good for the soul."

Jace scowled. "I've had just about enough of surprises," he said sourly.

The warlock hummed dismissively, and rolled the head over, peeling apart the pimpled eyelids and smiling at the lifeless green eyes that peeked out from beneath them. When he was satisfied they were intact, he sat back on his stool and looked Jace up and down. "I must say, I wasn't certain you'd be able to do it."

"Then you must not know very much about me," Jace bit, shaking off his jacket and throwing it on the back of a barstool.

"Hah! Cocky, aren't we?" the warlock laughed, clapping his hands together in front of him. "Yes, I've heard plenty about you, boy. Plenty. "

Jace narrowed his eyes. "I did what you asked. It's your turn to pay up."

"Ah, why so quick to cut to the chase?"

"Don't push me."

"Fine, fine. But out of the kindness of my heart, I do feel I should give you one last warning. You shouldn't be looking for this information," Lalo said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

A warning.

As if Jace needed to be told.

No, he'd come too far to turn back now.

What the fae advisor had told him, about Azomos, about this spell book, was his only lead at tracking her. And every hour, every minute, felt too long a wait to find it.

It'd taken him two long days of asking around the city to get to this point. To find someone willing to talk. The rest of the Downworlders he'd questioned—those willing to even let him in the door, that is—either said they didn't know of Azomos, or turned tail the instant they heard the name.

He'd tried asking Alec to speak to Magnus for him, but all he'd gotten in return was a note saying he'd pass along the message, a request from the Clave to return to Alicante, and a date and time for Maryse's funeral.

He'd felt selfish for not asking how Alec was, for not bothering to check in on his relationship, or apparent lack thereof, for falsely assuming they were okay. He'd felt guilty for letting his family face the Clave's wrath without him. He'd felt ashamed that he wasn't going to attend the cremation, because he didn't think he could stand to be there, and because he needed to be doing something to find Clary—and if he was in Alicante, the Clave wouldn't allow it.

A day later, Magnus sent a fire message telling him not to continue looking into Azomos, that they would discuss it in person when he came to Alicante. It had been as concerning as it was encouraging. Because although he still had managed to gather no information, Magnus' hesitation on the matter likely meant Jace was on the right track.

What he did gather as he made his way through any and all contacts he possibly could, was that the Downworld was shaken, and alone, left to defend a world with more and more demons without the support of the retreating Nephilim. And though none of them spoke it aloud, Jace knew their other concern was the war—and whose side to fight on. It only made him even more determined to find Clary—and Sebastian.

Another day passed, and he finally caught wind of a warlock in central New York, someone who specialized in information, and who had supposedly never failed before to answer a question.

He'd come this far.

Not the Clave, not Magnus, not even Alec, was going to talk him out of this now. And neither was Lalo.

At last, Jace nodded at the Deumas head, still lying on the counter, its dead eyes staring out at nothing. "What do you plan to do with them? The eyes?"

Lalo squinted, caught off guard by the question, and then wagged his finger scoldingly as he pulled the skull toward him, almost protectively, like Jace might try to snatch it back, or press his thumbs into the emerald tissue until the sclera popped and leaked out of the sockets.

"Ah-ah," the warlock tsk-ed, picking up the head and placing it beneath the counter. "No matter what you've told the interogatees you've gone through to find me, I happen to know that you are not here on official Conclave business. Which means you've no right to step in on my business."

Jace smiled as he set his hands on the counter, the expression cold and empty, his palms still stained in ichor. "And you've no right to doubt or question my business and intention with this information."

Lalo returned a grin with equal chill, drummed his fingers on the bartop.

"Fine. You best have a seat, then."

---

[January 16th, 10PM in NY time; Fae Realm.]

The Queen and her advisors strolled down the corridor, fae stepping gracefully around them as they moved down the hall, like water parting for stones. They had a number of things to discuss on the docket that evening, many of the topics relatively minor in comparison to recent events—upcoming gatherings, petty internal politics—and Callum and two other advisors were listening intently as Her Lady responded concerning entertainment that was planned for a prospective feast.

When they reached the Lady's room, she continued speaking as she entered, prompting without command that they follow, and they entered the bedchambers behind her. The space was as extravagant and boldly beautiful as she, yet somehow still austere, with its dark walls and harsh looking thorned roses suspended above the bed.

Continuing on with the items of discussion, including the knighting of a younger faerie who recently passed his trials, the Queen approached her armoire and began flicking through gowns.

"Very good," Callum replied, "we will set a time to have him knighted at the celebrations. Next—"

There came a rapt knock on the door.

"Yes, Meliorn," the Queen beckoned without ever looking up from the dress she was laying out on the bed, and the knight entered in his scaled, white armor. He bowed subtly, a brief shortening of his form before rising back to his full height.

"You may speak," the Queen said, and Meliorn cut the advisors a sidelong glance.

"A moment of privacy, if you will."

