Around New York, Friday to Saturday Morning

[seveninchmotto]

There'd been a few coincidences yesterday. For one, when Isabelle had been spending her morning with Meliorn (oh shut up, she'd needed something to wipe the memory of the carnage in the Bone City from her memory), he'd happened to mention that the Seelie Queen was interested in meeting Valentine's children. News traveled fast in the Shadow World, obviously. And then when she came home, she overheard her mother talking to Alec on the phone, about what Jace had been telling him about Valentine. That he was behind the killings of the young fey in Central Park, and the warlock some days before, because he was intending to perform a ritual of conversion on the Soul Sword he'd stolen, to reverse its angelic power into demonic.

So Isabelle had put two and two together, and insisted they take the audience with the Seelie Queen, in the hopes that they'd become allies. It took some convincing when it came to her brothers, but other than that, it was easy to set it up through Meliorn. She got her way, and was waiting for the others by Turtle Pond in the park, sitting in the wooden gazebo. She jumped when Jace called her name, and she skipped to him to give him a hug. (Yes, that was necessary. The fact that he was in exile at Magnus' loft was wearing on her a bit.) She and Jace drifted over to Clary and Simon.

"I can't believe you did it!" Isabelle exclaimed. "How did you get Magnus to let Jace leave?"

"Traded him for Alec," Clary said.

Isabelle –- okay, she felt mildly alarmed. "Not permanently?"

"No," said Jace. "Just for a few hours. Unless I don't come back," he added thoughtfully. "In which case, maybe he does get to keep Alec. Think of it as a lease with an option to buy."

Isabelle looked dubious. "Mom and Dad won't be pleased if they find out."

"That you freed a possible criminal by trading away your brother to a warlock who looks like a gay Sonic the Hedgehog and dresses like the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" Simon inquired. "No, probably not."

Jace looked at him thoughtfully. "Is there some particular reason that you're here? I'm not so sure we should be bringing you to the Seelie Court. They hate mundanes."

Simon rolled his eyes upward. "Not this again."

"Not what again?" said Clary.

"Every time I annoy him, he retreats into his No Mundanes Allowed tree house." Simon pointed at Jace. (Isabelle felt a little pang of something. She tried to shake it off.) "Let me remind you, the last time you wanted to leave me behind, I saved all your lives."

"Sure," said Jace. "One time ––"

"The faerie courts are dangerous," Isabelle cut in before he derailed them further. "Even your skill with the bow won't help you. It's not that kind of danger."

"I can take care of myself," said Simon. A sharp wind had come up, and he dug his hands into the wool-lined pockets of his jacket.

"You don't have to come," Clary said.

He looked at her, a steady, measured look. A little more steady than Isabelle might have expected from him. "Yeah," he said. "I do."

Jace made a noise under his breath. "Then I suppose we're ready," he said. "Don't expect any special consideration, mundane."

"Look on the bright side," said Simon. "If they need a human sacrifice, you can always offer me. I'm not sure the rest of you qualify anyway."

Jace brightened. "It's always nice when someone volunteers to be the first up against the wall."

"Come on," Isabelle said, rolling her eyes. "The door is about to open."

"Where do we go?" Clary asked. "Where's the door?"

Isabelle's smile was like a whispered secret. "Follow me." She moved down to the edge of the water, her boots leaving deep impressions in the wet mud. Simon, behind her, swore as he slipped in the mud; Jace moved automatically to steady him as they all turned. Simon jerked his arm back. "I don't need your help."

"Stop it." Isabelle tapped a booted foot in the shallow water at the lake's edge. "Both of you. In fact, all three of you. If we don't stick together in the Seelie Court, we're dead."

"But I haven't ––" Clary started.

"Maybe you haven't, but the way you let those two act..." Isabelle indicated the boys with a disdainful wave of her hand.

"I can't tell them what to do!"

"Why not?" Isabelle demanded. (And there was another pang of something which she ignored. Not the time.) "Honestly, Clary, if you don't start utilizing a bit of your natural feminine superiority, I just don't know what I'll do with you." She turned toward the pond, then spun around again. "And lest I forget," she added sternly, "for the love of the Angel, don't eat or drink anything while we're underground, any of you. Okay?"

"Underground?" said Simon worriedly. "Nobody said anything about underground."

Isabelle threw up her hands and splashed out into the pond. Her green velvet coat swirled out around her like an enormous lily pad. "Come on. We only have until the moon moves." She waded into the water, until she reached the center, up to her rib cage in water and ignoring the urge to shiver. She held out her hand toward Clary. "Stop."

