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“Tamsin’s?” she asked in horror. The last thing she wanted was to put Vivian and her sister in the same room.
Merlin shot her a curious look as they got into the SUV. He started the engine. “Is there a problem with that?”
Vivian’s claws dug into Clary’s mind, sharp as any physical pain but far more frightening. Somehow she knew whatever injuries the demoness might cause to her mind and soul would never heal. She cleared her throat. “Tamsin’s done what she can already.”
Merlin pulled away from the curb into Carlyle’s afternoon rush. “Maybe, maybe not. I have an idea she can help me with.”
“She won’t have time. She’ll still be at Medievaland, healing the knights.”
“I already asked her to meet us at her place when she’s finished.” He gave her an inscrutable glance. “We talked before I met you at the concession stand.”
Defeated, Clary sank back into the leather seat of the SUV. How was she going to keep Vivian in check? Even if there was a cure for her demon problem, surely Vivian would fight back.
You’re quite right, little witch, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Your lovely sister hasn’t had a patient quite like you and me before.
And she’d failed to detect Vivian’s presence once. There was every chance she’d miss it again.
Just so. If Merlin trusts her healing skills to find me, her failure will work in my favor.
Clary understood. After all, Vivian wanted to catch Merlin by surprise. However, if Tamsin made a correct diagnosis... Clary dropped that train of thought, already feeling a wave of nausea clog her throat. There was no way to win. She stared at the passing streets, scrambling for an answer where no one got hurt.
When they arrived at Tamsin’s door, the smell of tomato sauce filled the apartment hallway. Her sister answered Merlin’s knock, a wooden spoon in her hand.
“It’s Gawain’s favorite dinner,” Tamsin said in explanation. “He’ll be home soon and after today, we all want comfort food.”
“Aren’t you tired?” Clary asked, noting the dark circles under her sister’s eyes. “You must have just got home.”
She followed her into the kitchen. Tamsin moved the pot of sauce and turned off the burner, her movements brisk. “Of course I’m tired, but I just did the cleanup. I didn’t fight.”
Then she turned to face Clary, fear tightening her jaw. “I’ve seen demon-born monsters before. What were you doing?”
Clary took a step back. She could see the picture forming in Tamsin’s head—Gawain, brave knight and love of her life, perishing in the jaws of Clary’s creation. Tamsin’s future destroyed by her hapless kid sister. The scene wasn’t far off the mark.
“I’m sorry,” Clary said softly. “In perfect honesty, I don’t know exactly how that happened.” And for all our sakes, she willed her sister, don’t look deeper.
Emotions cycled through Tamsin’s expression. Anger. Fear. Compassion. The last was the worst because it was so familiar. Once again, Clary was the weak magical link in the family. The only difference now was that her incompetence had hurt their friends.
Tamsin licked her lips, seeming to come to a decision. “Go have a seat in the living room. Send Merlin in here so I can talk to him.”
Clary’s first instinct was to object on principle. As the youngest child, she’d been shut out of adult conversations too often. This time, though, she’d be keeping Vivian out of earshot. Clary did as she was told and turned on the TV to make eavesdropping impossible.
You think you’re being clever, Vivian sneered.
Yes. Clary changed the channel to a home renovation show. She didn’t care about fascia boards and roof tiles, but the shirtless construction guys were cute.
Vivian snorted, but her attention drifted to the show. Do humans truly have to rely on teams of physical workers to keep the rain off their heads?
Clary rolled her eyes at the demon’s appalled tone. Pretty much. When you don’t have magic powers, you need helping hands. That’s how this world works.
And sometimes the magically gifted needed help, too. When Tamsin and Merlin reappeared, her sister was holding a clay goblet filled with steaming brew. Clary turned off the TV and accepted the cup. The mixture smelled of woodlands and flowers, more like a herbal tea than a strong medicinal. Nevertheless, Vivian’s interest zeroed in on it with laser focus.
“What is it?” Clary asked.
With a weary sigh, Tamsin sank into Gawain’s oversize leather chair. “Just drink it.”
Merlin sat on the sofa to Clary’s left, putting her between the two of them. His expression was, as usual, guarded and cool. “It will stimulate the body’s natural healing and help the infection pass from your system.”
Clary took another sniff. “There are raspberry leaves in here.”
Raspberry? Vivian scoffed. That’s supposed to stop me?
Clary looked up at her sister, who folded her arms. “Drink up,” Tamsin said.
