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!

30. Chapter Twenty Six

Hey, all. Here is the next chapter—finally! Sorry for the wait. As always, thanks for reading, and I hope to be back with more soon.

---

Clary had never had so much free time and so many resources to create art in her life than she did since being stuck at this house, yet something about having the time to draw made the practice of it more difficult, like she was under some curse to only be able to create as a distraction from responsibility. She had always made the best art when she was procrastinating study, or homework, or chores, and picking up a pencil was a guaranteed way to quiet her mind for a moment.

Today, her mind was anything but quiet as she tried to sketch the scenes from her dream a few days ago, a new drawing amidst a tabletop full of half finished works. At the top corner of the page, there was Jace, hovering on the hilltop; in the center, the ruined Gard; and at the bottom, Sebastian, armored and speckled with blood.

Simon would have liked it, she thought. It had a graphic novel air to it, the three scenes stacked atop each other, and it reminded her of her childhood sketchbooks filled with dreams and creatures and symbols, glimpses of the Shadow World hidden from her sight, interspersed with pages of drawings for Simon—her best attempts at depicting his own ideas for a comic book they never created.

God, she missed Simon. If there was anyone she wanted to talk to about all of this, it would be him. At least he would appreciate the irony of her finally having time to draw. He'd been so sweetly concerned in the months following the Burren that she hadn't had time to make art, the only one to notice that she hadn't been able to indulge in her passion of it since before meeting the Shadowhunters, and, as she approached 18, likely wouldn't be finishing highschool, even less going to some prestigious, overly expensive art school on a scholarship like she'd always planned to.

For all of her young life, college had been something she looked forward to. Now, trying to imagine any specific future drew a gray and hazy blank. Where would she be in a year? In five years? If Sebastian got his way, nothing would be the same, that much was certain. But if she managed to get out of this, to stop whatever he was planning, what then? Complete her training as a Shadowhunter, start a life with Jace at the Institute? What would that even look like?

As Clary tried and failed to picture her future life as an ordinary Shadowhunter, one without the threat of Valentine and Sebastian and everything they'd been dealing with since all this began, the pencil slipped in her fingers and dug into the page. She cursed, grabbed up the doughy eraser and dabbed it over the dark, stray line, but as much as she tapped, the rubber wasn't picking up all of the mark, and a ghost of the thick streak remained, taunting her.

Groaning, frustrated, she resigned herself to redoing that area of the sketch a much darker shade to hide the streak, when Sebastian's words from their conversation the other morning suddenly struck her.

Start on paper—a rune to make simple things simpler.

Leaning back, she looked at the paper, the accidental line marring the delicate, wispy sketch of one of the flaming Gard windows, and shuffled through all of the runes she knew, each of them falling obviously short of what she needed. And of course they did. The angel's runes were gifted to the Nephilim for survival—for fighting, for healing, for protection. Why would they need any for art?

But Sebastian was right, she'd broadened what Shadowhunters knew was possible with runes in the relatively short time that she'd known about her power, hiding objects in paper and allowing Nephilim and Downworlders to share abilities. Maybe it wasn't so absurd to believe that she could train herself to create new runes at will. It certainly couldn't hurt to try. She thought about what Sebastian had said, about how any skill, even preternatural ones, could be exercised, stretched like a muscle.

How were new runes any different than known ones, anyway? It'd only taken her one look through the Grey Book to know what each rune meant, to be able to recall them all at will, like they were her first language, and each of those she could intensify just through focusing, like she had done to destroy Valentine's ship, like she had intended on doing at the first house Sebastian had held her in. If focus and intention was all it took for her to empower a known rune to extraordinary degrees, why wasn't it the same for new runes? Why did those only suddenly appear to her all at once, like a jolt of released static? Was it only because she had never genuinely tried?

She set aside the eraser and laid her hands next to the sketchbook before glancing around the room. Though she knew she'd come in alone and hadn't heard the door open, she was quickly becoming accustomed to how quietly Sebastian and the Endarkened could move around the house if they wanted to, and hoped to be spared the embarrassment of how silly she was about to look, glaring at a piece of paper like she might be able to burst it into flames with her eyes. Reassured by the confirmation she was alone, she turned her attention to the page, staring down hard at the offending pencil mark.

But as hard as she tried to force something to the surface, to focus on whatever it was that allowed her to see new runes in the past, nothing happened. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, this time attempting intention with her thoughts. She pictured the pencil mark in her head, thought of graphite and erasers and drawing and art and runes and erasers, erasers, erase—

Nothing. Clary swore, pushing back from the table, already prepared to forget she'd even tried, but then, as she opened her eyes and her gaze fell across the page—

There it was. Like the afterimage of the sun flaring across her vision. A few purposeful dashes and dots, and she knew it, as instantly as she had known the Grey Book runes, though it wouldn't be found in any Shadowhunter text anywhere. A new rune.

Sebastian heard Clary's rapid footfall on the stairs long before she found her way to the doors of the study, and his first thought was that something was wrong, because the only time she'd rushed through the house was when something was. But then her eager pace hesitated at the door, and instead of the sound of wood slamming open, there came a rapt knock.

At his nod, one of the Endarkened opened the door, and when she entered, he wasn't surprised to see that she had smudges of paint and graphite across her hands and up her arms, dirtying the front of the plainest shirt she could find from the dresser of expensive clothes she'd picked from that morning. He was surprised to see a slight smile on her lips.

It faded quickly as she noticed the small crowd in the room, her eyes going wide, shocked that she might have interrupted something.

"Oh, sorry, I'll just…" she began, half turning to the door, but Sebastian was already standing. It occurred to him, as he dismissed the soldiers, that this was the first time since bringing her here that she'd come looking for him as opposed to him going to find her when he wasn't busy with preparations.

"It's fine. We were just finishing up," he said, passing the nearest Endarkened a list of the items they'd discussed, and he took note that Clary's eyes darted quickly across the sheet before the Endarkened tucked it into his pocket.

"What is it?" Sebastian prompted as the soldiers cleared out, and her smile returned.

"I need your stele," she said quickly, an urgent and excited tone to her hushed voice.

Whatever Sebastian had been expecting, it was not that.

"No," he answered, giving her an unamused look, but she was already rushing forward, grabbing his wrist. "C'mon, I need to show you something. You can watch me the whole time," she insisted, looking up at him hopefully, and she didn't wait for him to respond before tugging him out of the study. He let her pull him along, down the hallway and up the stairs, becoming quickly amused at her excitement. Had she so quickly figured out how to work her rune ability? He'd had hopes that it wouldn't be difficult for her once she actually tried, but he hadn't altogether expected her to genuinely take his request into consideration.

When they reached the library, she let go of him, and as she spun around she slipped the stele smoothly from his belt, as she had that first night he'd seen her again. But this time, there wasn't a trace of malice in her, at least not that was visible, and she urged him over to the work table, which was scattered with papers and paints. She beckoned him toward one of the larger sketch pads, a half finished series of drawings.

"Awe, I'm flattered. How did you know I like fire and bloodshed in my art?" he teased, touching the edge of the page as he looked over the scenes, intrigued by the sense of story in them, and the figure that resembled himself donned in gear and speckles of blood. The style reminded him of Gustave Dore's drawings for Paradise Lost, etched darks and lights, biblical, Revelation-esque, wings and flames and blood. It was obviously a work in progress, the lines not fully darkened, several spaces yet to be detailed, but the first thing that drew his eye was an irksome smudge in the center, a clear mistake.

"What? Oh, it's from a dream, but that's—look, that's not what I wanted to show you," she said, and cleared a bunch of paper and pencils out of the way, sounding hurried and looking scattered, before reaching out to the sketchbook, stele between her fingers.

As she moved to use it, he realized that she could be Marking anything, a rune to explode the house, or release a toxic gas into the air, and his fingers twitched at his side in an instinctual response to stop her. The demon metal he'd spelled around her wrist only prevented her from Marking troublesome known runes, but new ones…that was a different story. But then, she didn't know that, and he always knew there would be some risk in encouraging her ability—it was worth it to know what she was capable of. Besides, whether she was getting better at lying or simply becoming more comfortable with him, her excitement to show him this seemed so genuine that he couldn't stop her.

He leaned closed as she began the rune, a bright gold line beginning to take shape on the page, forming a Mark he'd never seen before, and when it was complete it faded quickly to black before absorbing into the page. For a moment, Clary seemed to be holding her breath. When she let it out in relief, he almost didn't notice why, until he saw the poorly erased line in the center of the smudged spot slowly disappear from the paper. When it was gone, she turned to him, beaming, all the adorable, giddy energy of a dog performing a new trick for its master.

"An eraser rune," he said ponderously, touching the freshly blank spot on the sketch curiously, but it must have sounded incredulous because Clary's face melted into a pout. "Well, you told me to start simple."

Sebastian took up the book, turning the page back to inspect the posterior.

"I was thinking about how you said to start on paper, and when I messed up, I just thought…. Why do you look so stern? This is what starting simple looks like."

"It's not unimpressive, Clary," he said genuinely, running a finger over where the line used to be. "A new rune is a new rune. I'm just wondering what happened. Was the rune to erase or simply undo? Did you remove the graphite, or did you revert that part of the page to a previous state?"

"Uh…I think it just erased the graphite."

"Why didn't it erase the whole page?"

"I don't know," Clary shrugged.

"What happened before the rune came to you?"

"It's kind of hard to put into words. I just focused on what I wanted. I was frustrated at the mistake, and then I—"

"The frustration came first?"

"Yeah, and then I thought about it intensely for maybe five minutes, and then the rune just appeared to me when I opened my eyes."

It was no secret that Clary was driven by her emotions, and using them to access her ability wasn't a surprise, but it would be hindersome to taking advantage of the ability if it only worked when she was emotionally compelled. This was a starting point, but ideally, she would be able to create runes on a whim.

"Can you make the graphite reappear?" he asked, setting down the sketchbook.

"What?"

"Right now, can you think of a rune to make it reappear?"

Clary hesitated, her brow furrowing before she regripped the stele and bent over the page. Sebastian leaned over her shoulder to watch as she closed her eyes, her curls coming untucked from her ears as she turned her face down, a little line creasing her forehead.