Clary stopped. Just in front of her, the reflection of the moon glimmered atop the water like a huge silvery dinner plate. It was weird; the moon was supposed to move away from you as you approached, ever receding. But here it was, hovering just on the surface of the water as if it were anchored in place.

"Jace, you go first," Isabelle said, and beckoned him. "Come on."

He brushed past Clary, and stepped backward into the reflection of the moon –– and vanished. "Okay," said Simon unhappily. "Okay, that was weird." Clary glanced back at him, but said nothing. She, too, took a step backward, feeling a shock of icier cold when she moved into the shimmering silver reflection. She teetered for a moment, as if she'd lost her balance on the highest rung of a ladder –– and then fell backward into darkness as the moon swallowed her up. Isabelle urged Simon in next (flailing and protesting), then hopped in herself last. She landed gracefully on her feet in the hollowed-out dirt corridor, illuminated by faintly glowing moss. A tangle of dangling vines formed a curtain at one end of the corridor and long, hairy tendrils hung like dead snakes from the ceiling. Tree roots. They were underground, and it was cold down here, cold enough to make their breath puff out in an icy mist when they exhaled. Isabelle barely noticed how water ran from her long, streaming hair and weighed down her heavy velvet coat. "Oooh, that was fun."

"That does it," said Jace. "I'm going to get you a dictionary for Christmas this year."

"Why?" Isabelle asked, raising her eyebrows.

"So you can look up 'fun.' I'm not sure you know what it means."

Isabelle pulled the long heavy mass of her wet hair forward and wrung it out as if it were wet washing. "You're raining on my parade."

"It's a pretty wet parade already, if you hadn't noticed." Jace glanced around. "Now what? Which way do we go?"

"Neither way," said Isabelle. "We wait here, and they come and get us."

Clary did not look impressed by this suggestion. "How do they know we're here? Is there a doorbell we have to ring or something?"

"The Court knows all that happens in their lands. Our presence won't go unnoticed."

Simon looked at her with suspicion. "And how do you know so much about faeries and the Seelie Court, anyway?"

Isabelle said nothing A moment later the curtain of vines was drawn aside and a faerie stepped through it, shaking back his long hair. His hair fell in blue-black sheets around a cool, sharp, lovely face; his eyes were green as vines or moss and there was the shape of a leaf across one of his cheekbones. He wore an armor of a silvery brown like the bark of trees in winter, and when he moved, the armor flashed a multitude of colors: peat black, moss green, ash gray, sky blue.

Isabelle gave a cry and jumped into his arms. "Meliorn!"

"Ah," said Simon, quietly and not without amusement, "so that's how she knows."

Meliorn looked down at her gravely, then detached her and set her gently aside. "This is not a time for affection," he said. Because he was a stupid faerie knight guy. Isabelle tried not to pout. "The Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an audience with the three Nephilim among you. Will you come?"

Clary put a protective hand on Simon's shoulder. "What about our friend?"

Meliorn looked impassive. "Mundane humans are not permitted in the Court."

"I wish someone had mentioned that earlier," said Simon, to no one in particular. "I take it I'm just supposed to wait out here until vines start growing on me?"

Meliorn considered. "That might offer significant amusement."

"Simon's not an ordinary mundane. He can be trusted," Jace said, startling them all, and Simon more than the rest. "He has fought many battles with us."

"By which you mean one battle," muttered Simon. "Two if you count the one where I was a rat."

"We will not enter the Seelie Court without Simon," Clary said, her hand still on Simon's shoulder. "Your Queen requested this audience with us, remember? It wasn't our idea to come here."

There was a spark of dark amusement in Meliorn's green eyes. "As you wish," he said. "Let it not be said that the Seelie Court does not respect the desires of its guests." He spun on a perfectly booted heel and began to lead them down the corridor without pausing to see if they were following him. Isabelle hurried to walk alongside him, leaving Jace, Clary, and Simon to follow the two of them in silence. As they moved from a dirt-walled corridor to one lined with smooth stones, only the occasional root snaking down between the stones from above, Isabelle made her best attempt at forcing Meliorn to crack a smile or something. Or at least acknownedge she was special and worthy of attention.

She felt like she was trying too hard, though. And like she shouldn't have had to try at all because some people would've given a lot to be in Meliorn's position. But she still laughed too loudly at something he said. "You're so funny!" She tripped as the heel of her boot caught between two stones, and Meliorn caught and righted her without changing expression.