Clary lifted the goblet, feeling the steam against her cheeks.
Wait! Vivian demanded. There has to be something else in there. Something she’s not saying.
Clary—and the demoness—studied Tamsin for answers, but her sister’s expression gave nothing away. And, concentrating as she was, Clary didn’t feel the needle Merlin stabbed into her thigh until it was too late. Brew splashed as she dropped the goblet in surprise. It thunked to the carpet and rolled to Tamsin’s feet.
What was that? Vivian shrieked. Clary felt the slash of claws, but they were already blunted, rendered harmless by whatever had been in the needle.
With a shaking hand, her sister picked up the goblet and set it on the coffee table. “I’m sorry, little witchling. We had to do it.”
Clary watched her sister with an open mouth, too surprised for any deeper emotion, then spun to face Merlin, who still held the hypodermic. He glanced at it, and it dissolved into smoke.
“You tricked me!” she said, accusing them both.
“Apologies,” he said. “We had no way of knowing if this lingering infection of yours might try something.”
Bewildered, Clary glanced down at the stain on the carpet.
“It was just Pixie Forest blend from the local tea shop,” said Tamsin, not meeting Clary’s eyes. “The most it was going to do was make you sleepy.”
Betrayal stung almost as much as the fiery sensation crawling up her leg. They didn’t trust her to take whatever cure they offered. Worse, they saw her as a genuine threat that had to be managed. Her mind understood, but her heart hurt.
“Then what was in the shot?” she asked, her voice gone rough.
The pain had reached her belly. Vivian howled—or maybe it was her. Clary doubled over, clutching her middle. Merlin steadied her with firm hands, easing her back onto the couch. “It will put whatever you have to sleep. It might interfere with your powers for a time, but the trade-off in safety will be worthwhile.”
Merlin the Wise always knows what’s best, said Vivian in a sarcastic snarl.
But he spoke the truth. Clary could feel Vivian draining away, disappearing to somewhere too deep inside for Clary to detect. She wanted to test for the demon’s presence, poking around as she would for a sore tooth, but her thoughts scattered. The pain rippling through her was like wave after wave of fire.
At the same time, that feeling of being watched was finally gone. “There was a demon’s voice talking in my head,” she gasped. “It was Vivian.”
“I suspected something like that.” His face unreadable, Merlin stroked a hand over her bowed head just once, more apology in his gesture than his words. “Demon essence leaves echoes behind. Demons are energy and Vivian was caught between worlds. It’s not surprising that a bit of her touched you during the ritual.”
Sure, during the part where she blew into messy demon bits as the portal closed. Clearly, those bits had tried to reassemble themselves inside Clary.
“Witches are vulnerable because demons can attach themselves to another person’s magic.” Despite Merlin’s closed expression, his voice was gentle. “It’s serious, Clary. It can drive people mad.”
“How long will this cure last?”
Tamsin knelt before her, pressing a damp cloth to Clary’s face. It was wonderfully cool. “It’s hard to say, but it should hold until the infection leaves your system.”
“She’ll come back. She’s more than just an echo.”
“Hush,” Tamsin murmured, putting a hand to Clary’s face. “We don’t know that yet.”
Clary wanted to argue, but her head was pounding now. A tide of sickness rose up, swamping every other consideration. She jumped up, pushing past her sister, and ran for the bathroom.
The only good thing was that she hadn’t had much to eat. Too bad whatever drug Merlin had given her didn’t care if her stomach was empty. At some point, she locked the door to keep Tamsin out. Her sister might be a healer, but Clary needed privacy more than soothing words. After a while, Tamsin’s anxious voice faded and Clary slumped on the cold tile in peace.
What was she going to do? If the cure wasn’t permanent, she’d be back in the same hopeless place the moment Vivian woke up. Except it would be worse. Vivian would be furious, and Tamsin would be in even more danger. Merlin would be vulnerable, because now he believed Clary was, if not cured, at least inert.
She needed to get away, far away, to someplace where Tamsin and Merlin would be safe. Her own Shadowring Coven was on the opposite coast of the continent. Better yet, she could go to a circle of witches where she didn’t know anyone and there would be no friends or family Vivian could use as hostages. The moment she formed that thought, it became her plan. It was clear, simple and the right thing to do.
Clary already hated the idea. It made sense, but she craved emotional comfort, too. She’d always been the independent misfit, whistling her way through scrape after scrape, and yet home had always been there. So had her sisters. Cutting herself off wouldn’t be easy.
