“That doesn’t give you the right to eat my cat.”
“Your cat is fine!” Simon reached to pick up the tabby, who jumped indignantly to his feet and stalked off the table. “See?”
“Whatever.” Magnus threw himself down in the seat at the head of the table; the mugs banged into place as Alec and Izzy straightened up, done with their task. Magnus clapped his hands. “Everyone! Gather around. It’s time for a meeting. I’m going to teach you how to summon a demon.”
Praetor Scott was waiting for them in the library, still in the same swivel chair, a small bronze box on the desk between them. Maia and Jordan sat down across from him, and Maia couldn’t help wondering if it was written all over her face, what she and Jordan had been doing. Not that the Praetor was looking at them with much interest.
He pushed the box toward Jordan. “It’s a salve,” he said. “If applied to Garroway’s wound, it should filter the poison from his blood and allow the demon steel to work its way free. He should heal in a few days.”
Maia’s heart leaped — finally some good news. She reached for the box before Jordan could, and opened it. It was indeed filled with a dark waxy salve that smelled sharply herbal, like crushed bay leaves.
“I—,” Praetor Scott began, his eyes flicking to Jordan.
“She should take it,” said Jordan. “She’s close to Garroway and is part of the pack. They trust her.”
“Are you saying they don’t trust the Praetor?”
“Half of them think the Praetor is a fairy tale,” Maia said, adding “sir” as an afterthought.
Praetor Scott looked annoyed, but before he could say anything, the phone on his desk rang. He seemed to hesitate, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Scott here,” he said, and then, after a moment, “Yes — yes, I think so.” He hung up, his mouth curving into a not entirely pleasant smile. “Praetor Kyle,” he said. “I’m glad you dropped in on us today of all days. Stay a moment. This matter somewhat concerns you.”
Maia was startled at this pronouncement, but not as startled as she was a moment later when a corner of the room began to shimmer and a figure appeared, slowly developing — it was like watching images appear on film in a darkroom — and the figure of a young boy took shape. His hair was dark brown, short and straight, and a gold necklace gleamed against the brown skin of his throat. He looked slight and ethereal, like a choirboy, but there was something in his eyes that made him seem much older than that.
“Raphael,” she said, recognizing him. He was ever so slightly transparent — a Projection, she realized. She’d heard of them but had never seen one up close.
Praetor Scott looked at her in surprise. “You know the head of the New York vampire clan?”
“We met once, in Brocelind Woods,” said Raphael, looking her over without much interest. “She is a friend of the Daylighter, Simon.”
“Your assignment,” Praetor Scott said to Jordan, as if Jordan could have forgotten.
Jordan’s forehead creased. “Has something happened to him?” he asked. “Is he all right?”
“This is not about him,” said Raphael. “It is about the rogue vampire, Maureen Brown.”
“Maureen?” Maia exclaimed. “But she’s only, what, thirteen?”
“A rogue vampire is a rogue vampire,” said Raphael. “And Maureen has been cutting quite a swath for herself through TriBeCa and the Lower East Side. Multiple injured and at least six kills. We’ve managed to cover them up, but…”
“She’s Nick’s assignment,” said Praetor Scott with a frown. “But he hasn’t been able to find a trace of her. We may need to send in someone with more experience.”
“I urge you to do so,” said Raphael. “If the Shadowhunters were not so concerned with their own… emergency at this juncture, they would surely have involved themselves by now. And the last thing the clan needs after the affair with Camille is a censuring by the Shadowhunters.”
“I take it Camille is still missing as well?” said Jordan. “Simon told us everything that happened the night Jace disappeared, and Maureen seemed to be doing Camille’s bidding.”
“Camille is not new-made and is therefore not our concern,” said Scott.
“I know, but — find her, and you may find Maureen, that’s all I’m saying,” said Jordan.
“If she were with Camille, she would not be killing at the rate she is,” said Raphael. “Camille would prevent her. She is bloodthirsty but she knows the Conclave, and the Law. She would keep Maureen and her activities out of their line of sight. No, Maureen’s behavior has all the hallmarks of a vampire gone feral.”