"I do not understand how you humans can walk in shoes that are that tall."

"It's my motto," Isabelle replied with a sultry smile. " 'Nothing less than seven inches.' "

Meliorn gazed at her stonily.

"I'm talking about my heels," she said. "It's a pun. You know? A play on ––"
"Come," the faerie knight said. "The Queen will be growing impatient." He headed down the corridor without giving Isabelle a second glance.

"I forgot," Isabelle muttered as the rest of them caught up to her. "Faeries have no sense of humor."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Jace. "There's a pixie nightclub downtown called Hot Wings. Not," he added, "that I have ever been there."

Simon looked at Jace, opened his mouth as if he intended to ask him a question, then seemed to think better of it. He closed his mouth with a snap just as the corridor opened out into a wide room whose floor was packed dirt and whose walls were lined with high stone pillars twined all over with vines and bright flowers bursting with color. Thin cloths were hung between the pillars, dyed a soft blue that was almost the exact hue of the sky. The room was filled with light, and the overall effect was of a summer pavilion in bright sunshine rather than a dirt and stone room underground. There was a strange sweet music playing, flawed with sweet-sour notes, a sort of aural equivalent of honey mixed with lemon juice, and there was a circle of faeries dancing to the music, their feet barely seeming to skim the floor. Their hair—blue, black, brown and scarlet, metal gold and ice white—flew like banners.

Isabelle paid no attention to any of this, really, and barely noticed Jace having to catch Clary before she reached out and touched anything. She'd focused her attention on Simon, for the moment. She blindfolded him, to walk him across the room and past the dancers. This wasn't his kind of place to see. "That was some music," he observed, once they'd made it past and the scarf came off. "A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll."

Meliorn, who had paused to wait for them, frowned. "You didn't care for it?"

"I cared for it a little too much," Clary said. "What was that supposed to be, some kind of test? Or a joke?"

He shrugged. "I am used to mortals who are easily swayed by our faerie glamours; not so the Nephilim. I thought you had protections."

"She does," Jace said, meeting Meliorn's jade green gaze with his own.
Meliorn only shrugged and began walking again. Simon kept pace beside Clary for a few moments without speaking before he said, "So what did I miss? Naked dancing ladies?"

Clary shuddered. "Nothing that pleasant."

"There are ways for a human to join the faerie revels," Isabelle, who had been eavesdropping, put in. "If they give you a token – like a leaf or a flower – to hold on to, and you keep it through the night, you'll be fine in the morning. Or if you go with a faerie for a companion..." She shot a glance at Meliorn, but he had reached a leafy screen set into the wall and paused there. "These are the Queen's chambers," he said. "She's come from her Court in the north to see about the child's death. If there's to be war, she wants to be the one declaring it." The screen was made of thickly woven vines, budded with amber droplets. He drew the vines apart and ushered them into the chamber on the other side.

Jace ducked through first, followed by Clary, then Isabelle and Simon. The room itself was plain, the earthen walls hung with pale fabric. Will-o'-the-wisps glowed in glass jars. A lovely woman reclined on a low couch surrounded by what must have been her courtiers – a motley assortment of faeries, from tiny sprites to what looked like lovely human girls with long hair. If you discounted their black, pupil-less eyes.

"My Queen," said Meliorn, bowing low. "I have brought the Nephilim to you."

The Queen sat up straight. She had long scarlet hair that seemed to float around her like autumn leaves in a breeze. Her eyes were clear blue as glass, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Three of these are Nephilim," she said. "The other is a mundane." Meliorn seemed to shrink back, but the Queen didn't even look at him. Her gaze was on the Shadowhunters. The weight of it was like a touch. Despite her loveliness, there was nothing fragile about the Queen. She was as bright and hard to look at as a burning star.

"Our apologies, my lady." Jace stepped forward, putting himself between the Queen and his companions. His voice had changed its tone — there was something in the way he spoke now, something careful and delicate. For once. "The mundane is our responsibility. We owe him protection.
Therefore we keep him with us."

The Queen tilted her head to the side, like an interested bird. All her attention was on Jace now. "A blood debt?" she murmured. "To a mundane?"

"He saved my life," Jace said. Clary felt Simon stiffen beside her in surprise. She willed him not to show it. Faeries couldn't lie, and Jace wasn't lying, either — Simon had saved his life. That just wasn't why they'd brought him with them. Creative truth-telling. "Please, my lady. We had hoped you would understand. We had heard you were as kind as you were beautiful, and in that case—well," Jace said, "your kindness must be extreme indeed."