As she tried to focus on the drawing, he focused on her, intrigued by her attempt at concentration, her nails, short and chipped, biting into the edge of the table, her stele hand stiff. He felt a swelling of something like pride, though whether at her ability, or the fact that she was doing as told, he wasn't sure. What he did know was that, regardless of motive, if she really could learn to control this, he'd have access to so much more than just an armory for his Endarkened. The potential for her rune creation was limitless, and she would have a power unknown to any other Shadowhunter or warlock.

Still, as the seconds ticked on, pride was replaced by impatience. All this for a rune to make a simple mark reappear on a page? At this pace, she'd be nowhere near where he needed her to be in the next few weeks.

"Focus," he urged, after several minutes of motionless silence, and she jolted upright, pushing her hair back from her face and wheeling on him.

"I can't focus when you're breathing down my neck!" she snapped, and Sebastian couldn't stop a startled laugh, raising his palms placatingly.

"Alright, it's fine, Clary. Maybe that's enough for today," he said, and she huffed in annoyance. As she snapped the sketchbook closed, he turned over his request in his mind, debating whether he should propose it or not. If he asked too much too soon, she might refuse the task. She was already suspicious enough as it was. But then, he wanted to push her, wanted to see how willing she was to work with him. If her excitement to share her achievement with him today was any indication, he might could convince her to start working on something bigger if he asked while she was in a relatively decent mood.

"I want you to try something else, anyway," he proposed cautiously, and Clary looked at him skeptically.

"I don't think I'm good enough at this yet to be taking requests," she muttered, stepping back from the table and slumping into the rolling chair, as if all her energy had been suddenly drained. He leaned against the table, spun her chair with his foot so she was facing him.

"I want you to try to make one for recycling adamas."

"Why?" she asked, and he could hear her fighting to keep deepening suspicion from her tone as she sat forward.

"Because I want to see if it's possible. It's a skill that only the Iron Sisters have been capable of."

"So much for working my way up," she grumbled.

"I think you can do it."

Clary opened her mouth, closed it, and held a question on her tongue. He knew what she wanted to ask, and yet, she didn't, skirting her gaze to the floor and tapping her boot in thought. Even pushed to tolerate him by magic, she wasn't an idiot. She knew if he was asking, there was a reason for it. Instead, she let it lie, and asked, "Even if I can…don't you think power like that corrupts?"

The question seemed to slip from her before she'd thought through the irony of who it was directed at, and he gave her an amused look at the innocence of it. She sputtered, elaborating. "I mean, there's a reason that only the Iron Sisters have been granted the ability to forge angelic metal, don't you think?"

Sebastian scoffed softly. "Granted? By who, god? By that reasoning, if you've been granted the ability, god thinks you're fine to use whatever rune you please, and I can do whatever I want with my magic and strength."

"Oh."

"Morals don't apply to capability. Anyone is capable of, say, killing someone. Whether it's considered corrupt or not is purely dependent on the context, or the beholder. As for whether or not power changes those morals, I wouldn't know. I've always been powerful," he smirked.

"And corrupt," Clary bit out quickly.

Sebastian ignored the attempt at insult for its lack of real venom, instead leaned over her chair. "You don't need to worry about a rune corrupting you," he said lowly, and her hands knotted together in her lap as he spoke. He thought of adding that corruption implied that a person could be led away from a set path, and that there was no path, that it was forged, and that she already was who she was. Instead, he appealed to the part of her that longed to believe the battle was black and white, and that she was in the light.

"You could save a lot of people with your runes, if you wanted to."

"I could also hurt a lot of people, unintentionally," she murmured, and she didn't have to clarify what she meant. He could hurt a lot of people using her.

Sebastian stared at her for a long moment, until she finally looked away. "Well, I think for it to work, I need to understand the basics of the action I want the rune to do. And I don't know anything about adamas, or how it works, or even what it means to recycle it."

"I'm sure there are some books on it here, and if not there are some in the study. I'll get them for you."

"I'll think about it," she said hesitantly.

"That's all I ask. And Clary?"

"Yeah?"

"My stele."

"Oh…right," she looked down at her hand, as if surprised to find the stele still clenched in her fist, and she gazed at it almost ruefully for a moment before holding it up to him, like she was giving a way a piece of herself.

---

As Magnus paced the living room of the Inquisitor's house, Simon tried to recall if he had ever seen the warlock in a state other than tired and slightly agitated. Perhaps it was the perpetually smudged eye makeup, but he looked exhausted, especially since he'd filled them in on what he'd found. They all did. And as they argued over Magnus' findings, Simon was reminded of the last time they were all together in a room, plotting a rescue for Jace and Clary, and he couldn't help but worry that they might be making another mistake. But then, the last time they'd thought to summon a Greater Demon for help, Simon had only made it out alive because of the Mark.

Still, having to deal with a Prince of Hell on the loose on top of Sebastian would be a disaster, but stopping Jace from following the only lead he'd uncovered on finding Clary didn't seem any better.

"Are we certain that he plans to summon this demon?" Jocelyn asked, stirring a cup of coffee that had long gone cold.

Alec sighed, running a hand down his face. "The only reason he'd bring it up in a fire message is if he had a lead. And I think he'd do anything at this point, even summoning a Prince of Hell, to try and find Clary and Sebastian."

"And the fact that he used such an old name for this demon means someone turned him onto this information. Which means Jace likely believes he can help him in some way," Magnus added.

"Look, I know this is serious, but…it's not like we haven't done this before," Simon shrugged, tentative to give his input at all, and they all looked at him dubiously as he finished the thought. "How could this one be any worse than the last? I mean, sloth isn't all that scary."

Magnus turned to him, deadpan. "Steven, your stupidity continues to amaze me."

Simon hardly batted an eye at Magnus misnaming him, used to it by now, just splayed his fingers in defiance. "What's he going to do, bore us to death?"

"Aren't you Jewish?" Alec groaned.

"What's that have to do with demons?"

"What Alec means is that sloth isn't just laziness. It's the sin that all other sins stem from. It's a temptation. But besides that, it doesn't matter what Belphegor is officially the demon of, he's still a greater demon. If you didn't have the Mark the last time we tried this, you would have died," Izzy said, echoing his thought from earlier.

"I don't understand. I thought he hadn't been seen or dealt with for centuries," Alec said, and Magnus nodded. "It's written that he was wounded in a fight with his brethren, scattered to the void at some point, unable to reform."

"So why does Jace think he can help?" Luke asked.

"I don't know. But we have to stop him before he tries. We'll find another way," Magnus insisted, and though it was clear it was a hopeless attempt at optimism, the group didn't have the morale to question it.

In the silence that followed, Alec sighed. "Look, I spoke to Jia earlier today. Begged, really. She's begrudgingly agreed to allow us to track and retrieve Jace, on the condition that another of the Council joins."

"Then we leave as soon as we can, and hope that he hasn't done anything too stupid yet."

---

The little kindjal cut through the air like a propellor, the blade making hardly more than a whisper as it left her hand. It made for a terrible throwing knife, its handle too small compared to the blade, the weight of it too unbalanced, but Clary's aim must have been improving, because even as its flight wobbled, it was right on target. Tilted and blurred like the silver wings of a dragonfly, it flew straight towards bullseye—the back of Sebastian's head as he retreated across the room victoriously.

She had expected he'd be able to dodge it, of course, but to her great annoyance, instead of simply ducking out of its trajectory, Sebastian snapped up a bo staff from the wall and, rotating his shoulder, swiped the blade out of the air like no more than swatting a fly. He only turned to look at her after the kindjal clattered to the floor.

Now he was just blatantly showing off, the asshole.

"Has anyone ever told you you're a sore loser?" he said, spinning the staff around his palm. Clary huffed from the floor, still on her back from when he'd pinned and disarmed her, yet again.

With little else to do, she'd been training more often, sometimes several times a day, and though she was perhaps improving minutely, she was still no match for Sebastian, only managing to land a few hits here or there. And honestly, she wasn't sure he wasn't letting her land them for his own amusement. After all, her main advantage in a fight was the element of surprise and the leverage of an opponent underestimating her, but ever since their first spar in this room, he seemed to know her moves before she did, and he hadn't again tried to pull any tricks below the belt that she might have been able to use as a distraction. Although he was as arrogant and teasing as ever, the fighting today was all serious and above board, no funny business, even despite the compromising positions he'd pinned her in.

His superior strength and speed was one thing, but his ability to use any weapon in the room fluently, like wielding them was his native tongue, frustrated her to no end. He'd been joining her training more frequently, and as they tumbled around the room, Clary clutching desperately to whatever blade she'd been working with before he came in, Sebastian was able to pick randomly from the stores of weapons, sometimes even switching mid-spar. When Clary picked up something new, she was no more dexterous with it after hours of training on it than she would be if trying to fight with a giant block of wood.

Sebastian poked her in the side with the end of the staff.

"You're one to talk," she groaned, rolling over and batting the stick away from the ticklish spot he prodded at.

"I wouldn't know," he declared smugly. "I never lose."

Clary couldn't help but snort as she climbed to her feet, raising her brows expectantly, giving him a chance to backpedal. When he just grinned, she threw her hands up. "Ohhh, sure," she intoned snidely. "I don't think you want to be claiming that, Mr. defeated-in-battle-and-brought-back-to-life-by-a-demon, Mr. apartment-destroy-and-summoning-ceremony-interrupted-by-the-Clave, Mr. my-hideout-was-already-tracked-down-once, Mr—oof."

Her mocking was cut short as the length of the staff snapped painfully across her abdomen, but even though she fell forward to clutch her stomach, the air briefly knocking from her, she was laughing as soon as she caught her next breath. She looked up to find him short of seething.

"Put your foot in your mouth, huh? Who's a sore loser now?" she panted.

"And yet, I always come out on top in the end. I'd call that winning."

"The end result doesn't negate previous losses. Winning the war doesn't mean you've never lost. Besides, we're not at the end yet."

"Aren't we?" he asked, swiping the staff swiftly at the back of her legs, and she was on her back again with hardly more than a flick of his wrist. Still, even winded from the fall, her elbows and the back of her head smarting against the floor, she couldn't stop another laugh.

He peered down at her, the staff holding his weight as he leaned forward. "I've certainly beaten you enough times to count today. At least we know your sense of humor survived, even if your ego does not."

Clary blushed and attempted to kick the end of the staff out from under him, but he easily shifted back to avoid tripping before placing the tip against her sternum to keep her flat. She strained to push the staff and the weight he pressed down on it up enough to roll out from under him, before scrambling to her feet and brushing off, pouting now.