This did catch her attention, if only minutely, and she looked up from her wardrobe selection to take in Meliorn's stoney face. But it was always stoney, and gave nothing away—at least that Callum could see. Still, it was clear his question was not directed at the Queen, but her advisors.

It made Callum's chest tighten with a spark of anxiety.

Meliorn turned, unblocking the exit to the room, and Callum smiled politely at the unspoken cue for dismissal.

"Of course," he said, and turned back to Her Lady to bow. "We shall continue this at a later time, if you please."

The other advisors were out the door before him, ducking away from the knight as they passed. Callum calmly exited behind them, though as hard as he tried to catch Meliorn's eye, tried to get a read on the situation, the knight stared straight ahead, jaw tight and stance proud.

Once in the hall, the door shut behind him.

It shouldn't concern him. It could be any number of things that the fae's council representative wished to discuss with the Queen. Presumably to do with Clave meetings and the like. But, there was the chance….

If anyone knew what Callum had told the Herondale boy, then he stood to be in quite a deal of trouble. It was punishable at best by banishment to the Hunt, at worst by death—a Queen's advisor revealing information that could be used by the Nephilim to retrieve from her cohorts a valuable asset in the war. That's what Clarissa was, afterall.

The Shadowhunters might not voice it, but Callum saw the truth of it. The girl's power to create runes could be pivotal in the outcome of the war, and even if her Turning erased this ability, the psychological effect of her loyalty to Sebastian would be devastating to the Clave. That the girl who stood so firmly against her own father, who so courageously defied him and defended the Nephilim, could be turned against them, would be devastating to morale.

This is why he had taken the risk to inform Jace of the spellbook. He held no love for the Herondale boy, nor Clarissa; he simply recognized the threat she posed in Sebastian's hands.

But all it would have taken was one of the Court to see the exchange they'd had by the exit to the park. Silent as it may have been, to an outside observer it was still obvious as to what was occurring. Beings did not normally stare at each other in complete silence for a minute straight.

And besides, the upper Court knew of Callum's ability. It was rarely explicitly discussed, but it needn't be—the Queen knew everything. It was why he was an advisor. He of all the Fair Folk was especially equipped for the task of gathering and spreading information; passing soundless, secret messages; and providing insights that could aid the Queen in whatever was needed.

Perhaps he had been brash to believe that he would be the exception to the Queen's all-seeing eye.

Or perhaps he was spiraling. Perhaps it was guilt getting the better of him.

It was strange. He had never had issue with guilt before.

"Callum. Are you coming?"

He looked up to find the other advisors glancing back at him impatiently in the hall.

"Go on without me. I will finish our report to the Queen after her discussion with Meliorn," he said, and without a shrug or outward utterance of curiosity, they turned back toward the main halls.

For a moment, he stood in the center of the corridor, hands clasped in front of him, stuck in silent debate.

He risked further trouble if he chose to listen in. If he was discovered, it would practically be a direct admittance of his crimes. But if he wasn't caught, and he was given any reason at all to believe he was suspected of assisting the target of the Queen's posed ally, he would have time to run. He would have time to warn the others.

He would rather not run. He would rather not become more involved than he was. He would prefer to remain as close to neutral as possible.

But perhaps it was already too late for that.

Callum closed his eyes. Saw the blood of his child sister, saw the gash across her neck, like she was no more than a mundane's slaughtered livestock. The image of what the world looked like when Nephilim thought Downworlders were no better than demons.

Jonathan Morgenstern could promise them safety in his new world a thousand times over; Callum still didn't believe for a second that the Shadowhunter wouldn't turn on them the second he felt them no longer useful. And as nice as it sounded to have a world without Nephilim at the top, without their arrogance and unearned superiority, and without their Covenant to control how fae interacted with mundanes, Callum still did not altogether despise Shadowhunters. Truly, even with the Accords, the Nephilim and Seelie realms did not much overlap. As pestering and troublesome as they could be with their occasional toeing the line of interference into Seelie business, Shadowhunters rarely crossed it outright. Even taking into account the intermittent instances when they did, the advisor wasn't sure their complete demise was worth being a part of this war.

Besides, Callum also wasn't so sure that Jonathan's world would offer anything better. Callum wasn't so sure Jonathan's world wouldn't strip all the Earth of its little remaining beauty before leaking into the Seelie realm to claim that for himself as well.

Decided, the advisor took a few short steps back towards the door of the bedchambers and pressed his ear to the wood. It was sanded so smoothly that not a single splinter could risk pricking any who opened it, the material thick and heavy. Though he didn't suspect it of being made to keep sound in, it was regardless difficult to make out what was being said.

Meliorn's voice came through clearer, the baritone of it carrying through the door, while the Queen's washed out in a muffled range of higher tones.

"...last of the new…passed through…Edom…."

Her Lady replied something too soft to hear, but from what little he could make out of Meliorn's statement, Callum already knew what they were discussing.

