City of Lost Souls

Simon tried to focus on the milling darkness ahead of him, his vampire senses sharpening at the distinct scent of blood. Different kinds of blood, mixing together — Shadowhunter blood, demon blood, and the bitterness of Sebastian’s blood. “I see her,” he said. “Jace has hold of her. He’s pulling her behind that line of Shadowhunters there.”

“If they’re loyal to Jonathan like the Circle was to Valentine, they’ll make a wall of bodies to protect him, and Clary and Jace along with him.” Jocelyn was all cold maternal fury, her green eyes burning. “We’re going to have to break through it to get to them.”

“What we need to get to is Sebastian,” said Isabelle. “Simon, we’ll hack a path for you. You get to Sebastian and run him through with Glorious. Once he falls—”

“The others will probably scatter,” said Magnus. “Or, depending on how tied they are to Sebastian, they might die or collapse along with him. We can hope, at least.” He craned his head back. “Speaking of hope, did you see that shot Alec got off with his bow? That’s my boyfriend.” He beamed and wiggled his fingers; blue sparks shot from them. He shone all over. Only Magnus, Simon thought resignedly, would have access to sequined battle armor.

Isabelle uncurled her whip from around her wrist. It shot out in front of her, a lick of golden fire. “Okay, Simon,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Simon’s shoulders tightened. They were still some distance from the line of the opposing army — he didn’t know how else to think of them — who were holding their line in their red robes and gear, their hands bristling with weapons. Some of them were exclaiming out loud in confusion. He couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Name of the Angel, Simon,” said Izzy. “What’s there to smile about?”

“Their seraph blades don’t work anymore,” said Simon. “They’re trying to figure out why. Sebastian just shouted at them to use other weapons.” A cry came up from the line as another arrow swooped down from the tomb and buried itself in the back of a burly red-robed Shadowhunter, who collapsed forward. The line jerked and opened slightly, like a fracture in a wall. Simon, seeing his chance, dashed forward, and the others rushed with him.

It was like diving into a black ocean at night, an ocean filled with sharks and viciously toothed sea creatures colliding against one another. It was not the first battle Simon had ever been in, but during the Mortal War he had been newly Marked with the Mark of Cain. It hadn’t quite begun working yet, though many demons had reeled back upon seeing it. He had never thought he would miss it, but he missed it now, as he tried to shove forward through the tightly packed Shadowhunters, who hacked at him with blades. Isabelle was on one side of him, Magnus on the other, protecting him — protecting Glorious. Isabelle’s whip sang out strong and sure, and Magnus’s hands spat fire, red and green and blue. Lashes of colored fire struck the dark Nephilim, burning them where they stood. Other Shadowhunters screamed as Luke’s wolves slunk among them, nipping and biting, leaping for their throats.

A dagger shot out with astonishing speed and sliced at Simon’s side. He cried out but kept going, knowing the wound would knit itself together in seconds. He pushed forward—

And froze. A familiar face was before him. Luke’s sister, Amatis. As her eyes settled on him, he saw the recognition in them. What was she doing here? Had she come to fight alongside them? But—

She lunged at him, a darkly gleaming dagger in her hand. She was fast—but not so fast that his vampire reflexes couldn’t have saved him, if he hadn’t been too astonished to move. Amatis was Luke’s sister; he knew her; and that moment of disbelief might have been the end of him if Magnus hadn’t jumped in front of him, shoving him backward. Blue fire shot from Magnus’s hand, but Amatis was faster than the warlock, too. She spun away from the blaze and under Magnus’s arm, and Simon caught the flash of moonlight off the blade of her knife. Magnus’s eyes widened in shock as her midnight-colored blade drove downward, slicing through his armor. She jerked it back, the blade now slick with reflective blood; Isabelle screamed as Magnus collapsed to his knees. Simon tried to turn toward him, but the surge and pressure of the fighting crowd was carrying him away. He cried out Magnus’s name as Amatis bent over the fallen warlock and raised the dagger a second time, aiming for his heart.