"If you're going to keep coming in and commandeering my training sessions, the least you could do is actually help me instead of just kicking my ass," she grumbled.

"I am helping," he retorted, swinging the staff at her once more, and this time she saw it coming, was able to redirect it to the side with her forearm.

"See? You're getting better. Slowly," he said, the condescension in his tone only half joking as he began flipping the staff absently again.

"You let me block that."

"Why go easy on you when it's so fun to see you struggle?"

"Because you also think it's funny to occasionally let me think I can win."

Sebastian cocked his head, grinned. "True. Well, then we know at the very least your perception is improving."

"Ass."

He laughed. "I guess we really can boil it all down to dumb luck and blind rage the few times you have caught me off guard."

"Whatever," Clary scoffed, stooping to gather the short sword he'd disarmed her of earlier to return it to its spot on the rack. "What's the point of all this training if I can't even use it?"

"Now you're just being bratty."

"I'm serious," she snapped.

"The point," he began, tossing her the staff, "is that one day you will use it. It's good to stay in practice."

"I've just been training because I'm bored. You say I have to stay in practice, but we both know that working out in a training room doesn't really equate to fighting in real life. If you really wanted me to stay sharp, you would let me get some real practice."

"Do you want me to call in some Endarkened?" he asked, gesturing at the door. "Instruct them not to hold back? You haven't had the pleasure of combating them, but I assure you, they all fight nearly as well as I."

"No, I mean…" Clary began, and attempted quick mental statistics on the likelihood of succeeding if she proceeded with her train of thought. It was low, she decided. She went on anyway. "I mean not in a controlled environment. I might not be the best at fighting, and I might not be able to best you, but I wouldn't be fighting you in an actual fight," she said, hoping he would overlook the fact that she had been genuinely fighting him no more than two weeks ago. Still, it wasn't a lie—after days of training with him, she was certain that if there was any chance of her getting away, it was to run, not to fight.

"If I can keep up with you even half way in training, I can take most anything, right?" she tried, justifying her yet unspoken request, but she could tell instantly that Sebastian wasn't buying it.

"Huh. Flattery doesn't look as good on you as I thought it would," he quipped, and Clary was quick to roll her eyes dismissively. "Besides, it doesn't work when ninety percent of your remarks are smart-mouthed and insulting. Makes it sound like you're lying. Just ask outright, Clarissa, so I can tell you no and we can be on with our day," he said, his playful gaze turning to expectant stare.

Clary fiddled with the staff, turned to put it away as she spoke, trying to sound as casual as possible. "I want to go out with you."

"I'm presuming you don't mean on a date."

"I mean I want to go with you on one of those little missions you go on. You know, when you disappear for half a day?"

"I let you into the gardens and now you think you can ask to leave the property?"

"Sebastian—"

"No."

Clary let out half a sigh, a quiet noise of protest.

"Don't act so surprised. I told you what the answer would be."

"But why not?"

"Because you're a liability."

"You said yourself I'm getting better. I can hold my own. Remember the Elapids at the antique store?"

His closed off expression turned smug as he hummed fondly and looked at the ceiling like he was drawing a memory from the well of his mind. "...I remember that skimpy dress you slid into in the back room."

Clary scoffed, batting at his shoulder. "Skimpy? You're the one who picked it out."

"I know," he said with a grin.

"The answer's still no then?"

Sebastian said nothing, just narrowed his eyes at her, which was answer enough. She shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, prickling at the inspection she was growing quite familiar with: his trying to determine whether or not she was being honest.

"...I'm not a liability because you're worried about me getting hurt, am I? I'm a liability because you think I'll try to run away," she said quietly, and she didn't have to try as hard as she thought she might have to sound slightly offended.

"Wouldn't you?" he deadpanned.

"But isn't that what this is for? So you'll always know where I am?" She touched the steely bracelet.

He tipped his head, brushed his hair off his brow, considering. "Fine," he sighed at last. "I'll make you a deal. If you can make that rune we talked about, then I'll consider it."

At first, Clary was too shocked to respond, not used to winning any of her requests. She hadn't expected to get his agreement, even as hesitant as it might have been, so quickly, and it made her feel a bit giddy at the thought of getting out of the house. It wasn't lost on her that no more than a minute ago he'd admitted to letting her feel like she won at times, but this proposal was something more than that.

No matter how casual he was when he brought it up, he really wanted that adamas rune, and that meant she had leverage. He needed it; for what exactly she wasn't certain yet, though his intentions for it were easy enough to parse—nothing that would be for the good of the Nephilim. But now wasn't the time to question him on it. Whatever it could be used for, it just might be worth trading it to him for a chance at freedom.

Clary smiled. "I'll hold you to that."

---

The advisor's appearance was fit for the court, slight and well put together in silver and silk, possessive of a passive, cunning sort of fierceness that opposed the elegantly menacing looks of the knight that let Sebastian in the door. If the fey was alarmed it wasn't the Queen meeting him as expected, he didn't let it show, only stood politely from his desk as the Shadowhunter entered, folding his hands behind his back and giving a slight bow.

"Jonathan Morgenstern," he said, taking his seat again and picking up an ornately designed ink pen as he returned his focus to his papers.

"It's Callum, yes?" Sebastian smiled, and the fey didn't answer, instead raising his free hand in faked apology. "I apologize. Is it Sebastian you go by now? Or, is it Morning Star?"

"Ah, yes. That is the clever little nickname the Queen's given me, isn't it?"

"A name holds power, you know," he said casually, still not giving Sebastian his full attention, as if he wasn't at all concerned by the surprise visit. "Not just a true name, as they teach in your Nephilim codexes; both chosen and given names can carry just as much weight. Djinn believe one's most important name is given—the name others call them most."

"Then the Djinn would have trouble deciding whether to call me 'ass' or 'bastard,'" Sebastian noted dryly; Callum didn't laugh. "But you may choose between Jonathan or Sebastian."

"Jonathan, then," the advisor replied with a tight smile, glancing up at him. "Now, is there something I can do for you? I am supposed to be seeing the Queen shortly."

Sebastian smiled, narrowing his eyes. From his expression, the fey was simply disinterested in the Shadowhunter's sudden presence, but Sebastian knew he wasn't ignorant to his reason for being here. Even as an agent of the Court, his nonchalance was commendable. Sebastian returned it, looking around the room indifferently.

"You know, speaking of the Queen," he said, pacing over to the bookshelf to peruse the decor, "I'm fairly certain she only calls me Morning Star in private. Do you often listen in on Her Lady's conversations?"

He didn't look away from the shelf as he spoke, inspecting a beautifully marbled vase, but at his question Sebastian heard the fey set down his pen. Still, his voice remained light and steady as he replied. "As advisor, it is my business to know the Queen's business. She tells me what she thinks is relevant."

"Of course. Morning Star just wasn't one of those relevancies," Sebastian said, calling him out on the skirted truth, and when he turned back to the desk, Callum fixed him with an impatient stare. Sebastian went on with a dismissive wave. "No one can blame you for listening in where you technically shouldn't. After all, spying is practically in your job description. And how can you properly advise the Queen when you don't have all the information? It's no matter; surely you only want what's best for her."

"More than you know," the faerie said, a bit stiffly.

"Yes, well, if only you weren't wrong about what's best for her and the Court." Sebastian plucked an emerald letter opener from its stand, flipped it idly between his fingers as he spoke, and watched a muscle twitch in Callum's cheek in annoyance.

"And what exactly is it that I am wrong about?"

"Myself, of course."

"Wrong about you? We have never officially spoken before. I have made no claims regarding your character."

"Then why do I get the sense you dislike me?"

Callum looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed and began gathering the papers. "Perhaps because you are interrupting my work merely to question my opinion of yourself. And to accuse me of eavesdropping. If that is all you are here for, you should take it up with the Queen, not myself. Though, do not be surprised when she dismisses your concerns."

"Actually, it's the Queen's concerns that bring me here," Sebastian said, approaching the desk, but even as he loomed over the seated advisor, he did not become skittish or provoked, just nodded his head slightly.

"If the Queen sent you here so we could address an issue, you should have begun with that. Have a seat, and we can discuss it," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs before the desk, but Sebastian only leaned over the back of it casually, continuing to fiddle with the paper-dulled blade.

"No need. This shouldn't take too long if you're honest with me."

"Very well," the advisor said, rising to take the paperwork to an organized shelf full of old, leatherbound notebooks, and Sebastian was glad the fey hadn't bothered with the obligatory clarification that he technically had to be honest. "What can I help you with?"

Sebastian let a beat pass, waited for Callum to finish filing his papers and look back at him. "You can help by telling me what you spoke to Jace about."

"You mean the other Jonathan?" he said innocently, brows pinching in confusion. As genuine as his reaction seemed, no trembling words or fingers, no tensing muscles, Sebastian didn't miss the slight dilation to his pupils. But still, he maintained the act, perhaps more out of habit than self-preservation. Sebastian played along, if only to give the advisor another minute to decide how he wanted this to go.

"Yes. You spoke to him when he was here to see the Queen. What about?"

"You'll have to be more specific," Callum said with half a laugh. "I spoke to him several times throughout the night. Granted, most of it was but courtesies. I was his guide."

"Specifically," Sebastian droned, "I'm inquiring about what you spoke of with him just before he left."

The fey tipped his head, like he was thinking. "I believe I said, 'Do not return to the court.' That is all."

Sebastian laughed, nodded as though he'd just remembered something. "Right, it can't technically be called 'speaking,' can it? Let me change my wording: what did you communicate to him?"

The ghost of a smile on Callum's lips faded.

"Yes, the Queen told me about that neat little trick of yours. And unfortunately for you, someone witnessed you using it to speak to Jace. So, there's no need to pretend any longer," he chided, waving the letter opener at him. "Now, I can only assume a man of your position isn't stupid. You knew someone could easily have been watching, which leads me to think, if you risked privately conversing with Jace, it must have been of some importance. So I'll ask again: what did you discuss?"

The advisor sighed sharply, his soft, young-looking face growing hard and his voice cold as he dropped the facade. "Nothing that is likely to help him in the end."

"But your intent was to help him. Then, even as slim as the probability is that your advice aids the Clave, you understand why the Queen and I would not want to leave that up to chance."