He was aware of the move to take the Institutes with remaining Nephilim, and it was earlier today that the new additions to Sebastian's army obtained from these attacks crossed through the Court to Edom. He hadn't needed to be directly involved in their crossing—most of that was handled by Meliorn and Amatis—but the details were certainly no secret to the advisors. So why the request for privacy?

The Queen continued speaking. Callum cupped his hands about his ear and pressed them gently to the wood, careful not to lean his weight on the door, or brush his clothing against it.

Able to hear a bit better, he caught the last of her sentence—a question, if he were to guess by tone, noting the higher pitch of the final syllables—and Melorin responded quickly. "None. Amatis is finishing…now, and will be reporting to you…."

"Not Sebastian?"

"No, my Lady."

She made a noise of discontent, and then voiced another question in response, indecipherable beneath the rattling of her dresser door as it shut.

"...I will be leaving you to go directly to Alicante. The Clave is holding a meeting tomorrow….It is presumed Lightwood will be…in the morning. Their warlock has stated he is healed enough to travel…."

Were they speaking of Robert Lightwood? They must be, considering he was the only alive yet severely injured member of the New York Institute. But why was his arrival to Alicante of import to the Queen? Nay, to Sebastian?

Meliorn continued. "...discussed, I cannot be the one to…..an informant—"

Callum's heart quickened at the accusatory term, his mind racing to connect the dots. Were they speaking of him? Had someone seen him by the exit with the Herondale boy after all? Were they suspect that he may be an informant for the Nephilim? To call him an informant was a stretch—he was not, not truly, but the accusation itself would lead to questions, and—

"As planned," Meliorn said, his voice clearer as he paced closer to the door, "they will be sending Amatis to create one…I shall depart early, to devise the exact moment Lightwood arrives, and report it to Sebastian."

The advisor's pulse steadied. They were still speaking of the Inquisitor. Did informant refer to Meliorn himself, then?

Perhaps Callum was only making this worse on himself, listing in on conversations he could not fully understand, piquing his nerve for naught. But just as he was about to lean away and retreat down the hall, the Queen's reply caught his attention.

"All of this should be known to my advisor…."

Callum froze. He pressed even closer to the door, straining to hear her wispy voice.

"...may I presume, then, that….one further matter you wished to discuss in private? The…potential issue…mentioned before?" she asked, and his breath caught. He held the air tightly in his lungs, too nervous to let it out.

"Yes," Meliorn replied. "Unfortunately, we have not yet been able to confirm anything. ….Propose it is best we keep…finer details of future plans to ourselves.…Just until…certain of his connection to the Jace—"

The advisor closed his eyes tightly.

"...and where his allegiances lie."

Fuck.

There was no way they could be speaking of anything—anyone—else. So they did suspect him.

"Agreed," her Lady spoke, and the sound of rustling fabric could be heard, perhaps her changing into her chosen dress, or leaning back on the lounge packed with cushions. "Is Sebastian aware?"

"...He is not. Do you wish him to be?"

There was a pause before she spoke again. "Not yet. I will discuss the matter with him after…."

The rest of her response was lost to him as he leaned away from the door and stood up right. He'd heard enough to know that he had fair reason to be concerned. But the information gleaned from the half-audible conversation wasn't enough to outright fear for his life. They might be suspicious, but it appeared they were not certain of anything, nor ready to respond to their dubiety. So what did it mean for him?

A sudden tap of footsteps directly behind him had him twitching to jump, though he managed to refrain from letting his shock reflect in his form. Though shocked he was, because he should have heard someone approaching, should have heard them coming down the hall from 50 yards away, before they even rounded the corner—

He turned quickly, but not too quick as to appear caught in doing something he shouldn't, and stiffened at the sight of the lead Endarkened soldier.

Verily, today was not his day.

Amatis Herondale, née Graymark, stood in front of him, tall and stern in her black-red gear, her piercing blue eyes fixed directly on his face.

Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, fit for battle, and her armor was worn slightly, scuffed and clearly used in fight recently, likely unchanged after the recent attacks. She was intimidating, although he heard that she always had been, even before she was Turned, and though this wasn't his first time seeing her, it was the first that they were this close without others around. The fact that she'd managed to sneak up behind him certainly added to the redoubtable air about her, and he dropped his head slightly in a gesture of greeting, not of royal custom, but of respect.

He wondered idly if her approach was silenced by the new demonic runes her master had acquired for his army after their…fall from grace, to say. If so, these new runes just might be stronger than their angelic counterparts. He'd never had a Nephilim sneak up on him before.

"Amatis," he said, stepping aside from the door. "You must be here for Her Lady."

She said nothing in reply, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took him in.

A query occurred to him, then, of whether the Endarkened in their blind loyalty to Sebastian were unable to lie as the Seelie were. Unlikely to be the case, considering Morgenstern's very being was prone to untruth. But how then did their minds work? Could they think for themselves? Or were the only thoughts that occurred orders and a drive to complete them?