The Queen smirked and leaned forward, gleaming hair falling to shadow her face. "You are as charming as your father, Jonathan Morgenstern," she said, and gestured at the cushions scattered around the floor. "Come, sit beside me. Eat something. Drink. Rest yourselves. Talk is better with wet lips."

For a moment Jace looked thrown. He hesitated. Meliorn leaned over to him and spoke softly. "It would be unwise to refuse the bounty of the Queen of the Seelie Court."

Isabelle's eyes flicked toward him. Then she shrugged. "It won't hurt us just to sit down."

Meliorn led them over to a pile of silky cushions near the Queen's divan. A pixie with bluish skin came toward them carrying a platter with four silver cups on it. They each took a cup of the gold-toned liquid. There were rose petals floating on the top. Simon set his cup down beside him.

"Don't you want any?" the pixie asked.

"The last faerie drink I had didn't agree with me," he muttered.

"Now," said the Queen. "Meliorn tells me you claim to know who killed our child in the park last night. Though I tell you now, it seems no mystery to me. A faerie child, drained of blood? Is it that you bring me the name of a single vampire? But all vampires are at fault here, for the breaking of the Law, and should be punished accordingly. Despite what may seem, we are not such a particular people."

"Oh, come on," said Isabelle. "It isn't vampires."

Jace shot her a look. "What Isabelle means to say is that we're almost certain that the murderer is someone else. We think he may be trying to throw suspicion on the vampires to shield himself."

"Have you proof of that?"

Jace's tone was calm, when Isabelle glanced over, she could spot some signs of tension. "Last night the Silent Brothers were slaughtered as well, and none of them were drained of blood."

"And this has to do with our child, how? Dead Nephilim are a tragedy to Nephilim, but nothing to me."

"The Soul-Sword was stolen as well," said Jace. "You know of Maellartach?"

"The sword that makes Shadowhunters tell the truth," said the Queen, with dark amusement. "We fey have no need of such an object."

"It was taken by Valentine Morgenstern," said Jace. "He killed the Silent Brothers to get it, and we think he killed the faerie as well. He needed the blood of a faerie child to effect a transformation on the Sword. To make it a tool he could use."

"And he won't stop," Isabelle added. "He needs more blood after that."

The Queen's high eyebrows were arched even higher. "More blood of the Folk?"

"No," Jace said, shooting a look at Isabelle. "More Downworlder blood. He needs the blood of a werewolf, and a vampire —"

The Queen's eyes shone with reflected light. "That seems hardly our concern."

"He killed one of yours," Isabelle said. "Don't you want revenge?"

The Queen's gaze brushed her like a moth's wing. "Not immediately," she said. "We are a patient folk, for we have all the time in the world. Valentine Morgenstern is an old enemy of ours – but we have enemies older still. We are content to wait and watch."

"He's summoning demons to him," Jace said. "Creating an army —"

"Demons," said the Queen lightly, as her courtiers chattered behind her. "Demons are your charge, are they not, Shadowhunter? Is that not why you hold authority over us all? Because you are the ones who slay demons?"

"I'm not here to give you orders on behalf of the Clave. We came when you asked us because we thought that if you knew the truth, you'd help us."

"Is that what you thought?" The Queen sat forward in her chair, her long hair rippling and alive. "Remember, Shadowhunter, there are those of us who chafe under the rule of the Clave. Perhaps we are tired of fighting your wars for you."

"But it isn't our war alone," said Jace. "Valentine hates Downworlders more than he hates demons. If he defeats us, he'll go after you next."

The Queen's eyes bored into him.

"And when he does," said Jace, "remember that it was a Shadowhunter who warned you what was coming."

There was silence. Even the Court had fallen silent, watching their Lady. At last, the Queen leaned back on her cushions and took a swallow from a silver chalice. "Warning me about your own parent," she said. "I had thought you mortals capable of filial affection, at least, and yet you seem to feel no loyalty toward Valentine your father."

Jace said nothing. He seemed, for a change, lost for words. Sweetly, the Queen went on, "Or perhaps this hostility of yours is the pretense. Love does make liars out of your kind."

"But we don't love our father," said Clary, as Jace remained frighteningly silent. "We hate him."

"Do you?" The Queen looked almost bored.

"You know how the bonds of family are, my lady," said Jace, recovering his voice. "They cling as tightly as vines. And sometimes, like vines, they cling tightly enough to kill." The Queen's lashes fluttered.