"Chance is what I'm counting on, son of Valentine," Callum said, and Sebastian had heard his father's name spoken enough times to recognize the sound of this particular type of venom on the tongue, much more a personal resentment than the typical base disapproval it was uttered with.

Sebastian nodded in understanding, his smile growing. "So you won't tell me?"

"No."

"Very well. The Queen requested I attempt frankness with you. I tried," he said, throwing his hands up in defeat, and Callum seemed unamused by the antics, scoffing silently. "You should know that she asked that I offer the easy way first—that despite your betrayal, she didn't want this to be painful for you. But, while we're being honest with each other, I'm so very glad you chose the hard way," Sebastian went on, and he strode around the desk to stand in front of the much shorter faerie, who remained silent and stood his ground.

He leaned closer, dropped his voice to a threatening whisper. "I've never tortured a Seelie with psychic abilities before," he said, bringing the tip of the blade under Callum's chin. "Tell me, when my hand is inside your chest cavity, will you cry out with your throat, or will I hear your screams in my head?"

Sebastian watched Callum's face crack with a curling sense of pride. Still, he was impressed. The fey's fear showed only in a minute glance toward the door, a microexpression, checking for the exit, but it was enough of a tell that Sebastian wasn't surprised when he made a break for the door. He could have easily beaten him to it, or thrown the letter opener at his retreating back, lodged it in between his lumbar vertebrae to paralyze his legs, but instead he just walked back to the bookcase, returned the emerald to his stand.

When Callum threw open the door, his path was blocked by a tall, lean woman in white, another one of the Queen's advisors. Upon seeing her, he deflated, stepped back from the exit, no further attempts to run or fight. "Amabelle," he sighed, some mix of disbelief and betrayal.

"I'm sorry, Callum," she said, though she didn't sound it as she stepped in and let the door shut behind her.

"You would let them slaughter me like they did Emilia?"

"I would follow orders so I did not end up in your position to begin with," she said flatly, and at Sebastian's questioning look, she added, "His sister, sir."

"Ah, is that what this is about? Valentine killed your sister? Always with the sins of the father…"

Callum turned swiftly and spat at Sebastian's feet, who curled his lip impassively. "All that decorum, gone so quickly…" Sebastian tsked. "You know, a year ago, I might not have understood your anger. Now—"

"Spare me," Callum seethed. "There is no love or loyalty amongst your family. Your sister is bound to you by demon magic, not by relation or care."

Sebastian grit his teeth. "Perhaps. But at least she is alive."

Hissing with rage, the advisor lunged, reaching for the short blade at his side, but the woman was already on him, disarming him and pinning his elbows together behind his back in the blink of an eye. All that beauty and grace, all that political sharpness, was useless against a combat trained Seelie, and as Callum struggled weakly, Sebastian clapped his hands together contentedly. "Great. Off we go, then," he said, and the woman in white held the traitor still as he summoned a portal.

"Where are you taking me?" Callum demanded, eyeing the black portal with an uneasy look as it appeared and expanded in the air.

"To the mortal realm. We've appearances to keep up. It would do no good to torture and kill you here. Too implausible to claim that someone snuck into the Seelie realm to murder a fey. Much more likely for you to be killed up there, as you returned from an errand."

"If you plan on killing me regardless, what makes you think I would tell you what you want to know?"

Sebastian gave a crooked grin, taking Callum roughly from Amabelle's grip. "You misunderstand me. Death isn't a threat of what will happen if you don't talk. It's a reward for when you do. Because, trust me, once I start on you, it will be the only thing you want for."

With that, he shoved the trembling fey into the portal, a flutter of silver fabric and olive skin disappearing beneath its surface.

"Is he—?"

"My soldiers are on the other side," Sebastian reassured. "You can tell the Queen I'll handle it as agreed. I'll message you when I've a body for you to find."

"Yes, sir," she said, giving a polite nod, and Sebastian returned it.

Just before he stepped into the portal, he called to her over his shoulder. "Oh, and congrats on your promotion, Head Advisor Amabelle."

By the time Sebastian was through with him, there was little left of Callum whole, but he messaged Amabelle for retrieval regardless. The Queen assured him it wouldn't matter what state he was in—all they needed was a body—and it had made the interrogation process much easier. The other killings would be clean; for this one, they only needed Amabelle to vouch for having found her fellow advisor so that Meliorn was not put under further obligation to directly lie to the Clave.

As he wiped his hands of dark, half dried blood and scraped flesh from under his fingernails, he motioned for one of his soldiers.

"Yes, sir?"

"It seems Jace is attempting to stir up trouble as usual. I'll be leaving for Edom shortly to fix this."

"Understood," the man replied, turning to give the others direction. They were tasked, upon Sebastian's absence from the residence, to keep a particularly close eye on both the cup and Clary, though she hadn't been stirring up too much trouble herself lately, and they dispersed to their stations.

With a final glance at Callum's slumped corpse, his brown eyes dull, the veins of the sclera visible and bloodshot, staring into nothing, he shook his head at the waste of ability.

All this for a silly spell book. If it did exist, and Belphegor had it, Lilith would know. This was a problem he could pass off on her, though it was irksome to have to ask anything of her at all. As for Jace, well, if Meliorn's information was correct, the Clave would be retrieving him shortly to keep him under wraps and out of trouble in Idris, and he wouldn't have to waste time or resources to intervene. The Clave would hold him and continue squabbling amongst themselves until Sebastian wrapped up his plans. Jace could wait in a cell, or confined to the city if he was lucky, until Sebastian brought his army, his destruction, and his sister at his feet—until he decided what to do with his rebellious, indolent brother.

---

Clary's eyes burned as she walked in circles in the study, her head swimming with fine, cursive text on yellowed pages. She'd been going over the books on adamas Sebastian had given her for days now, trying to think about a rune that could revive the burned out seraph blades, or revert them to their original adamas, and she felt stuck in some indescribable way. Despite what Sebastian had assured her of, it truly felt as though she couldn't figure it out because she wasn't meant to be able to, because the ability to work adamas wasn't meant to be in the hands of just any Shadowhunter.

Then again, raising the dead didn't seem like something she should be able to do either. But even the necromancy rune hadn't been this hard—just an idea, an image, playing at the back of her mind for a day or so before piecing itself together in a rush of understanding. This rune felt like it was actively evading her. Like she could see all the parts of it, and yet they refused to fit together.

With a frustrated sigh, she looked back at the book in her hands, never stopping moving, no longer needing to look where she was going, her feet familiar with the path from the desk against one wall, past the hearth, to the bookcase on the far end of the room and back again. The excerpt on the heavenly metal in this particular book was small, just a list of all the things forged from it—seraph blades and blessed weapons, witch stones and ceremonial items, the demon towers in Alicante—but it wasn't the text that held her attention. It was the drawing of a hunk of adamas on the table and the hardened yet unwrinkled hand of an Iron Sister holding a hammer beside it, the sleeves of her elongated cloak bound over her wrist with wire. Even just in black and white, the drawing depicted the metal perfectly, at least from what Clary had seen of the stuff—glassy and emanating a soft light, silver-white like Sebastian's hair. It looked exactly like what they'd retrieved back when they were at the apartment.

And that had been to make the Infernal Cup.

"You look like you're about to have an aneurysm."

Clary startled at Sebastian's voice, looking up just in time to stop herself from running into him. He wore a little smile, like he always did when he snuck up on her, and his hair was ruffled like it'd been subject to a strong wind. As she took in the smell on his clothes—dirt and leaves and sap, scents from woods nowhere near where they were in Mexico—she realized she hadn't seen him all day.

"I can't figure out the rune," she sighed, stepping around him to set the book on the table and continue her pacing. "No matter how much I think about it, nothing solid is coming to me."

Sebastian dropped down onto the loveseat near the fire, his eyes tracking her like a cat's do a housefly as she moved restlessly across the room.

"I will say, I'm surprised to find you out of the library. You've been holed up in there for days."

"I thought a change in scenery might help. It hasn't," she said bluntly.

"You're making me dizzy. Sit down."

Clary said nothing, stepped around his legs as she walked to the opposite wall.

Maybe that was what it was for? Another cup? But what could he need another cup for? No, it had to be something else. Maybe that was the issue though. Maybe whatever he had planned for the rune, the intention behind its creation, made a difference in the ease of her creating it. If she was designing a rune for the greater good, or for a justified purpose, did it come to her quicker? But Sebastian was right, thinking like that implied some sort of reasoning behind her powers, some allowance of access to unknown runes from angels. And did she really believe that?

"I've never seen you like this," he noted curiously. "So caught up on an idea."

An unexpected jolt of resentment snapped her out of her thoughts at his comment. No, he wouldn't have ever seen her like this before. He didn't even know her, not really. Not in the way that you get to know a friend, or a sibling, or a partner. Not by spending time together and sharing things about yourself. He knew only what she was—what he thought she was—by what he wanted. By the situations he'd forced her into. He'd never seen her happy on a warm day in the city, or calmly studying at a coffee shop, or comforting of a grieving friend, or stressed out by an exam.

"You haven't seen me a lot of ways," she said.

He seemed to sense the bitterness to her tone, and cut his eyes disapprovingly. She ignored him, continuing her pacing. Her only warning of his irritation was a tsk as she passed in front of him again, and then she was tripping over his outstretched foot. It was enough to make her stumble, and he caught her by the waist, pulling her unceremoniously onto his lap.

"I told you to sit down."

Clary cursed in protest, trying to rise, but he curled an arm around her and cut her off with a scolding, uncomfortably fraternal voice. "You need to take a break."

"You're surprisingly supportive of my lack of progress considering how badly you need that rune," she said with a sigh, and he shifted beneath her, snaking both arms around her waist as she gave up her attempt to escape.

"I want to know if it's possible, just not at the expense of your sanity," he said, and her ears pricked at the lie. She could leave it be, let him believe she believed him, but to what benefit? If she was going to play at trust, she had to be honest to a degree.

"Don't lie to me," she said quietly, exhausted. "I know you need it for something."

Sebastian gave in quicker than expected, and without the usual sly acceptance he returned when caught in a lie. "Fine. It would be useful."

"You want it to make something. Probably something horrible, to further your horrible plans. That's why I'm having trouble creating it: because I know you're going to do something awful with it."