“Let go of me!” Clary shouted, writhing and kicking as she did her best to wrench herself out of Jace’s grip. She could see almost nothing above the surging crowd of red-clad Shadowhunters that stood in front of her, Jace, and Sebastian, blocking her family and friends. The three of them were a few feet behind the line of battle; Jace was holding her tightly as she struggled, and Sebastian, to the side of them, was watching events unfold with a look of dark fury on his face. His lips were moving. She couldn’t tell if he was swearing, praying, or chanting the words of a spell. “Let go of me, you—”

Sebastian turned, a frightening expression on his face, somewhere between a grin and a snarl. “Shut her up, Jace.”

Jace, still gripping Clary, said, “Are we just going to stand back here and let them protect us?” He jerked his chin toward the line of Shadowhunters.

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “We are too important to risk getting hurt, you and I.”

Jace shook his head. “I don’t like it. There are too many on the other side.” He craned his neck to look out over the crowd. “What about Lilith? Can you summon her back, have her help us?”

“What, right here?” There was contempt in Sebastian’s tone. “No. Besides, she’s too weak now to be of much help. Once she could have smote down an army, but that piece of scum Downworlder with his Mark of Cain scattered her essence through the voids between the worlds. It was all she could do to appear and give us her blood.”

“Coward,” Clary spat at him. “You turned all these people into your slaves and you won’t even fight to protect them—”

Sebastian raised his hand as if he meant to backhand her across the face. Clary wished he would, wished Jace could be there to see it happen when he did, but a smirk flashed across Sebastian’s mouth instead. He lowered his hand. “And if Jace let you go, I suppose you’d fight?”

“Of course I would—”

“On what side?” Sebastian took a quick step toward her, raising the Infernal Cup. She could see what was inside it. Though many had drunk from it, the blood had remained at the same level. “Lift her head up, Jace.”

“No!” She redoubled her efforts to get away. Jace’s hand slipped beneath her chin, but she thought she felt hesitation in his touch.

“Sebastian,” he said. “Not—”

“Now,” Sebastian said. “There’s no need for us to remain here. We are the important ones, not these cannon fodder. We’ve proved the Infernal Cup works. That’s what matters.” He seized the front of Clary’s dress. “But it will be much easier to escape,” he said, “without this one kicking and screaming and punching every step of the way.”

“We can make her drink later—”

“No,” Sebastian snarled. “Hold her still.” And he raised the Cup and jammed it against Clary’s lips, trying to pry open her mouth. She fought him, gritting her teeth. “Drink,” Sebastian said in a vicious whisper, so low she doubted Jace could hear it. “I told you by the end of this night you would do whatever I wanted. Drink.” His black eyes darkened, and he dug the Cup in, slicing her bottom lip.

She tasted blood as she reached behind her, grabbing Jace’s shoulders, using his body to push off against as she kicked out with her legs. She felt the seam rip on her dress as it split up the side and her feet slammed solidly against Sebastian’s rib cage. He staggered back with the wind knocked out of him, just as she jerked her head back, hearing the solid crack as her skull connected with Jace’s face. He yelled and loosened his grip on her enough for her to tear free. She ripped away from him and plunged into the battle without looking back.

Maia raced along the rocky ground, starlight raking its cool fingers through her coat, the strong scents of battle assailing her sensitive nose — blood, sweat, and the burned-rubber stench of dark magic.

The pack had spread out widely over the field, leaping and killing with deadly teeth and claws. Maia kept close to Jordan’s side, not because she needed his protection but because she had discovered that side by side they fought better and more effectively. She had been in only one battle before, on Brocelind Plain, and that had been a chaotic whirl of demons and Downworlders. There were many fewer combatants here on the Burren, but the dark Shadowhunters were formidable, swinging their swords and daggers with a swift, frightening force. Maia had seen one slender man use a short-bladed dagger to whip the head off a wolf who’d been in midleap; what had collapsed