"You would betray your own father for the sake of the Clave?"

"Even so, Lady."

She laughed, a sound as bright and cold as icicles. "Who would have thought," she said, "that Valentine's little experiments would turn on him?"

Isabelle looked over at Jace and Clary, but by the looks on both their faces she knew they had no idea what the Queen was referring to. "Experiments?"

The Queen didn't even glance at her. Her gaze, a luminous blue, was fixed on Jace. "The Fair Folk are a people of secrets," she said. "Our own, and others'. Ask your father, when next you see him, what blood runs in your veins, Jonathan."

"I hadn't planned on asking him anything next time I see him," Jace said. "But if you desire it, my lady, it will be done."

The Queen's lips curved into a smile. "I think you are a liar. But what a charming one. Charming enough that I will swear you this: Ask your father that question, and I will promise you what aid is in my power, should you strike against Valentine."

Jace smiled. "Your generosity is as remarkable as your loveliness, Lady." Clary made a gagging noise, but the Queen looked pleased. "And I think we're done here now," Jace added, rising from the cushions. He'd set his untouched drink down earlier, beside Isabelle's. They all rose after him.

"A moment." The Queen rose. "One of you must remain."

Jace paused halfway to the door, and turned to face her. "What do you mean?"

She stretched out one hand to indicate Clary. "Once our food or drink passes mortal lips, the mortal is ours. You know that, Shadowhunter."

Clary was stunned. "But I didn't drink any of it!" She turned to Jace. "She's lying."

"Faeries don't lie," he said, confusion and dawning anxiety chasing each other across his face. He turned back to the Queen. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lady."

"Look to her fingers and tell me she didn't lick them clean."

Simon and Isabelle were staring now. Clary glanced down at her hand. "Of blood," she said. "One of the sprites bit my finger — it was bleeding —" She turned to Jace, stricken. "It's true."

Jace's face was flushed. "I suppose I should have expected a trick like that," he said to the Queen, his previous flirtatiousness gone. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?"

The Queen's voice was soft as spider's fur. "Perhaps I am only curious," she said. "It is not often I have young Shadowhunters so close within my purview. Like us, you trace your ancestry to heaven; that intrigues me."

"But unlike you," said Jace, "there is nothing of hell in us."

"You are mortal; you age; you die," the Queen said dismissively. "If that is not hell, pray tell me, what is?"

"If you just want to study a Shadowhunter, I won't be much use to you," Clary cut in. "I don't know anything about Shadowhunting. I hardly have any training. I'm the wrong person to pick."

For the first time the Queen looked directly at her. Clary looked like she wanted to shrink back. "In truth, Clarissa Morgenstern, you are precisely the right person." Her eyes gleamed as she took in Clary's discomfiture. "Thanks to the changes your father worked in you, you are not like other Shadowhunters. Your gifts are different."

"My gifts?" Clary was bewildered.

"Yours is the gift of words that cannot be spoken," the Queen said to her, "and your brother's is the Angel's own gift. Your father made sure of it, when your brother was a child and before you were ever born."

"My father never gave me anything," Clary said. "He didn't even give me a name."

Jace looked as blank as Clary felt. "While the Fair Folk do not lie," he said, "they can be lied to. I think you have been the victim of a trick or joke, my lady. There is nothing special about myself or my sister."

"How deftly you downplay your charms," said the Queen with a laugh. "Though you must know you are not of the usual sort of human boy, Jonathan ..." She looked from Clary to Jace to Isabelle — Isabelle closed her mouth, which had been wide open, with a snap — and back at Jace again. "Could it be that you do not know?" she murmured.

"I know that I will not leave my sister here in your Court," said Jace, "and since there is nothing to be learned from either her or myself, perhaps you could do us the favor of releasing her?" Now that you've had your fun? his eyes said, though his voice was polite and cool as water.

The Queen's smile was wide and terrible. "What if I told you she could be freed by a kiss?"

"You want Jace to kiss you?" Clary said, bewildered.

The Queen burst out laughing, and immediately, the courtiers copied her mirth. The laughter was a bizarre and inhuman mix of hoots, squeaks, and cackles, like the high shrieking of animals in pain. "Despite his charms," the Queen said, "that kiss will not free the girl."

The four looked at each other, startled. "I could kiss Meliorn," suggested Isabelle.

"Nor that. Nor any one of my Court."

Meliorn moved away from Isabelle, who looked at her companions and threw up her hands.

"I'm not kissing any of you," she said firmly. "Just so it's official."