"I don't think I have ever had the opportunity to properly introduce myself. I am Callum, advisor to the Queen and her Fair Folk." He smiled curtly and, letting his curiosity get the better of him, extended an open palm in the traditional mortal handshake. But again, she did not speak, nor move to take his grasp.

Did she know of his abilities as well?

Or was she just overly cautious?

Or simply thoughtless aside from direct order?

"I am aware of your position here," she said at last, and she moved her hands from where they hung at her sides to rest one on her belt and the other on the hilt of the sword on her hip.

A shame. He might have been able to fill in some gaps with a brief touch, a glimpse at her mind.

The door to the Queen's chambers suddenly opened, and Meliorn stepped out. His eyes cut to Callum, and his extended hand, which he lowered, tucking both arms behind his back and bowing his head again.

"I shall leave you to have your audience. Pleasure to formally meet you," he said, and Meliorn turned to Amatis, stepping out of the doorway so she could enter.

That was a conversation he wished he could eavesdrop on as well, he thought, as the door shut behind the red soldier, but Meliorn was lingering by the door, and so Callum nodded his head and turned away.

To his surprise, though, the knight followed beside him, matching his pace.

"Was there a reason you tried for a read on the Endarkened?" the knight asked, and Callum smiled thoughtfully, tipping his head to the side.

It wasn't a question he wished to answer, but it was vastly preferred to any inquiry on why he was found to be still outside of the Queen's chambers upon Meliorn's exit.

"I was curious to hear the thoughts of someone who is entirely controlled by another's will."

Meliorn hummed shortly in acknowledgement. Callum shifted the topic. "…Was there any reason you wished to discuss planning with the Queen without her advisors present?"

The knight made a sound that Callum might have called a laugh if thought the man capable of it, and said, "There are details to war not even you need concern yourself with."

"Fair enough," Callum replied casually, and they continued in silence down the corridor, the advisor pondering his next moves, struggling to piece together the information he had gathered, longing for a touch of the knight's skin, until Meliorn dismissed himself where the halls split.

Callum continued left, towards his chambers.

Meliorn, he now knew, was headed right, towards the connector tunnel to the mortal realm, to await Robert Lightwood in Alicante.

---

[January 17th, 12 AM; Undetermined City, Mexico.]

Clary held her breath as she stood waiting by the front door. But the longer she waited, the more apparent it became that no one was coming to stop her.

Even suspecting as much, it took more time than she would have liked to admit to work up the courage to wrap her fingers around the doorknob, and even more to take the step across the threshold. It wasn't that she thought Sebastian had lied about the barrier being off, but that she couldn't shake the memory of the electricity, and without him there to pull her across the doorframe as he had earlier in the evening, she found herself hesitating.

Though, once she was out, and unharmed, she found the anxiety was more than worth it.

It was cooler out, but still warmer than she was used to, and the gentlest breeze drew across the barren front yard, filling her lungs with the sweet, dry air of the desert. And the stars—God, they were like nothing she'd ever seen before. Without all the pollution that New York had, she could actually make out constellations, and planets—just fatter than the stars and slightly different hues—and the milky way, stretched out with its bright edges and darker center, like a ginormous scar torn across the sky.

Even in Alicante, the pale, ever persistent silver glow of the demon towers produced too much light to see actual galaxies.

With her gaze turned up, Clary found herself wandering back around the house toward the garden, almost dizzy with this little taste of freedom—of being outside alone. She knew it was a falsity, to feel free while still trapped here, to feel relief when the demon who continually abused her—had just done so—was still breathing down her neck, but she couldn't help but to relish in it, in the beauty of the unobstructed night sky, in the simple pleasure of fresh air, if only for a moment.

She wanted to paint them. The stars, high above the quiet landscape. Perhaps she would. At least while she was stuck here, it felt like she had all the time in the world.

As she entered the garden, she wandered toward the back wall, letting herself cut between the flower beds and shrubbery instead of following the pebbled path she had when Sebastian took her out earlier.

This time she'd taken the time to put on shoes, a pair of brown leather boots with a zippered side that she'd found in the closet, and she was thankful for not having to be cautious of cacti thorns or bristles as she went off the walkway.

She hugged herself as she reached the stone wall bordering the garden's edge, at last looking down from the sky to find the tree that marked the supposed edge of the wards.

And then her mood quickly began to turn. The tone of grasshoppers and crickets, chirping away between the cracks in the dry Earth, became less of a pleasant white noise, and more of an overwhelming wash of sound the longer she stared at that tree. All the beautiful stars and the infinite sky that contained them faded into blackness around it, like it was an open door in a pitch dark room.

Her feet itched in the sturdy boots, the protective shoes that would prevent her from stumbling, from cutting her feet up as she scrambled over the wall and ran off into the night until she reached that tree and—

And what?