“Then, I think you’re right.” Jordan sat back. “Nick should have backup in dealing with her, or—”
“Or something might happen to him? If it does, perhaps it will help you focus more in future,” said Praetor Scott. “On your
Jordan’s mouth opened. “Simon wasn’t responsible for Turning Maureen,” he said. “I told you—”
Praetor Scott waved away his words. “Yes, I know,” he said, “or you would have been pulled from your assignment, Kyle. But your subject did bite her, and under your watch as well. And it was her association with the Daylighter, however distant, that led to her eventual Turning.”
“The Daylighter is dangerous,” said Raphael, his eyes shining. “It is what I have been saying all along.”
“He is not dangerous,” Maia said fiercely. “He has a good heart.” She saw Jordan glance at her a little, sidelong, so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“Yap, yap, yap,” said Raphael dismissively. “You werewolves cannot focus on the matter at hand. I trusted you, Praetor, for new-fledged Downworlders are your department. But allowing Maureen to run wild reflects badly on my clan. If you do not find her soon, I will call up every vampire at my disposal. After all”—he smiled, and his delicate incisors shone—“in the end she is ours to kill.”
When the meal was over, Clary and Jace walked back to the apartment through a mist-shrouded evening. The streets were deserted and the canal water shone like glass. Rounding a corner, they found themselves beside a quiet canal, lined with shuttered houses. Boats bobbed gently on the curving water, each a half-moon of black.
Jace laughed softly and moved forward, his hand pulling out of Clary’s. His eyes were wide and golden in the lamplight. He knelt by the side of the canal, and she saw a flash of white-silver — a stele — and then one of the boats sprang free of its mooring chain and began to drift toward the center of the canal. Jace slid the stele back into his belt and leaped, landing lightly on the wooden seat at the front of the boat. He held his hand out to Clary. “Come on.”
She looked from him to the boat and shook her head. It was only a little bigger than a canoe, painted black, though the paint was damp and splintering. It looked as light and fragile as a toy. She imagined upending it and both of them being dumped into the ice-green canal. “I can’t. I’ll knock it over.”
Jace shook his head impatiently. “You can do it,” he said. “I trained you.” To demonstrate he took a step back. Now he was standing on the thin edge of the boat, just beside the oarlock. He looked at her, his mouth crooked in a half smile. By all the laws of physics, she thought, the boat, unbalanced, ought to have been toppling sideways into the water. But Jace balanced lightly there, back straight, as if he were made of nothing more than smoke. Behind him was the backdrop of water and stone, canal and bridges, not a single modern edifice in sight. With his bright hair and the way he carried himself, he could have been some Renaissance prince.
He held out a hand to her again. “Remember. You’re as light as you want to be.”
She remembered. Hours of training in how to fall, to balance, how to land like Jace did, as if you were a piece of ash sifting gently downward. She sucked her breath in and leaped, the green water flying by beneath her. She alighted in the bow of the boat, wobbling on the wooden seat, but steady.
She let out her breath in a whoosh of relief and heard Jace laugh as he leaped down to the flat bottom of the boat. It was leaky. A thin layer of water covered the wood. He was also nine inches taller than she was, so that with her standing on the seat in the bow, their heads were on a level.
He put his hands on her waist. “So,” he said. “Where do you want to go now?”
She looked around. They had drifted far away from the bank of the canal. “Are we stealing this boat?”
“‘Stealing’ is such an ugly word,” he mused.
“What do you want to call it?”
He picked her up and swung her around before putting her down. “An extreme case of window- shopping.”
He pulled her closer, and she stiffened. Her feet skidded out from under her, and the two of them slid to the curved floor of the boat, which was flat and damp and smelled like water and wet wood.
Clary found herself resting on top of Jace, her knees on either side of his hips. Water was soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. He threw his hands behind his head, folding them, his shirt pulling up. “You