"That hardly seems necessary," Simon said. "If a kiss is all..." He moved toward Clary.

"No," said the Queen, in a voice like tinkling crystal. "That is not what I want either."

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the Angel's sake. Look, if there's no other way of getting out of this, I'll kiss Simon. I've done it before, it wasn't that bad."

"Thanks," said Simon. "That's very flattering."

"Alas," said the Queen of the Seelie Court. Her expression was sharp with a sort of cruel delight. "I'm afraid that won't do either."

"Well, I'm not kissing the mundane," said Jace. "I'd rather stay down here and rot."

"Forever?" said Simon. "Forever's an awfully long time."

Jace raised his eyebrows. "I knew it," he said. "You want to kiss me, don't you?"

Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. "Of course not. But if —"

"I guess it's true what they say," observed Jace. "There are no straight men in the trenches."

"That's atheists, jackass," said Simon furiously. "There are no atheists in the trenches."

"While this is all very amusing," said the Queen coolly, leaning forward, "the kiss that will free the girl is the kiss that she most desires." The cruel delight in her face and voice had sharpened. "Only that and nothing more."

Simon looked as if she had hit him. "Why are you doing this?" Jace demanded.

"I rather thought I was offering you a boon."

Jace flushed, but said nothing. He avoided looking at Clary.

Simon said, "That's ridiculous. They're brother and sister."

The Queen shrugged, a delicate twitch of her shoulders. "Desire is not always lessened by disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn't desire his kiss, she won't be free."

Simon swore under his breath, then whirled around, looking furious, and said, "You don't have to do this, Clary, it's a trick —"

"Not a trick," said Jace. "A test."

"Well, I don't know about you, Simon," said Isabelle, her voice edged. "But I'd like to get Clary out of here."

"Like you'd kiss Alec," Simon said, "just because the Queen of the Seelie Court asked you to?"

"Sure I would." Isabelle sounded annoyed. "If the other option was being stuck in the Seelie Court forever? Who cares, anyway? It's just a kiss."

"That's right." It was Jace. He moved toward Clary and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. "It's just a kiss," he said, and his tone was harsh. There was hesitation, and words no one else could hear, and then he kissed her. And then he pulled away. "Was that good enough?" he called, turning to face the Queen and the courtiers behind her. "Did that entertain you?"

The Queen had a hand across her mouth, half-covering a smile. "We are quite entertained,"
she said. "But not, I think, so much as the both of you."

"I can only assume," said Jace, "that mortal emotions amuse you because you have none of your own."

The smile slipped from her mouth at that.

"Easy, Jace," said Isabelle. She turned to Clary. "Can you leave now? Are you free?"

Clary went to the door. She found no resistance barring her way. She stood with her hand among the vines and turned to Simon. He was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"We should go," she said. "Before it's too late."

"It's already too late," he said.

Isabelle found herself sighing and feeling pretty tired at the whole scene. Meliorn led them from the Seelie Court and deposited them back in the park, all without speaking a single word. He looked stiff and disapproving, and turned away after they'd splashed out of the pond, without even a good-bye for Isabelle, and disappeared back into the wavering reflection of the moon.

Isabelle watched him go with a scowl. "He is so broken up with." (Yes, sure, his current attitude was the reason. Nothing else. Right.)

–––––

They made their way to the Institute. Well, everyone but Simon, who'd been left oddly quiet by the Court visit, and he disappeared while everyone else was talking about taking Jace back to the Institute, even though he was technically supposed to be in Magnus' care. They took him along. The Institute was deserted, anyway. The adults were all in the Bone City looking for clues, and there was no one home apart from Max, asleep on a couch in the foyer with his copy of Peter Pan.

When Jace went to set Max's glasses aside, Isabelle's annoyance wasn't entirely directed at him when she said, "Oh, leave his stuff alone — you'll just get mud on it." She unbuttoned her wet coat. Her dress clung to her long torso and water darkened the thick leather belt around her waist. The glitter of her coiled whip was just visible where the handle protruded from the edge of the belt. She could feel herself frowning. "I can feel a cold coming on," she said. "I'm going to take a hot shower." So she stalked off, and she went and took her shower, and then she went to bed. Without calling anyone. No matter how much the urge was there.

She was woken up in the middle off the night by a harsh, tolling ring. Dazed, she got up and burst out into the hallway, only to run into Clary and Jace. "It's three in the morning!" she said to them, in a tone that suggested that this was all Jace's, or possibly Clary's, fault. "Who's ringing our doorbell at three in the morning?"