She had no stele to portal away. No rune to break the bracelet that certainly had a tracker in it.

Besides, she wouldn't even get that far. Even if the barrier hadn't been moved to the garden wall, even if it was only the outwards she would need to escape, she wasn't stupid enough to believe that no one was watching her. Sebastian might be asleep, but at the very least, the Endarkened knew she was out of the house, which meant they were allowing her out, which meant Sebastian was allowing her out. Just as he'd promised earlier, she supposed. But he wouldn't do it if he thought she could get away.

Still, it did prove to her one thing: gaining Sebastian's trust truly did seem the best way out. Because all it had taken was her giving him just the tiniest bit of attention today, and he'd already granted her access to the garden. And even after pissing him off tonight, he hadn't punished her. Well, not really.

So maybe she had been wrong before to think it would be betraying herself to give in to him to build some semblance of trust. Maybe it was just out-monstering the monster, instead of being quietly devoured —or whatever it was Neitzche had said. Anyway, wasn't it selfish of her to want so badly to get away that she would risk her safety, and her friends', to do so? Instead of taking the time to form a decent plan that would let her escape and explain the situation to everyone, she'd been willing to consider calling her friends by fire message, pulling them into the monster's lair to rescue her.

No, this was on her to solve. It was her brother after all. And it wasn't as if he would actually kill her. No matter what he threw at her, she could—would—suffer through it, and earn his trust, and get away. That was the safest plan. It just might take a bit longer than she would have liked.

Because every second that passed here, her mother and Luke were mourning her. Her friends were fighting a war that her own brother was waging. And Jace—

Oh, God—Jace.

He was blaming himself for all of this, she was sure of it.

The ring in her pocket suddenly felt heavy, like it might burn a hole through her shorts.

Clary hadn't been able to bring herself to actually put it around her neck before she snuck out of the bedroom. Not after what she'd just done. She had been so excited to have it back, but now it just felt like a chain of guilt, like a bright red scarlet letter. To wear it felt like a slight against her and Jace's relationship, like she had tainted the very symbol of their love for each other. But, then, it had felt equally wrong to just leave it on the floor where Sebastian had flung it. To abandon it altogether.

With a sigh, she shook her head, and tore her eyes away from the tree. Looking back at the stars, she thought of something Jace had said to her, all those months ago when they stood on the terrace high above the city, Sebastian's body in a glass coffin, Lilith scattered across the floor in a million grains of salt. He'd been guilt-ridden, angry with himself, caught up on the idea that he didn't deserve her after what he'd done while Lilith possessed him. And then he'd quoted Dante.

"'My will and my desire were turned by love, the love that moves the sun and the other stars.' That's how I think of the way I love you. You came into my life and suddenly I had one truth to hold on to—that I loved you, and you loved me."

And then he'd given her the ring—this very ring—and she'd looked at him incredulously, because at the time, she hadn't truly understood what it meant to him—or what it would come to mean to her.

When she'd asked, he'd just shrugged. Pressed it into her palm. " I wore it for a decade. Some part of me is in it…. And besides, the love that moves the sun and all the other stars. Pretend that that's what the stars stand for, not Morgenstern."

Clary reached into her pocket to glide her fingers over the stars engraved into the silver band, and let out a quiet, mournful sound, something between a sob and a laugh. Because she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever get to hear him say he loved her again. And because that kind of love, a love that could move the stars, was something she didn't think Sebastian could never understand.

When she returned to the bedroom, it was late into the night, and Sebastian was still asleep. He was turned facing away from her, his face relaxed and his breathing steady, and she saw that his hands were healed, his knuckles no longer bruised.

Waiting for her on her side of the bed lay two clean towels, folded neatly and left atop her pillow.

So he had awoken, and surely saw that she was outside, and had felt confident enough in the fact that she had nowhere to go that he went back to sleep. It made her face heat and her skin prickle in embarrassment. And then she was suddenly aware of why he'd left out the towels, and that she hadn't showered, and so was still coated in sweat and blood and…other fluids from earlier.

Pulling back the quilt, she saw that the sheets had been changed, too.

Somehow, it felt like an offering of apology.

Silently, Clary accepted, taking the towels with her as she went into the bathroom.

---

[January 17th, 12:05 AM; Undetermined City, Mexico.]

Lying in bed, listening to her footsteps creak quietly out into the hall, Sebastian had realized he might have pushed a bit too far by bringing up Jace again so soon.

It was possible that the fact that she had wanted to wear the necklace while they lay together was an effect of the curse, but it still pissed him off to no end. The thing was meant to serve as a tool, not some sentimental hunk of metal that allowed her to cling even further to the golden boy, or to feed her delusions that she would someday be free of her brother and reunited with him.

In any future that they were reunited, Sebastian was certain it wouldn't be in any way Clary desired—at least, not as she was now.