"So you're rune-block is my fault?"

"Yes," she huffed, and Sebastian's laugh rumbled up her spine.

"Then however can I make it up to you?"

"You can…not be evil," she suggested, pitching her voice hopefully.

"Hmm…" He bent his head to her shoulder, trailed his lips over the skin there as he hummed in thought. "Sorry," he said at last, "no can do. I can…help you relax instead?"

It was more statement than question as his hands slid tighter around her, inching suggestively down to her stomach. Clary laughed nervously, her hands catching his wrists on instinct. "Hah…how selfless of you," she snarked, and felt him smile against her.

"I never said I wouldn't enjoy it, too."

She squirmed as his fingers slipped under her tank top, suddenly aware of how hot the hearth was in front of them, and how heated his body was behind her. She felt like she was being pressed on a stove. "I-I think we have very different definitions of relaxing."

"You're telling me you don't like the way it feels? Or how you feel afterward?" he asked, turning to speak hotly into her ear. "You don't like that crashing numbness, that release of—" he trailed off, as if looking for the right word, and she didn't realize she'd been pressing her legs together in anticipation until he pulled them apart, spreading her thighs to rest on either side of his knees, her feet hanging just above the floor. "—tension? La petite mort?"

Clary shook her head, her hands now pulling at the hem of her shirt. "I…I didn't say I didn't like it, just that…I don't find it…relaxing, exactly."

"Oh? Are we finally past denial, then?" he said smugly, and Clary flushed, turning her head down so he couldn't see her cheeks.

"And how would you describe it, then?" he went on, one hand moving over her shorts, his fingers digging into the seam between her legs. She bit back a gasp, her hand returning once more to grip his wrist.

"Exciting? Electrifying?" he suggested complacently.

"Sebastian," she said in a whining plea, and she hated that tone, that tone she usually used when she'd quietly beg him to stop, but this time, she wasn't sure she really wanted him to, not with the friction he was creating over the denim. Whatever she'd meant by saying his name, he ignored it, as always, just leaned back into the seat comfortably, pulling her along so she was spread atop him. His other hand slid up to her chest, keeping her pressed close as he teased her through the jeans. As he applied more pressure, pushed the fabric between her labia, the friction became pleasantly uncomfortable, and her shorts and underwear dampened quicker than she'd like to admit. She reached back to grab his shoulder, his jacket bunching in her grip, but said nothing.

Pleased, Sebastian continued, and after a minute of no further protest, he paused to unsnap the button on her shorts before dipping his fingers under the waistband and continuing his work, this time over just her underwear. She noted the growing firmness beneath her where her lower back rested on his crotch, felt her heart race, then became disgusted at her initial lack of disgust, suddenly feeling trapped, like a snake eating its own tail. Her other hand found the cushion beside them and her fingers curled into the pillowing, kneading at it like a cat, trying desperately to ground herself. When he scooped an arm under the backs of her knees, lifted her hips and at last pulled up her shorts and underwear, she found herself pointing her toes so he could easily slide one leg out of the tangle of fabric. And then he was spreading her open again, her shorts hanging on one ankle, her knees wide and her feet pressing into the edge of the chair so she could roll her hips as his fingers returned to her, wondering how in the world they had so quickly ended up here.

She kept her head down, her face turned to the side for the shrinking part of her that screamed that she hated this, the part of her that was revolted at the fact that this was becoming the new normal, but Sebastian just brushed all of her hair up over one shoulder so he could settle his face beside hers, unobstructed by the curls as he kissed her neck. She shuddered as his mouth moved up, forcing her head back and to the side, until her neck was arching against his shoulder. When his teeth tugged at her earlobe, the roughness of it a stark contrast to the gentle insistence of his fingers and the press of his other hand on her stomach, she couldn't hold back a moan. His breathing quickened, almost as rapid as her own now, humid and scalding against her neck as he breathed in the scent of her. Sweat began to dampen her thighs, sticking her shirt to her back and his forearm to her where it rested on her leg.

He took his time, slowing down, then speeding up, never quite fast enough to bring it to an end before he let the tension ebb again, and she didn't realize she'd gotten lost in the sensations of it all until she heard footsteps down the hallway.

Clary gasped silently, her stomach lurching with a sudden rush of adrenaline as she froze in place.

Sebastian smiled cruelly, like a predator picking up on a weakness. "I didn't lock the door," he said, his fingers never pausing. "One of the Endarkened could walk right in."

"That's not funny," she hissed, trying to push his hand off as she attempted to pinpoint where exactly the footsteps were coming from, where they were headed.

"It wasn't meant to be."

Clary groaned in panic, trying to straighten herself on his lap, but his arm came down around her waist again to lock her in place, like the bar on a rollercoaster, firm and unmoving.

"Does it bother you to know that our shared will extends to desire? To know that they all want the same things I do? That they all think the same things I do when they look at you?"

Clary balked, visibly paling at the thought. Though she knew the Endarkened shared Sebastian's goals, what he was suggesting had never once crossed her mind. Surely it wasn't true. It couldn't be. Sebastian was far too jealous, too possessive for that to be true. But then, knowing that all of his soldiers wanted her, and yet he was the only one that could have her, would probably get him off. She shook her head adamantly, feeling sick.

"Does the idea of getting caught excite you?"

"No," she whispered urgently.

"Are you sure?" he asked, not quietly enough considering the Endarkened had hearing just as well as he. "You seem awfully excited. I can practically feel your pulse on my fingertips—you like the thought of being watched."

To her horror, the footsteps continued, sturdy boot soles on old hardwood, coming closer, down the hall. Clary began to struggle in earnest, to the point that Sebastian had to pull his fingers away to grab at her thighs and hips to hold her in place.

"Seriously, stop—"

Clary nearly choked at the knock on the door, all the air in her lungs rushing out of her. Sebastian leaned close, whispered in her ear. "Keep your legs open."

"No, no, don't you d—"

"Come in."

His voice was high, welcoming, and all Clary could hear was ringing in her ears in the silence that followed his invitation. Then the latch on the door slid out of place, and the hinges creaked, bright light flooding into the ambiently lit room from the hallway. Clary flinched, her legs snapping together so quickly that her kneecaps knocked together harshly, but Sebastian only pried them apart with his elbow and a chidding noise.

"Ah, ah" he tutted, returning fingers to between her legs, and she made a short, panicked sound. She turned her face into his bicep to hide, even though the Endarkened coming in to the room couldn't see her fully, not from over the back of the couch, not yet—

Sebastian sped up, the stimulation became harsh and overwhelming.

"Please, please, please," she whispered silently, over and over, squirming and digging her nails into his arm, practically drawing blood with how tightly she gripped him as the Endarkened approached from behind.

And then Sebastian was knotting his other hand into the hair gathered over her shoulder, yanking it back so her face was upturned. "You'll stay if I tell you to stay," he said lowly, the gravelly tone startling her, and she shut her eyes tightly. When had his amusement become anger? When had the teasing turned to rage? As she tried to follow the change in pace, as she burned with embarrassment and terror at his ability to pin her in such a humiliating position, she thought of all he had told her about belonging, about Jace, and wondered if the teasing had at some point turned into a lesson.

You can have him, but he can't have you, he'd said at the edge of the bed the other day. And in the apartment, before the ceremony, before he tried to rape her: "I don't care what you do. As long as you know you belong to me."

Here, now, she finally understood what he meant. It wasn't that Sebastian was okay with her sleeping with Jace, or anyone else, or others seeing her intimately, but simply that he could control it all. That no matter where she was, or who she was with, she would know that he would always have a hold on her, that they would always be bound. No one else could ever really have her, because she was his. This wasn't a show of lack of jealousy—this was proof of possession.

"Sir?" the soldier asked to their backs, incredulous at Sebastian's lack of acknowledgement on his entry, a surprising awkwardness in his voice that made him sound human. He took another step towards the couch, and Clary's chest trembled with shame. She bit her tongue hard, wishing for nothing more than to melt into the couch and down between the floorboards, never to be seen again.

Then Sebastian's hand was suddenly gone, as he raised it into the air in a signal for the soldier to halt.

"Stop," he said, and the Endarkened did. "Leave. I'll be done in a minute."

Without another word, without having seen her state below the shoulders, the soldier turned to leave, and Clary let out a quiet sob of relief. The door barely had time to click shut as it closed before she was taking advantage of his hand being off of her, driving her elbow into his side and shoving free of him, scrambling to pull up her pants. By the time she'd gotten them on and Sebastian was standing in front of her, she was already winding up for a viscous slap.

He caught her wrist before her splayed palm made contact with his cheek, using the grip to tug her forward instead, into his chest, and then he was kissing her firmly on the mouth. For a moment, she couldn't move, couldn't do anything at all, and then all she could think was to ball her fists in his shirt angrily, to meet his soft, fevered lips with her own.

She could have anything else. Anything else, as long as you know you belong to me.

After a long moment, too long, Clary pulled away.

Humiliated, angry, she shoved him back harshly and stormed out the door.

"What are you reading?" Sebastian asked, collapsing onto the couch next to Clary, and his weight on the cushions beside her tipper her close to him as his arm came up to rest on the back of the couch.

"Night, by…." Clary, feigning forgetfulness of the author, sat upright so she could keep some distance between them and flipped the book to see the cover. "...Elie Wiesel. You know, when someone is reading, it's generally considered rude to interrupt them."

Sebastian ignored her, raising his eyebrows. "Strange choice for light reading."

"I'm not looking for light reading," she said.

"Just the big moral dilemmas then?"

"I've actually just been picking randomly from the shelves," she admitted.

"Ironic, considering the topic. Indifference is the opposite of love, you know," he said casually, and Clary couldn't help a surprised look at the quote he'd pulled from the memoir. Sebastian laughed. "You're shocked I'm familiar with the writings of a Nobel laureate?"

"I'm frequently surprised by any knowledge you have of mundane culture."

"Mundane culture? The Holocaust is history. Besides, you know we study more than just fighting and demon hunting," he half-scoffed, and Clary frowned, embarrassed to think that she knew less world history from school than the Nephilim did. But the way Sebastian said we, as if to refer to the education of all Shadowhunters, as if Valentine hadn't raised him entirely separately, irked her. She tried to picture her brother as a young boy, given a break from combat training and a stack of books to read, tried to imagine him taking in the message of Wisel's writings. Clearly, he hadn't.