She heard Merlin’s voice, muffled by the door and distance to the next room. Tamsin replied. The words weren’t clear, but her sister’s concern was evident. Clary didn’t have much time before someone was knocking on the door again. If they stopped her before she got away, it would be twice as hard to leave them behind.
Eventually, Clary got to her feet. Pain made her knees wobble as she stood. She drank some water, then stole some mouthwash to get the vile taste out of her mouth. Finally, she looked in the mirror, confirming she looked as awful as she felt.
Slowly, she opened the bathroom door. Merlin and her sister were in the living room down the hall, their view of her blocked by the angle of the wall. To Clary’s left, just a few steps away, was the apartment door. A glance told her that Tamsin hadn’t locked it when they’d come in.
Years of teenage misbehavior had made her an expert at sneaking out. Clary slipped away, silently shutting the door behind her. Since she didn’t carry a purse, she still had her keys, wallet and phone in her pockets. Nothing was left behind at her sister’s place. All she had to do was make it home to pack a suitcase, and she’d leave town. A quick mental check told her Vivian was still gone.
Clary ran down the apartment stairs, not bothering with the elevator. The exit emptied into the parking lot, and she strode across the sunny pavement with renewed confidence. And nearly ended up a speedbump for Gawain’s motorcycle.
Oh, hell! She jumped back, plastering a smile on her face and waving brightly. The Scottish knight waved back, used to her coming and going. That would only buy her minutes at best. The instant he opened the door and mentioned that he’d seen her, the search would be on.
Clary slipped out of sight and ran. Now going straight home wasn’t an option. In fact, all the places she knew—Tamsin’s, her own apartment, Medievaland, Merlin’s place—were bound to be under Merlin’s magical surveillance. She wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe head to the bus station and catch a ride out of town?
She entered an alley that crept between a gas station and a pub. It was smelly and narrow, the brickwork on either side black with age and dirt. Patches of straggling grass grew under rusted downspouts. Clary looked over her shoulder even though she’d barely taken two steps into the confined space. But that was stupid. She was a witch with a demon on board. That made her like a bomb in an action-adventure movie, one that had to be dumped in an ocean or shot into outer space before it nuked the free world. She could blast any mugger to smithereens.
Squaring her shoulders, Clary pushed on. It was broad daylight, and she could tell this alley was a shortcut to the main road ahead. Going this way would put distance between herself and well-meaning friends.
Halfway across, she heard music from a window above. It was an ordinary pop tune, barely worth remembering, but someone with an exceptional voice was singing along with the words. That was special.
The sound vanished as quickly as it had come, but Clary paused just long enough to look up. There were curtains and knickknacks in the second-floor windows, and the sash of one was pushed up. That had to be where the voice had come from. There was only one kind of being that could sing so beautifully—a fae.
Despite the lovely song, Clary drew back. The soul-sucking monsters found witches especially tasty. She spun on her heel, ready to run, but a figure dropped from the window right into her path. The male rose from his crouch as if this was a perfectly normal way to say hello. He was tall and slender, casually dressed but for an elaborately tooled belt of green leather. A long, silver-handed knife hung at his hip. He sniffed the air, as if confirming it was she who had smelled so tasty.
“Great,” Clary muttered under her breath.
“Where are you going, my girl?” asked the fae. He had dark olive skin that showed off the bright green of his eyes. His long, white hair was pulled back to reveal a fine-boned face that would have put him on the front of any fashion magazine.
“I’m going past you.” Clary raised her hands, ready to weave a spell that would hurl the fae into the next block. Except no power flowed through her body, ready to shape to her will.
She was helpless. Merlin had warned her that the injection might mess with her magic, but she hadn’t expected this.
The fae must have seen her confusion, because he burst into a cruel laugh.
Chapter 7 (#u4033ed0e-a828-5f35-8f33-3b5c44d16274)
Panic made Clary stagger back. Her magic had never been brilliant, but it was as much a part of her as sight or hearing. She clenched her fists, fighting a need to scream. Her struggle seemed to amuse the fae even more. Or maybe amusement was the wrong word. While fae had no feelings, they still seemed to enjoy tormenting their prey.
“Who are you, pretty boy?” Clary demanded, mostly to make him stop sniggering.
“I am Laren of the Green Towers.” He waved a hand at the alley. “Or perhaps I should say the back streets. The hunting is far better here.”