He'd thought he would be safe in calling her out on it. Because, perhaps falsely, he'd assumed that, in typically Clary-fashion, she would simply out of spite do the opposite of what he asked. That if he scolded her for wanting to wear it during sex, there would be no downside, and she would continue to wear it outside of the bedroom to bother him off.

But he'd just watched, his observation unnoticed, as she slipped out of bed and reached to the floor to pick up the ring; she'd stared at it for a long moment, holding it up to the window to watch the thing glint in the moonlight, before slipping it into her shorts pockets instead of around her neck.

She felt guilty. And though he had no personal experience with such an emotion, he knew well enough to recognize it—knew from the way it was described in literature, or from having Jace's thoughts at his fingertips when they were twined, a filing cabinet stuffed full of pages and pages of guilt—and could practically see it rolling off of her in waves, in the slow, hesitant way she handled the necklace.

The ring would work regardless, as long as she had it on her person, but guilt made people do very stupid things, and Sebastian had still come just a bit too close to scaring her away from it.

He rolled onto his back, listening to her creep down the stairs, and wondered if she was sneaking off to shower in one of the first floor bathrooms.

When he'd tried to get her cleaned up earlier, she'd flinched back. "Dont," she'd said, yanking up her shorts as she jerked away.

Peeved, he'd looked pointedly at where his blood still stained her neck and at the damp spots on the sheets, before throwing the covers at her as he stood to go shower alone—"Fine. Sleep in your own filth for all I care."

By the time he'd gotten out, the minor wounds from their rough intercourse had already healed. He was still getting used to that. To healing faster than should be possible. To being invincible. If Clary would have noticed, she would have assumed he used an iratze, that he could be hurt and healed just like any other Shadowhunter, but she didn't notice, because she was pretending to be asleep again. This time, he let her keep up the facade. Within thirty minutes, surely when she'd thought he himself was asleep, she'd slipped out of bed, pocketed the ring, and tiptoed out of the room.

Once she was down the stairs, there came a slight knock at the door, and Sebastian sat up as one of his Endarkened came in.

"She's going outside."

He waved off the woman in the doorway. "Just keep an eye on her."

When the door was closed, he rose and moved to the window, just in time to see Clary stepping through the gate and into the garden. She looked cold, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she moved past the little pebbled paths, straight to the back wall of the garden, where she paused and looked out over the desert beyond. Her head turned towards the tree he'd pointed out to her at sunset.

Sebastian watched curiously as she stood there unmoving for a long time, surely lamenting over all of this , as she had called it earlier.

As if her situation was so grossly unjust that she couldn't even put it into words.

Well, she had put it into words, he supposed—she was just wrong. He'd thought that they'd made some progress that day, that she'd seemed more relaxed when he was next to her by the fire. He thought that when he took her outside that they'd come to an—at least temporary—agreement: that she would try to trust him. But it seemed she wasn't any less upset being here.

Sebastian leaned against the windowsill with a sigh.

He was being impatient.

It didn't matter how she felt. In the end, Clary would join him willingly, or be tugged along by the chain weighting her neck, or pocket—or else dragged by that unruly head of curls in his fist. He'd given her almost two weeks of constant attention to help in getting her adjusted, but now that the ring was starting to take effect—even if slowly—and the plan was moving along, he would need to return much of his attention to finishing this war.

That was what they were calling it, the Nephilim. A war. It was, he supposed, although there had been no true battles yet, only preparations for such. He would give them one, soon enough. A battle to end all battles. Very soon, if things proceeded as they should—and after the events of today, proceeding they certainly were.

Because after training with Clary, Amatis had messaged that the Endarkened had successfully taken the last of the Institutes that were ordered to stay behind by the Clave. Which meant that not a single Shadowhunter was left alive or unturned throughout all of the attacks.

That is, none that he didn't want to be alive or unturned, save the outliers that were the Lightwood children.

The attack on New York had gone almost as planned, besides the fact that a few of the key players were on his doorstep instead of at the Institute when his soldiers arrived. It had infuriated him greatly at first that he had been unable to kill or turn the Lightwood children, but all things considered, it hadn't really affected the plan that they survived. He would catch up to them sooner or later; for now, they posed little threat.

Otherwise, Lucien Greymark was meant to be away. One of the Lightwood parents was meant to be dead, the other alive. Jocelyn was meant to survive. All in all, it was enough to consider the New York attack a victory, especially considering the fact that the Clave was responding exactly as he had expected them to. And really, it appeared that the factors that hadn't gone as planned would be working in his favor.

For starters, he was glad that it was Robert that they'd managed to let survive the attack as opposed to Maryse. He'd told his Endarkened that either would work as the carrier, but Robert was the better option, considering his position in the Clave. That his wife was dead, and he had stood by as his children went against direct Council orders in their pitiful rescue attempt, surely stood to shake the Clave. Sebastian had no doubt their attentions would be split in debate of whether or not to relieve Robert Lightwood of his position as Inquisitor, certainly when taking into account that he already had one strike on his record for his family's actions at Burren Hill.