"Well," Clary sighed, sliding a bookmark between the pages in surrender to his interruption, "it isn't true. The quote I mean."

"How callous," Sebastian quipped, and she started defensively.

"Whatever, you know what I mean," she snapped, but when he just stared with an amused grin, she felt the need to go on. "Obviously the point Weisel's making within his writing is valid, but he's speaking more about inaction than indifference. Inaction as a result of inability or self-preservation is not the opposite of love. Inaction as a result of disregard for others' wellbeing, yeah, in a way, that might be. But indifference, on its own, is not the opposite of love. It's like…the opposite of up is down. Saying indifference is the opposite of love is like saying the opposite of up is the void. The opposite of a certain thing is not necessarily the absence of it."

Sebastian cocked his head, clearly entertained by her rambling. "And yet, directionality is not quite as nuanced as emotion. Or so I'm told."

Clary rolled her eyes.

"You think hate is the opposite of love, then?" he said knowingly, smiling like he knew her better than she knew herself.

"Actually, yes," she replied sullenly.

"How predictable."

"Please, like you're any better. You don't know what love is—how are you supposed to recognize its contrast? For me, hate is the opposite."

"For you?"

"That nuance you're talking about means that it varies from person to person. So, for anyone else, I suppose it depends."

"Depends on what?"

Clary thought for a moment, frustrated and not in the mood to discuss emotion with someone who so misunderstood it. "On what feels more opposed to the experience of love. On which hurts more to be subject of."

Sebastian's eyes narrowed, as if he suddenly wasn't following her.

"So which is it for you?" Clary asked, sensing the opportunity to piss him off, and though she knew she shouldn't push, she couldn't stop herself.

"How do you mean?"

"Would it hurt you more if I hated you, or was indifferent toward you?"

For a beat, she thought he might laugh, or joke that he couldn't be hurt, didn't grieve, that loss and heartbreak were beneath him, but then that little smirk slowly faded from his lips. "Indifferent," he said decisively, his voice even, his black stare unblinking, and Clary was suddenly struck by the realization that if she never knew whether anything he'd ever said to her before was true or not, this was. The honesty unnerved her.

This truth was a reflection of the little boy she'd imagined in Valentine's study, reading novel after novel, trying to understand what emotion was, what it meant, when his father only needed him to be a weapon. This was a boy that read Weisel and agreed with the concept of indifference opposing love without understanding that the issue was with lack of concern for others suffering, a boy who never knew love and who despised the idea of being disregarded.

"Then how lucky for you that I hate you."

His gaze darkened, and he chuckled humorlessly. "You're just mad about earlier," he said dismissively. "You know, if you'd stayed I would have finished you off. Maybe you wouldn't be so pissy now."

"I'm not just mad about earlier, I'm mad at you. I'm—" She broke off with a frustrated sigh. "It was just mean, what you did," she said, and instantly regretted how childish and insufficient mean sounded. "What I mean is, it's one thing for you to be cruel. I've grown accustomed to that. But…you can say I'm yours, that we belong together, but that doesn't mean you can treat me like a toy."

"I can treat you however I please. All the more reason to be thankful when I'm kind," he said superiorly, and she leaned back, knocking his arm off the back of the couch behind her.

"That's not how that works. You don't get credit for simply not being a jerk."

"Shouldn't I?" he said conceitedly, and she saw the little boy again, saw him alone and frustrated and abused, saw the shell of indifference he thrust on everyone else to hide that burning need for approval. It made her pity him, and the pity made her angry, because imagining him sad and alone beneath it all was like anthropomorphizing a tiger.

"You know the difference between what you mean versus what Weisel means when you say indifference is the opposite of love?" Clary said, her exasperation getting the better of her. "In the context of his writing, he is trying to convey the importance of taking action against suffering. When you say it, you say it from the standpoint of an oppressor: scornful at others for not fighting for his cause. For not being on your side. And the difference between you and me? I am not apathetic to others' pain, I only believe that indifference on its own is not an opposing concept to love. You are indifferent to others' suffering, but dislike others' indifference to you. That's just selfish."

"Is this supposed to convince me to treat you better?" he said crossly, his fingers closing around the back of her neck, pulling her head back so he could lean over her. But she only gave him a grimacing smile. "You're just mad about earlier," she said, throwing his words back at him. "Because you were interrupted before you could use me to get off. That's what you came for now, right? Not to debate morals. Not because you actually care what I think about anything. Not to have a civilized conversation. To fuck. Like I said—selfish."

"You—" he started angrily, but she was already pulling free of him, leaping up off the couch. She tossed the book at him, the hardcover thunking against his chest as he glared at her.

"I'm going back to the study," she said definitively, almost daring him to stop her. "If you're going to rule the world, you should re-read that. You obviously misunderstood it."

As she turned swiftly on her heel and walked away, she half expected to be thrown flat against the door before she could open it, but to her surprise, he did not come after her.

---

Dusting the chalk off his hands, Jace rose to inspect his work. Across the floor was an intricate reproduction of a summoning ring from a book Lalo begrudgingly lent him, filled with runes and symbols between the curves of concentric circles. A pentagram in the center was crowned with candles at each point, with more fanned out along the sides to create a low field of light to work by.

Although the abandoned warehouse he'd found would work well enough—open and spacious and away from prying eyes—the lack of electricity meant relying on sight runes and candles to see. Even with that, he'd redrawn the summoning circles several times, just to be sure the lines were perfect. He didn't come this far just to blunder the spell over some squiggly lines.

After nearly an hour spent on set up, Jace was beginning to appreciate Magnus to an unexpected degree. Warlocks could draw a few simple seals and circles, chant some Latin, then snap their fingers for a summoning. But not Lalo nor any other warlock—if Jace had been trusting enough to ask—was willing to come anywhere near what Jace was attempting, which meant he had to do things the old fashioned way: large drawn out circles and sigils, binding marks, an hour or more of focused meditation and summoning rites. And, of course, a sacrifice.

Without magic to forcibly draw the demon into his presence, Jace would have to rely on gifts to coax it in, and he had spent nearly a week gathering materials for it. According to the histories, Belphegor preferred sacrificial acts over goods, bacchanalias and acts of perversion, nothing Jace could offer, so he had to resort to other options. A valuable gem recovered from an archeological site in Italy, which Lalo swore would make for a decent sacrifice; a ritualistic blade, which Jace was to use on himself during the rites; and the freshly drawn blood of something beautiful, an ode to this Prince's principal opposition to beauty. For the latter, Jace had found a male peacock, young and vibrant and strong, and pinning it down had carefully, meticulously, severed a few nerves in its spine to immobilize its legs and weaken its wings. It made it easier to handle, and, he hoped, left it unable to feel, though he couldn't be certain the paralysis meant loss of sensation.

Satisfied with the lines, Jace took up the dagger and stepped over the outer ring to stand in the direct center. He regurgitated a latin chant, drew the blade across his open palm until blood flowed freely. He let several drops spatter in the center before stepping back, dipping the fingers of his other hand into the well of red ink rising in his palm, and knelt to trace the next set of lines. Once outside the ring again, Jace gingerly withdrew the peacock from its cage, cradling its long, limp neck, and checking to be sure it was still breathing. It made no sound as he carried it to the edge of the circle and laid it out on the floor. He stroked its brilliant plumage, reminded of his falcon, and took the same blade he'd cut himself with to sever its neck. Its beak opened in a silent squawk as an arterial spray painted the floor, much brighter than Jace's blood had been, its wings twitching weakly as it rapidly bled out. He pushed it, along with the gems, into the outer ring, continued his chanting.

Then, last, he drew Belphegor's sigil, his own blood mixed with the bird's.

As soon as it was done, the sigil flared, charring the floor, and the runes of the summoning ring followed suit, flashing brightly on the concrete. Jace crossed his legs and finished reading the summoning rites, and sat in a deadly silence. A long time passed before, from beneath his eyelids, he could see a flash of light, and he opened them to see the candles flaring.

The darkness in the room seemed to shift as though alive, a writhing blackness pulling away from the walls and into the ring, until a solid mass began to form in the center. Jace rose to his feet as the figure of a man began to take shape from the shadows. Shirtless and barefoot, he was dark skinned and wearing only a skirt of brown and red hides and a long green cloak lined with wool. His head—or perhaps it was over his head, like a mask—was a ram's skull, the horns curling back over his shoulders, and he sighed as he rolled the heavy looking animal skull on his neck, his spine cracking in protest, or relief.

"What is this wretched place?" the demon grumbled, his head swivelling slowly to take in the room.

"A warehouse in Jerssey. Unfit for a prince, I know, but the best I could do on short notice," Jace offered, and on hearing him speak, the demon seemed to finally register his presence. He hummed disapprovingly, took in the binding marks on the floor, and sighed almost wearily.

"Then again, for the biblical enemy of beauty, perhaps this wreck is suitable," Jace added consideringly, stepping closer to the ring. He tossed the blood stained dagger over the outer line of chalk, and it landed in a wet clatter next to the gems and the dead bird at the demon's feet. "For you."

Belphegor looked down at the items in seeming disinterest, but regardless bent to pick up the blade with one large, cracking hand. As he straightened, he drew his cloak around himself, trailing the end of the sheep skins over the other sacrifices. When the cape pulled back, the items were gone, and the demon sighed with notably more satisfaction than just before. The ram's skull turned; though he slouched slightly over a long staff, he seemed over seven feet tall, and had to look down as he addressed Jace in a ragged voice.

"Nephilim." He groaned the word like a curse. "I have not been brought to Earth in ages, and it is a Nephilim that does so." Looking Jace up and down, he scoffed. "Perhaps I should take your comeliness for disturbing me, return this poor bird to live out its short life."

"'Comeliness'? Geez, you really have been gone a long time," Jace said, and then indicated the bindings with an outstretched arm. "Well, sorry, pal, no matter how long you've been away, I'm sure you remember how these work. You'll take nothing of me that I don't offer."

"We'll see," Belphegor rasped, and though the black pits of the orbital sockets let none of the candle light through to illuminate a face behind the bone if there was one, Jace could tell by the tone of the demon's voice that his eyes were narrowed.

"Speaking of beauty, you couldn't show up in your…more appealing form? I thought you appear to humans as a beautiful woman."