By hunting, he meant stealing the life essence of mortals. Drinking mortal souls restored a fae’s emotions, their love of beauty and ability to create—but only for a short while. Those addicted to the rush left a trail of dead or mindless victims in their wake. At least Laren appeared physically healthy, which meant he hadn’t been a soul-eater for long.
“What happened to your witch’s tricks?” he taunted.
“I’m on a cleanse.” She shifted her feet, bracing to run. Fae were incredibly strong despite their slight appearance. Unless Clary found a weapon, she’d lose the fight before it began.
“Afraid to face me, wench?” Laren glided forward, his steps silent. His intent, predatory posture reminded her of the velociraptor’s.
“The name’s Clary. I’d stay and brawl, but my calendar’s full.”
She spun and ran, pumping her legs for all she was worth. She’d made it past a row of garbage cans before Laren tackled her to the ground, his arms wrapped around her waist. Apparently, the fae were as fast as they were strong.
Clary’s knees exploded with pain as she fell, the fae’s weight driving her into the ground. She raised her arms to protect her face, but not before a blur of gravel and straggling weeds filled her view. Her lungs emptied in a rush. Stunned, she lay helpless as Laren flipped her over and straddled her waist.
It was then she met his eyes. They were green like her own, but a vibrant shade unlike any mortal’s. And they were utterly, chillingly void of feeling. The loss of his soul had turned him into something alien. She might as well have been pinned by a shark.
Terror flooded her, robbing the last shreds of her strength. She had no magic and no weapon. She drew in a shaking breath, fighting down the urge to wail.
His lips drew back from his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “What a pretty thing you are.” He placed a fingertip between her eyes and traced downward, over the tip of her nose and the bow of her lips. “You will be delicious.”
Clary shuddered at the naked hunger in his face. It promised a brutal end, and a primitive instinct to live took over. She twisted beneath him, arching her back against his weight. Laren pushed her down again, but not before the knife in his belt caught her eye, its silver hilt gleaming in the alley’s muted sunlight. A fae hunter would need such a thing to finish his victims. It taunted her, promising death or just maybe deliverance.
She widened her eyes, letting all her fear show. Laren’s nostrils flared as if scenting her distress. His knees tightened against her hips and he grabbed her jaw, using one hand to pin her head in place. That was all he needed to control her. Compared with his strength, her arms might have been helplessly beating wings.
Or not. Clary plucked the knife from its scabbard with a quick hiss of steel on leather and drove it toward his ribs. It would have worked, if not for fae reflexes. He twisted with the agility of a cat, his free hand clamping around her wrist in an iron grip.
A chilling sound of regret escaped his lips. “Very good. I see I’m growing careless.” He peeled the knife from her fingers and tossed it just out of reach. Clary heard it fall with a ping of metal on stone. Clearly, he wasn’t a warrior obsessed with keeping his blades in perfect condition.
Then he bent over her again, the smell of his skin and sweat far too intimate. He grabbed her jaw once more, forcing her mouth open with bruising insistence. “Give yourself to me,” he whispered. “Give me your joy and tears and hope.” His lips sealed over hers.
The assault on her soul was far, far worse than she had ever imagined. It felt as if her insides were being torn through her throat, leaving an icy vacuum behind. She pushed against his chest, but he was solid as granite. Her hands fumbled to his face, poking and clawing and finally to his hair, but nothing made him flinch. Sight and sound vanished, leaving only an unholy pain. Finally, Clary screamed, but Laren drank that down along with everything else.
Then something hurled him back. Clary collapsed backward, hitting her head on a sharp rock. The universe swam for an instant before she rolled to her side to see Merlin standing over Laren. She expected Merlin to pound the fae into a pulp, shock him with thunderbolts—something—but the enchanter stood poised and unmoving, a look of naked curiosity on his face.
Then she realized that the fae writhed on the ground in agony, his grinding moans like nothing she’d ever heard. Taking no chances, Clary fumbled for the knife he’d thrown aside and staggered to her feet, using the filthy wall for support. Slowly she approached, the long blade gripped in one hand.
Laren’s eyes had rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. Foam coated his lips and he trembled with long, violent spasms. Merlin’s face was grim as he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, scanning her slowly from head to the scuffed toes of her shoes. He squeezed her gently, angling his arms as if for a reckless moment he might decide to pull her close. After an odd hesitation, he let his hands fall away. “Thank the gods you’re all right,” he said quietly.