"Maybe it's the Inquisitor," Clary said, feeling suddenly cold.

"She could get in on her own," said Jace. "Any Shadowhunter could. The Institute is only closed to mundanes and Downworlders."

Clary looked instantly alarmed. "Simon!" she said. "It must be him!"
"Oh, for goodness' sake," yawned Isabelle, "is he really waking us up at this ungodly hour just to prove his love to you or something? Couldn't he have called? Mundane men are such fucking twits."

Not that she was thinking of anyone else as she said that. They had reached the foyer, which was empty; Max must have gone to bed on his own. Isabelle stalked across the room and toggled a switch on the far wall. Somewhere inside the cathedral a distant rumbling thump was audible. "There," Isabelle said. "Elevator's on its way."

"I can't believe he didn't have the dignity and presence of mind just to get drunk and pass out in some gutter," said Jace. "I must say, I'm disappointed in the little fellow."

The elevator doors opened on a hollow box whose mirrored sides reflected nothing but their own disheveled figures. Without a pause for thought, Clary stepped inside.

Isabelle looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

"It's Simon down there," Clary said. "I know it is."

"But ––"

Suddenly, Jace was beside Clary, holding the doors open for Isabelle. "Come on, Izzy," he said. With a theatrical sigh, she followed. She spent the ride downpulling her hair up with pins, while Jace whistled something under his breath. The elevator doors opened onto the nave of the cathedral, alive with the dancing light of candles. Clary pushed past Jace in her hurry to get out of the elevator and practically ran down the narrow aisle between the pews, dashing to the wide double doors. On the inside they were barred with bronze bolts the size of Clary's arms. As she reached for the highest bolt, the bell rang through the church again. Clary hauled on the bolt, dragging it back, which was when Jace finally joined in to help and pull the heavy bolt up. Night air swept in, guttering the candles in their brackets.

Raphael Santiago, the head of the New York vampires, was standing there on the steps, his head of black curls tousled by the night breeze, his white shirt open at the neck to show the scar in the hollow of his throat. In his arms he held a body. Someone very dead, arms and legs dangling like limp ropes, head fallen back to expose the mangled throat. A corduroy jacket with a torn sleeve, the blue T-shirt underneath now stained and spotted with blood.

Clary screamed and seemed to go limp in Jace's arms. Isabelle snatched one of the empty candelabras from the side of the door and aimed it at Raphael as if it were an enormous three-pointed spear. "What have you done to Simon?" For that moment, her voice clear and commanding, she sounded exactly like her mother.

"No está muerto," Raphael said, in a flat and emotionless voice, and laid Simon down on the ground almost at Clary's feet, with a surprising gentleness. In the light of the candles that spilled through the doorway, they could see that Simon's shirt was soaked through at the front with blood.

"Did you say —" Clary began.

"He isn't dead," Jace said, holding her tighter. "He's not dead."

She pulled away from him with a hard jerk and went to her knees on the concrete. Her hands went to Simon's bloodied skin as she slid her hands under his head, pulling him up into her lap. "Simon," she whispered, touching his face. His glasses were gone. "Simon, it's me."

"He can't hear you," said Raphael. "He's dying."

Her head jerked up. "But you said —"

"I said he was not dead yet," said Raphael. "But in a few minutes — ten, perhaps — his heart will slow and stop. Already he is beyond seeing or hearing anything."

Clary's arms tightened around Simon involuntarily. "We have to get him to a hospital — or call Magnus."

"They can't do him any good," said Raphael. "You don't understand."

"No," said Jace, his voice as soft as silk tipped with needle-sharp points. "We don't. And perhaps you should explain yourself. Because otherwise I'm going to assume you're a rogue bloodsucker, and cut your heart out. Like I should have done last time we met."

Raphael smiled at him without amusement. "You swore not to harm me, Shadowhunter. Have you forgotten?"

"I didn't," said Isabelle, brandishing the candelabra.

Raphael ignored her. He was still looking at Jace. "I remembered that night you broke into the Dumort looking for your friend. It is why I brought him here ––" And he gestured at Simon. "–– when I found him in the hotel, instead of letting the others drink him to death. You see, he broke in, without permission, and therefore was fair game for us. But I kept him alive, knowing he was yours. I have no wish for a war with the Nephilim."

"He broke in?" Clary said in disbelief. "Simon would never do anything that stupid and crazy."