"That form is for mortals who know not who they deal with. That form is a veil for delicate and temptable eyes," he droned. Raising the dagger to the skull, he sniffed the blood at the edge of the blade in a slow, deliberate inhale. He tilted his head as if his interest was finally piqued by the scent, and Jace shivered inwardly at the glare of dangerous curiosity on the expressionless mask. "You—you are no typical mortal. You do not come for fame or fortune. What is it you seek?"

"Answers. Or, a way to find them."

"Truth. Yes," he replied, drawing out the S in a hiss of breath. "I can practically smell it on you."

"I've been told there is a book in your possession containing a spell for tracking anything."

"You have lost something."

"It was stolen," Jace corrected, keeping his expression blank, determined to speak as little as possible on what—who—he would be using the tracking for. There was no telling what the demon already knew of him, or if demons could come to know new information at all when in the void, but the last thing he needed was Belphegor learning anything about him he could take advantage of.

"Hmm. Thieves," he groaned. "My brother is a thief."

For an instant, the comment stung, Jace unsure if the demon was being literal or making a sly remark about Sebastian, before he recalled a piece of lore about Belial, some old textbook noting him stealing Belphegor's place.

"Do you have this book? Or do you know where it is?"

"Perhaps," Belphegor said with a noncommittal shrug. "I have many things. I was—I am a collector. But to buy an item so powerful would require more than jewels and feathers."

"I expected bargaining. But I will tell you now, I won't let you free into this realm, so don't bother asking for it."

"No," the demon drawled. "I do not need you for freedom. Though, I suspect with little convincing I could make you agree to it. You would not have summoned me if you were not desperate."

"What, then? I've no apathy to give you, nor greed for you to take advantage of."

"No," he repeated. "You misunderstand me, Shadowhunter. Men do not come to me slothful; I show them the way. As for greed, I do not need it to work. I can be the complete lack of it, or the effect of attaining it. Sloth is freedom, after all, is it not? The eradication of responsibility, the death of moral burden…this is a thing all want. No, they bring me a twisted drive, and I offer the sin of freedom."

Jace was quiet for a moment. He knew this would be a part of it, the summoning, bartering for the spell, but he hadn't fleshed out what he could offer, or what he was willing to give. Of course, Belphegor's history of deals made sacrifice difficult; a pattern where the purchased result became void with indifference the moment one attained it. That was the demon's paradox: you could buy success, fame, fortune, anything at all from him, and as soon as the ability to achieve those dreams was given, the determination that drove you to the deal rotted out from under you so you cared nothing for the dream at all.

"It's a slow meal you're used to," Jace said. "Luring mundanes with inventions and genius that will eventually drive them to uselessness. I've no time for a slow death."

"I might settle for a piece. Something that inspires you."

The ambiguity of the offer was concerning, making his hackles raise. But what did he expect from a demon? He could ask for clarification, but he suspected he would get little more than vagaries and half-truths at this point. First, he needed to know if this was real.

"I want to see the book first," he demanded. "I won't make deals if I don't know you have what I need."

The demon grumbled something that might have meant very well, and tucked the dagger into a fold of his cape. Then, placing both hands on his staff, he drew it across open air. The space parted like a curtain, the black shadows around him a fabric that bunched around his arm as he reached through the opening and began to rummage. The scene would have been almost humorous, a towering demon rifling through a rip in space like it was his own Mary Poppins bag, if Jace's feeling of unease at the growing, gnawing wrongness of what he may be about to agree to wasn't pricking his nerves.

Subconsciously, he fingered the hilt of his blade as the demon pulled his arm back from the space, but it was just an old book he produced, the binding black and cracking leather. It looked like an ancient grimoire if he'd ever seen one, the pages thick and yellowing, the gold leaf text on the spine long faded, leaving only an indented stamp of letters in an unrecognized language. Belphegor made a half-heartedly triumphant noise as he produced it, then set it in front of him to hover in the air. With the wave of one hand, the book opened and the pages fluttered as they turned to three quarters of the way through and stopped. He leaned over it, as if reading, then nodded.

"This is it," he confirmed, tapping the page with a long finger.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

Belphegor seemed to consider the question a moment, then simply shrugged. "I could demonstrate the spell for you, but it would require you bring me ingredients and offer time I think you do not have. I can show you the page," he said, and spun the open book to face Jace with the swirl of a finger to reveal a writing he didn't recognize, "but you cannot read the language, not without a dictionary of dead languages. Do you have such a translator on you?"

"Don't get smart with me. You forget you're within my binding marks. Perhaps I'll simply leave you here to rot until you give the book up for free."

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose you could. Though sitting and doing nothing does not sound bad at all. And so I would sit, until—unless you plan to guard this place at all hours—someone happens along to break the binding, or offer their own deal, while this thing you've lost slips further away."

"What are you proposing, then? Something that inspires me—what does that mean? A memory? An idea? An object?"

"A dream. A single goal. That is all. Something you have always wanted."

Jace's mind spun with countless dreams, objectives, all the things he'd ever wanted in life, and was startled to realize that they were all woefully bland, all mild and meaningless—the goals of a boy who never expected to grow old. To be the best fighter of his generation, to master all weaponry, to study more languages, to be able to play La Campanella on the piano without faltering on the trills, all dreams he never truly cared about. There was family, of course, there always would be a drive to protect them, but they had their own ambitions for the future, Alec and Izzy primed for diplomacy and governance in the Clave, and Jace, he was simply present, simply fighting because it was all he was decent at, and killing the down time with passionless hobbies when there was nothing else to do. He lived one mission to the next, one fight to another, one bloody war at a time. That is, until Clary.

And all at once, and with staggering pain, Jace realized that none of it, not a single aspiration, meant anything at all without her. That that had all been true before she had come into his life, that he never thought of the future until he could picture a future with her. Without her, what was there? What were his pitiful dreams but distractions in a gruesome and short life without her?

What was it to give up one little dream to ensure he could find her again?

"I choose which one?" Jace asked.

"Yes," the demon replied, a smile in his voice.

Jace said nothing, caught on a cliff's edge. The same instinct that warned him of unleashed danger before a fight told him to back away, or to draw a sword, but everything, everything seemed to pale beside finding Clary.

"Let me see," Belphegor said impatiently, lifting one open hand to Jace, beckoning. The grimoire still hung open in the air. He took a step closer to the ring.

"Jace!"

His name froze him a few inches from the circle and he turned, shocked to see Alec near the wall of the warehouse. He hadn't even noticed the light of the open portal behind him. Izzy was already stepping through next as Alec strode over to Jace.

"What are you—" Jace started.

"Don't do this," Izzy said hurriedly. "Magnus is right behind us, he'll banish the demon. We'll all go home."

"He has a spell to track her," he argued, looking back at the book.

"We've dealt with demons before, it's not worth it—"

"Exactly, you've done this before," Jace retorted. "You did it to learn about Glorious, to save me. Why not to find Clary?"

"Don't use Clary as an excuse to self-destruct," Alec bid with unexpected anger in his voice. "If you really cared about her, you would take into consideration that she wouldn't want this."

Jace scowled. "And you would know what she wants?"

"Yes, you asshole. She wouldn't want you getting hurt," Isabelle said, speaking for her brother.

"I'll tell you what she wants. If Clary even can want anymore, she wants not to be held captive by her psychotic, demon of a brother. She wants—"

"By the angel." Someone came through the portal Jace didn't recognize, an older man with tanned skin and greying hair, a Council member surely. "You'd go this far? Consort with demons? And we're to believe he's not corrupted?" he muttered, taking in the greater demon before him with a sort of horrified interest.

"Mind your business," Jace snapped at the stranger as Magnus appeared, and it only took the warlock a moment to assess the scene and begin a chant he knew would banish the demon, the book along with him. Belphegor must have realized it too, because he called out to address Jace again with more demand than he'd spoken with since he'd been summoned.

"As exciting as all of this is, I'm not one for drama. The deal—now or never."

He looked to the grimoire, floating tauntingly midair, still open on the tracking spell page. Just an arms length away, if he moved quickly enough.

"Jace, don't—!" Alec shouted, but Jace was already moving, lunging into the circle, his arm outstretched. And the previously lumbersome demon snapped into motion faster than lightning, a large hand snatching Jace's forearm just before he could grab the book, tugging him further into the summoning ring.

"You dare attempt stealing from me?!" he bellowed, his voice so much louder up close, the frequency grating against his ribcage as he lifted Jace off his feet to bring them eye level. "Filthy Nephilim. I was to break order from Lilith for you, I was to—"

But Jace was already drawing his seraph blade with his free hand. With strained breath he named it, and swung it at the arm of the demon that held him, the angelic metal hissing as it made contact with flesh. Belphegor howled, throwing Jace down before he could cut clean through the limb, and though the strength of the throw would have sent him flying out of the ring, instead of passing over the chalk as he had to come in, he slammed against an invisible barrier preventing his exit, the breath knocked out of him as he slid to the floor. The demon's half amputated hand fell limp at the wrist as he roared in agony.

"So desperate for truth," he raged, the black behind the skull a dark glow. "I'll show you truth."

And as Jace recovered, jumping to his feet, the demon began growing, warping. Bones elongated and twisted under the disguise of human-like flesh, stretching rapidly blackening skin til it seemed it might split, and his few clothes fell away, the ties of the skirt and cape busting as his body doubled in size. Mounds of leathery flesh spilled out from where his legs had been, the skull cracking and scattering to the ground as a head with glowing red eyes and a gaping mouth full of fangs expanded beneath it, two spiked horns rising from the demon's true face.

Jace backed up to the barrier, the demon's massive size eating up the open space in the ring, the monstrous body now between him and the book. He could hear Alec and Izzy shouting from outside the circle, Magnus chanting furiously, but it was all white noise beneath Belphegor's groaning.

"Lilith commands you then," Jace shouted, regripping his sword, and the demon bent over him, his breath hot and pungent like sun rotted roadkill. "I would have made you a fair trade, you fool. I would have given you the spell against her threats. I despise them. I despise all of them!" he screamed, swinging his good arm down as if to squash Jace like a bug. He rolled to the side at the last minute, having to skip over piles of skin across the floor which seemed not correlated to any real body part. As he raised his blade to cut into what he believed was the demon's side, Belphegor brought his hand down to block the blow, the nails nearly the length of Jace's sword.