Although it was unlikely Robert would actually lose his job, the fact that in the very short amount of time that he'd been Inquisitor orders had been broken twice would start debates over replacements, and consequently serve as a wonderful distraction. And Sebastian needed the Clave as distracted and discouraged as possible. Honestly, they did it to themselves; he just put the pieces in place to encourage the discourse.

And Lightwood's return home would only bring more of that perfectly distracting infighting.

To top it all off, when the Clave had their scheduled meeting tomorrow, their suspicions of the survivors, and Jocelyn, would only add to the stress. She, of course, had no allegiance to Sebastian—never had, not even when he was still in her womb—but the Clave was certain to accuse her of it. Whispering suspicions would rise when Shadowhunters realized all of their friends and family in the attacks had been killed or taken, all but her.

This had been deliberate, this sewed distrust of two prominent players, but four Nephilim survivors of the same Institute would practically start an investigation. So although they'd slipped his grasp, perhaps the Lightwood children's lives might still play in his favor.

Sebastian could so perfectly picture the gears turning in the Council members' heads: surely it couldn't be pure coincidence that of sixteen Institute attacks the only survivors were directly connected to Sebastian and his siblings? It made him wish he could be in Council Hall when they held the meeting, spouting accusations at each other and arguing over alignments.

He'd have to settle for hearing it from his informant instead.

Well, soon to be informants .

Because following his walk in the garden with Clary, Meliorn informed him of Robert's clearance to portal, and Amatis had returned from Edom to wait in the Seelie realm, which meant that things were ready to move to the next phase. Starting with this new inside man.

Meliorn continued to serve well as an informant to Council meetings and Clave dealings, but he couldn't be running around Alicante on Sebastian's errands without it becoming suspicious. And besides, the knight couldn't use Marks. For the final ceremony, Sebastian would need talismans and runes placed throughout the city, and to do this, he would need someone who wasn't already known to be missing or Turned.

He'd originally considered using Carmen and Cristina Rosales for his errands, purely out of convenience and accessibility, after Meliorn had told him that Tomas Rosales had left his wife and daughter at their home in Mexico, convinced that Idris wasn't safe—and at that, he was correct. It wouldn't hurt to have taken them purely to enforce the idea that anyone, anywhere, wasn't safe from Sebastian, but that was beside the point. Realistically, he risked issue with the plan if he returned the women to Alicante acting off , and against Tomas' advisement to stay hidden at home. So instead, Robert's return would serve as an adequate diversion while Amatis took an unsuspecting Clave member from within the city.

Once he had his new Endarkened inside the wards, ink and a glamor would be enough to disguise them so they could move freely through the city to do his bidding as needed.

And as soon as Sebastian could begin the preparations for the ceremony, he could also continue destabilizing the Clave and strengthening his army. The former would be achieved through a weakening of the Accords, and turning the Council against one another; the latter through creation of an adequate arsenal.

Even with superior strength and agility, his Endarkened needed better weapons than the variety of decently tempered steel swords and weapons they had plenty of. If they were truly going to go against whatever remained of the Nephilim after the ceremony, and govern the world, they needed to offset the disadvantage of not being able to use seraph blades. Steel a Shadowhunter could heal quickly from, but seraph blades dealt a significant deal more damage. In a fight with steel, Sebastians forces were 99% likely to still win. But he wasn't going for likely odds, no matter how high. He was going for absolute, crushing victory.

With Lilith's help, Sebastian had already been able to solve the issue of the Endarkened's stripped runes, replacing the loss of the weaker Heavenly Marks with demonic ones—now, he needed to do the same with their weapons. And If Sebastian could make an adamas tool that could change the alignment of a Shadowhunter from angelic to demonic, then it followed that the same could be done for weapons. Demon metal would have been ideal for the forging of new swords, but it was rare enough as it was. Instead, he should be able to make a weaker—albeit still very strong—version of it through transmuting adamas.

Perhaps, he thought, this was where he could involve Clary. If she could create a Mark that recycled seraph blades, as the Silent Sisters can do, or one that literally created adamas, then he could get it blessed by Lilith, or turned into black adamas. Sebastian was almost certain his sister possessed the ability to make such a rune, the issue would simply be convincing her to.

Either way, he would need to summon Lilith soon to discuss it with her, and it wouldn't hurt to check in on Edom, and the majority of his troops stored there. Not for morale—his Endarkened were efficient, lacking in any enfeebling emotions such as uncertainty or fear that might cause a wavering of support without a show of face from their leader—but to ensure preparations in the mirror realm were coming along. Just as Alicante would need to be prepared, so too would the hell dimension.

It would be good to make the trip—to see it again.