"But he did," said Raphael, with the faintest trace of a smile, "because he was afraid he was becoming one of us, and he wanted to know if the process could be reversed. You might remember that when he was in the form of a rat, and you came to fetch him from us, he bit me."

"Very enterprising of him," said Jace. "I approved."

"Perhaps," said Raphael. "In any case, he took some of my blood into his mouth when he did it. You know that is how we pass our powers to each other. Through the blood."

"He thought he was turning into one of you," Clary said, like she was remembering something. "He went to the hotel to see if it was true."

"Yes," said Raphael. "The pity of it is that the effects of my blood would probably have faded over time had he done nothing. But now —" He gestured at Simon's limp body expressively.

"Now what?" said Isabelle, with a hard edge to her voice. "Now he'll die?"

"And rise again. Now he will be a vampire."

The candelabra tipped forward as Isabelle's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

Jace caught the makeshift weapon before it hit the floor. When he turned to Raphael, his eyes were bleak. "You're lying."

"Wait and see," said Raphael. "He will die and rise as one of the Night Children. That is also why I came. Simon is one of mine now." There was nothing in his voice, no sorrow or pleasure.

"There's nothing that can be done? No way to reverse it?" demanded Isabelle, panic tinging her voice. She couldn't help but feel some tiny bit responsible. And maybe she wasn't doing so well with the idea of people being hurt because of her.

"You could cut off his head and burn his heart in a fire, but I doubt that you will do that."

"No!" Clary's arms tightened around Simon. "Don't you dare hurt him."

"I have no need to," said Raphael.

"I wasn't talking to you." Clary didn't look up. "Don't you even think about it, Jace. Don't even think about it."

There was silence. Jace hesitated a moment before he said, "Clary, what would Simon want? Is this what he'd want for himself?"

Clary jerked her head up. Jace was looking down at her, the three-pronged metal candelabra still in his hand. "Get away from us!" she screamed suddenly. Jace went white, his eyes wide. "Clary, you don't think —"

Simon gasped suddenly, arching upward in Clary's grasp. She screamed again and caught at him, pulling him up toward her. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified. He reached up. "It's me," she said, gently pushing his hand down to his chest, lacing their fingers together. "Simon, it's me. It's Clary." Her hands slipped on his, slick with blood and her tears. "Simon, I love you," she said.

He breathed out — a harsh, ratcheting sound—and then did not breathe in again. He went limp in her grasp, and Isabelle knelt down to try and ease her fingers off him, but to no avail. Giving up, Isabelle got to her feet and turned angrily on Raphael. And she shouted at him. For a good while. Mostly about being irresponsible and terrible, and bringing death and bad things all around him. "— and now what are we supposed to do?" she finished.

"Bury him," said Raphael, calmly.

The candelabra swung up again in Jace's hand. "That's not funny."

"It isn't supposed to be," said the vampire, unfazed. "It is how we are made. We are drained, blooded, and buried. When he digs his own way out of a grave, that is when a vampire is born."

Isabelle made a faint sound of disgust. "I don't think I could do that."

"Some can't," said Raphael. "If no one is there to help them dig out, they stay like that, trapped like rats under the earth."

A sound tore its way out of Clary's throat. A sob that was as raw as a scream. She said, "I won't put him in the ground."

"Then he'll stay like this," said Raphael mercilessly. "Dead but not quite dead. Never waking."

They were all staring down at her. Isabelle and Jace as if they were holding their breaths, waiting on her response. Raphael looked incurious, almost bored.

"You didn't come into the Institute because you can't, isn't that right?" Clary said. "Because it's holy ground and you're unholy."

"That's not exactly —" Jace began, but Raphael cut him off with a gesture.

"I should tell you," said the vampire boy, "that there is not much time. The longer we wait before putting him into the ground, the less likely he'll be able to dig his own way back out of it."

Clary looked down at Simon. She was quiet, for a second. "We can bury him," she said. "But I want it to be in a Jewish cemetery. And I want to be there when he wakes up."

Raphael's eyes glittered. "It will not be pleasant."

"Nothing ever is." She set her jaw. "Let's get going. We only have a few hours until dawn."

–––––

So, that was how Isabelle and her cohorts spent their early morning. They went to a cemetery on the outskirts of Queens, and they buried Simon, and they waited for him to rise, and Alec brought blood for him.

Isabelle was exhausted when she got back home. That seemed to be a theme lately.

[ooc: NFB, NFI, ooc-okay! Taken from City of Ashes. Warning for gore and CC's love of faux incest.]