"But you. I know what you are," the demon seethed, his voice manic and hollow like a starved man's. "Angel blood. Not like your Nephilim brothers. The dream of a near angel, now that might sate me. I only wanted a piece. A morsel for your silly spell," he rambled, easily deflecting the seraph blade, backing Jace against the barrier again. As he tried to evade an undesignated lump of flesh on his right, the hand came down again, flicking the seraph blade away and knocking Jace on his back. Before he could rise, he was being pulled off the ground, a crushing grip wound around his torso.

The demon lifted him struggling into the air, bringing them face to face once more, this time ten feet higher off the ground. Jace kicked and jabbed, trying to find purchase on tough, slick skin, a weak spot, a wound, but the hand was compressing his ribs, pinning his diaphragm, preventing a full breath, and he tired quickly, gasping for air.

"I may not be allowed to kill you, but I can still feast on you, Shadowhunter," Belphegor snarled, and his massive jaw dropped open to reveal rows of browning teeth, a black, tarry pit of a throat behind them. Jace curled up, tried to get his feet above his waist, to kick at the thing's face, but was stopped dead as the glowing red of the monster's eyes intensified, blinding, boring into Jace's own.

And as if a pin was being driven under his eyelid, a sharp pain developed behind his eyes, piercing his mind as the demon pulled his thoughts forward. Like watching his life on a carousel projector, memories began to flash through his thoughts, and Belphegor let out a pleased moan as he witnessed them along with Jace. He saw himself and Alec and Izzy, laughing in a bakery on Fifth Avenue; Clary and he walking through the park, holding hands and enjoying a warm, fall day; training with Max in the Institute after hours so Robert wouldn't send him to bed; himself as a boy, looking up to who he thought to be Michael Wayland, in a rarely decent mood and teaching Jace poetry; the flourishing greenhouse, the midnight blooming flower, lessons from Hodge; Maryse leaving him book recommendations at his door; himself playing the piano, Church curled appreciatively on the lounge—

"Do you see now?" the demon hissed, the words forming without a twitch of tongue or jaw, slamming into Jace like a headache. "You thought those moments between battle worthless—your dreams false. Do you see? Do you see that the smallest moments matter after all, now that they are on the tip of another's tongue?"

Jace fought for breath, the memories reeling faster and faster, like how they say a life flashes before one's eyes at death, but with none of the pleasantness, none of the fondness of the moments relived, not over the pain and vile sensation at knowing someone was touching—seeing—what they shouldn't.

"I only wanted a piece. But I think now I should take them all," the demon said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I'll be doing the bastard son of her's a favor; they can rebuild you from a blank slate however they please."

Death. Was that what this was?

Jace saw Clary again, curled at his side as he read to her in the apartment, the memory passed and replaced with another in the blink of an eye, but he registered that even then, even in that moment when he wasn't fully himself, she was all he wanted, all he needed. He thought of Clary twisted by Sebastian's blood, or alone and terrified in a cell, or not alone in whatever bed she'd been given, or pleading silently to be found, or fighting desperately to escape by herself, left behind—

He clung onto her, onto the good and bad, onto all of it, like a latch in the darkness. His knees jerked upward, pulled back, and with all his remaining strength he drove his feet into the bottom jaw of the demon's open mouth. Jace heard the sound of fangs cracking, saw ichor drip down Belphegor's chin as he choked on the shards of teeth sent flying into the back of his throat, and whatever trance he'd been under snapped as the demon shrieked. It was enough to loosen the monster's grip, enough to drive his elbow under the crushing palm and pry the fingers free of his chest. He dropped to the ground, his head slamming into the floor with a burst of pain that shook him from his numbness.

The world around him returned as he staggered to his feet, mind spinning like he'd just awoken from a nightmare, and he had no time to readjust as the enraged demon flailed. Jace jumped to the side, searching desperately for his lost seraph blade, nowhere to be found. He registered Magnus' intensified chanting, caught a few words in Latin—regnum—and the demon stopped mid-reach for Jace to turn on him furiously.

"I have no realm to be banished to, warlock! I—"

But there was a flash of light outside the circle, Magnus' magic flaring, and the lines of the summoning ring began to glow blue, the few remaining candles at the outer curves, which hadn't been knocked aside or crushed in the chaos, blowing out. The same smokey shadows that had birthed him to the summoning ring returned, rushing into the circle, crowding him, and the demon screamed, his attention drawn away from Jace. He swatted at them with huge, fleshy limbs as if he could keep them away, but they only came in faster, clinging to his form, which itself was beginning to darken and fade. He screeched, distracted, and Jace saw that, somehow, still floating on the other side of the circle, was the grimoire, seemingly unaffected by the havoc around it.

Belphegor, still screaming, still distracted.

Jace, stumbling and disoriented, started in a mad dash, dodging writhing flesh and claws. He lunged, arm fully extended, until his open hand found paper, his fingers curling around a chunk of pages—

And two giant claws folded around the cover, snapping the book back out of Jace's hand.

"Theives! I will kill all of you, I will—" Belphegor raged, shooting another hand toward Jace, but just before the fingers could close around him again, the shadows swallowed him, and he faded rapidly into blackness.

When the darkness cleared, Jace stood alone in the extinguished summoning circle. For a moment, the sudden silence in the warehouse was deafening, and then Alec and Izzy were rushing forward.

"Oh my god, Jace," Izzy shouted, throwing herself at him, and he caught her in a stunned hug.

"Are you—are you?" Alec stuttered, crowding Jace's other side, feeling him over as if to check for wounds. Jace shook his head numbly. "No, he didn't…I'm fine. He didn't take anything."

Isabelle shoved him away suddenly, punching at his chest. "God, you're a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"She's right," Magnus chimed in, sounding tired as ever. "That was one of the stupidest things I've ever seen you do. And I've seen you all do a lot of stupid stuff."

"Stupid? This was far beyond idiocy. You realize you've reformed a Prince of Hell? The Council will have your head. The—" The man who had been speaking, the man Jace didn't recognize before, cut his fuming short as the rest of the group turned to him with disapproving looks.

Jace ignored him, still unsure if what he felt in his hand was real. He looked down, and all eyes followed his gaze as he uncurled his fingers around a clump of pages torn from the spine of the grimoire.

"Is that…?"

He wasn't even sure who had spoken, too stunned by the glimmer of hope, the first he'd felt in ages, spreading through him, the racing of his heart as he looked down at what might finally be the answer to finding Clary. Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath, and Jace nearly laughed in disbelief.

"We can track them," he started. "We can finally get her back."

No one said a word, no one moved, but he could feel their growing elation, their relief, at the much needed win. Still, Magnus held out his hand skeptically. "Let me see," he said, and Jace reluctantly handed over the pages.

"We can finally end this," he said as Magnus shuffled through the paper, his cat eyes squinted and speed reading over the script. "We can gather the Clave and take the fight to him. Strike before he can. We can find Clary and stop Sebastian. We can do it as soon as we return—"

"And all of this relies on magic obtained from a demon," the Council member scoffed. "The Clave will never approve."

"Oh, I won't be waiting on approval. The Council can join me or wait safely in Alicante like the cowards they—"

The man's face reddened angrily, but Alec stepped between them before things could escalate further. "Bersani, you were sent to ensure we followed orders, not to make judgements for the entirety of the Council. All of this will be decided when we return."

"You've no idea the trouble you've caused," the man spat.

"We have a chance to retrieve Clary and stop Sebastian. A chance—"

"Jace."

It was Magnus, and the empty, echoing quality of his voice silenced the group. Jace knew before he opened his mouth again what he would say, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

"It doesn't matter," the warlock continued. "It's not the tracking spell."

"What? No, he—the book was open on the right page," Jace stammered, snatching back the pages to look through them disbelievingly, as if he might suddenly be able to read them.

Izzy eyes dropped. "The pages must have turned during the fight. Or he was lying to you."

"He wasn't. I—He knew, Magnus. I didn't summon the demon from the void. Belphegor implied that Lilith came to him before I did, that she gave him orders. Sebastian knew I was trying for the book and sent Lilith to stop it, which means they believe the spell to be real, a genuine threat." He grew angry as he spoke, the false hope, which had only lasted a moment, turning sour. Jace cursed, his fingers curling into fists. "The deal would have worked. I could have gotten the spell if you just—"

"If we what? If we let you sell your soul, or god knows what, for it? You're being reckless, the Clave is right to want to bring you back," Alec said, though he too sounded more disappointed than angry now. Before Jace could reply, Magnus was backing him up.

"It likely wouldn't have mattered anyway. There's a reason magic like this has been hidden away."

"So you two are on good terms again, huh? Taking each other's sides," Jace said sourly, and he knew it was cruel even before it came out of his mouth. Alec looked taken aback, Magnus pissy, and Isabelle was quick to call Jace out on it. "Don't be an ass about their business just because you're pissed off about us stopping your suicide mission."

"It wasn't—"

"We all want Clary back, okay? We all want this over with. But you can't be angry at us for interrupting something that could have gotten you killed," Alec said.

"I can look into those pages, but as far as I can tell they don't contain anything about tracking. And honestly, regardless of what the magic is capable of, the cost of a spell like that is rarely worth the result. Do you understand? Even if you had gotten the whole book, the price of performing the tracking spell would have been more than you'd be willing to pay."

"Great. So it was all a waste of time then. We should just continue to sit back and wait for the Council to do something," Jace said sarcastically, and though Bersani muttered something along the lines of "Now he's got it," Magnus shook his head. "That's not what I said."

Jace turned away, bent to pick up his exhausted seraph blade at the edge of the summoning circle, visible now that the demon was gone. "...Besides. You don't know. You don't know what I'd be willing to pay to find her."

"Oh, I've no doubt you would give the world. And that is precisely the problem," Magnus said firmly. Jace hilted the used blade, the handle scuffed and charred with ichor from the battle, and before he could bite something back, the Council member had come up behind him, wrapped a firm hand around the back of his arm.

"Jonathan Herondale, you're being taken into custody to be investigated by the Council for your time with Morgenstern and your failure to return to Alicante on Clave orders."

Jace scoffed, the energy to argue, to shake off Bersani's grip, dying as he took in the downtrodden faces of the others, saw that their hands were tied just as much as his were about to be.

"Make us a portal," Bersani called to Magnus over his shoulder, shoving Jace toward the wall. "We're going home."