When he'd first seen the realm, it was everything he'd imagined it would be. It was a kingdom all his own—perhaps the only true gift he'd ever received. There, along with the Seelie realm, had been his staging grounds in the time after the summoning at Burren Hill until he re-emerged to take his siblings. If he hadn't been able to retrieve Clary and Jace, he very well might have continued to stage his efforts there.

It had been a calculated risk, taking the time to prepare for taking Clary and Jace first, as it allowed the Clave time to prepare for the war they knew was coming after the Burren, but the risk itself was based on the unlikelihood of the Clave getting their shit together. Plus, the month or so it had taken to prepare for taking them allowed him time to learn the magic he needed, and the subsequent increase in demon activity after the summoning lead to a slow decline in Nephilim forces, and wavering loyalty from Downworlders who saw first hand the growth in demon mundane attacks.

So, although the Court and Edom offered the advantage of untrackability, ultimately, he'de decided it would be better to run things from this dimension; middle ground, so he need not go through the fae for everything. All it took to make this possible was faerie magic and advanced black magic from Lilith to create wards strong enough to block all tracking efforts.

Of course, as he'd learned, Nephilim bonds—parabatai, and presumably marriage—appeared stronger than the combination of the two.

An oversight. And good to know. Leave it to that pesky Magnus Bane to come up with something of the sorts.

Regardless, it was all coming together smoothly.

And his sister slowly falling in line was a large part of that plan. If he'd waited to take her until after he'd won the war and turned the city, until after the destruction of all she knew, she would fight against him even more fiercely. But this way, having her by his side now, before the ceremony, meant he had time to win her over before it all burned. And if he couldn't win her over, there would be other ways to convince her.

Either way, things would be moving forward quickly from this point on, and he needed her to keep up. He needed her to keep wearing the ring.

He stood there watching her for some time, before stepping back from the window, where he could still see Clary standing as motionless as a statue. Whether she knew he—or at least the Endarkened—were watching, or was simply too discouraged to try, she did not go over the garden wall.

She looked especially small at a distance, especially vulnerable from his view two stories above her. He watched curiously as she absently ran her palms over her knuckles, and rubbed at the blood drying on her chest.

So stubborn .

"Amandalyn," he called, and the Endarkened outside the room entered.

"Bring clean linens for the bed, and fresh towels," he ordered, and if she were allowed to feel anything other than satisfied in service of Sebastian's will, he would think she'd be offended at such a request, but instead the Endarkened gave an affirmative and turned down the hall.

Glancing over to the clock on the end table, he saw that it was half past midnight.

New York, two hours ahead, would be getting prepared to depart for Alicante via portal by now.

Meliorn, already in Alicante, 8 hours ahead, would be watching the square from a nearby alleyway, at the ready to send immediate notice to Sebastian the moment the Council gathered to receive the New York Nephilim.

Amatis, hidden in the tunnel of the Seelie realm which led back to the mortal world, would also be at the ready, awaiting for Meliorn's report upon the first sight of the portal, and Sebastian's order to push up to Alicante.

As the clock ticked off the seconds, he sat back in the bedroom chair, continuing to watch his sister through the window as he spun his bracelet on his wrist. He let himself imagine the next few weeks, let the steps play out in his mind over and over, each event and stepping stone placed precisely, all leading to the first true battle, what would be the final battle of this war.

A god's plan, laid out perfectly, and unaware to all that suffer it.

He pictured the final ceremony, one like never before performed—the Razing of Alicante. The slaughter of all that opposed him. And he pictured, in the aftermath, he and Clary on a throne, in a new world created just for them, ruled by them.

He watched as Clary's hair lifted on a breeze, like flames gently curling out over her shoulders, bronze under the moonlight, and she shivered in the wind.

At last, his bracelet glowed, a signal flaring across the band. Sebastian sat upright, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

"Now, Amatis. Go now."

---

A/N:

Some of the little plot points in this chapter align with actual events in the book series like Magnus and Catarina having a chat, and Izzy confronting the affair. Several dialouge excerpts in this chapter are also taken from the book, such as the fight Magnus recalls with Alec, and the conversation Clary recalls with Jace. Just wanted to note that was directly quoting the book.

Additionally, I plan on rearranging some of the chapters (not the order of them, mostly just combining the ones that are multiple parts) in an attempt to keep things organized. You might see some of the chapter numbers change—if this throws you guys off, I apologize. I just drives me nuts to see how I used to break down the chapters. You mght also see a few little changes/corrections to previous chapters as I reread old pages. It wont be anything that affects the story much, just fixing some inconsistencies. Because this is just a fanfic, and because I can. For example, I totally forgot when I started writing this however long ago that Magnus and Alec had broken up right before the start of CoHF, which is where this story generally starts. So, yeah, definitely bringing that into this story for the added drama. Fun. Anyway, I didn't want to delay posting this chapter in order to make the little corrections, so if you see certain chapters have been updated after this posting, that's why.

As always, thanks for reading! You all are the best.