Clary grabbed the bag of clothes Tamsin had brought her and repacked the few items she’d spread around the bedroom. She zipped it back up with a decisive rasp of metal and put her hands on her hips. Packing was easy. The next steps would be hard.
You don’t trust me around the queen. The demon gave a restless sigh.
“Ya think?” Clary grumbled.
Demons do not have children in mortal fashion unless there is a mortal mother to give it life.
“That’s reassuring. I’d hate to encounter a hellspawn in the terrible twos.” Clary’s sarcasm was automatic, and yet she’d heard the longing in Vivian’s voice. Was it possible to have maternal instinct when your species couldn’t reproduce? “So where do little demons come from?”
We come to awareness from within the collective force of demon energy. We call that force the essence. That is what powered the attack on the computer. It was a waste, using a finite resource for such a thing.
Clary heard Vivian’s anger and was curious. “The essence is finite?”
The essence came to be when the world was young, but we do not know how or where. Some say there is a distant homeland for the demons. Others say that we were made of the fire at the core of the world. The only certainty is that the Abyss is not the place where the essence was born, and that is why we are a dying people. There is nothing to replenish us.
It was the longest speech the demoness had made, and for the first time Clary heard the teacher in her. It would have been intriguing if she’d had time for a history lesson. Unfortunately, Vivian was trying to kill Merlin and using Clary’s body to do it. And then there was the suspicion Vivian’s pals weren’t such good pals at the moment.
“I need to get out of here,” Clary said.
Vivian didn’t seem to mind the sudden change in topic. I wouldn’t recommend it, little fool. These are dangerous times.
“Says the malign entity taking over my brain.”
You make it sound as if there was effort involved.
“Not making me feel warm and fuzzy about your presence here.”
And what do you plan to do about that, witchling?
That was the question. Ever since first meeting the knights of Camelot, Clary had wanted to help in their battle against Morgan LaFaye. Now she was infected by the enemy, a liability instead of an ally.
And whatever Vivian said, Clary had felt her interest in Gwen’s baby. Clary didn’t understand demons, but Vivian definitely wanted to hold that child in her arms. The only thing she could do to help Camelot and its queen—and Clary’s best friend—was to get Vivian out of there. She could walk away, just as she’d decided to do back in Tamsin’s bathroom.
“Do I still have command over my own two feet?”
Is it any wonder that you are a pathetic little witchling? Do you really think you’re going to save the world by asking that kind of question? If you’re going to fly in the face of all logic and common sense, seize the opportunity by the throat. Don’t ask permission.
“Not helping, pussycat.”
If you do manage to escape, what makes you think Merlin won’t find you and drag you back home by the ear?
“Because your pride wouldn’t allow it.”
Vivian fell silent at that. Seizing the opportunity as instructed, Clary grabbed her bag and left.
Clary might not be an expert witch, but she’d had ample experience running away as a teenager. Renting a car or buying a bus ticket required showing ID that could be traced. Hitchhiking could be dangerous. Bicycles, however, could go long distances and were largely anonymous to most people. She was an avid recreational rider—who wouldn’t be with so much gorgeous scenery around Carlyle?—and had a decent road bike at her apartment along with a stash of cash. She retrieved both, stuffing her backpack with necessities, and was out of town within the hour.
But the day had taken its toll. Determination got her as far as a cash-only motel two towns away, where she slept despite the dirty room and dubious lock on the door. It was the end of the next day before she reached the outskirts of Seattle, every muscle in her body begging for rest.
Vivian sniffed. You contain an entity possessed of staggering power, and yet you sink to this primitive mode of transport. I’m unsure whether to be amused or embarrassed.
“I’m sure you could sprout bat wings and fly, but I think someone would notice.”
Isn’t shock and awe the point of power?
“Only if you equate power with being blown to smithereens by paranoid security forces.”
Modern mortals are no fun.
“They have their own problems.” And if Camelot had its way, the supernatural world would not be added to the mix. Merlin had told her about the accords. Species who couldn’t compete with the humans—the sasquatches and merfolk in the Pacific Northwest were a good example—strongly believed that their survival depended on invisibility.
We all have our own problems. No one asks about the demons’ side of events.
Clary knew conversational bait when it was waved in front of her and was tempted to ignore it. She wasn’t sure why the demoness felt the need to explain herself. Still, there was nothing better to do while she slipped back into the stream of traffic that flowed into the city’s suburbs.
“Okay,” she said, giving in. “Let’s hear it.”
* * *
When the end of the war came, Merlin’s final battle spell tasted like ash to the demons, and it smelled as foul as the defeat it was. They all knew the moment presaged living death.
The spell had been stolen from Vivian’s own library and crafted into a weapon against them. The thief—Merlin—had slipped from her bed to copy it and then escaped back to his king while Vivian slept. This, after she’d taught him so much and opened his eyes to the truth of his enormous power.
Such betrayal was the last insult in a war that had pitted every species against Vivian’s people. The army Arthur of Camelot had cobbled together was an alliance of fleas, but those fleas were legion, and they had won. They strutted and crowed and claimed they were in the right.
True, the demons had fought for conquest and glory. They’d fought for the mastery they believed they deserved. Right and wrong didn’t enter into it. Demons didn’t bother hiding their lust for power. They were dangerous, but they were—unlike Merlin—honest about it.
Vivian had stood on the ravaged field of battle, among the dead fae and humans and witches. Some of the demons had killed with glee and others, like her, with a grim determination to survive. Her people would succeed, or they would fall. Falling meant banishment to someplace worse than the blood-soaked dirt.
There had been death for demons, too, for immortality didn’t mean that they were indestructible. Her kind was made from energy and magic and a rare concentration of power could blast them to nothing. Tenebrius had said noble words about their losses, but they’d been brief. After all, it was the living who were in trouble now.
Vivian had not felt mortality’s shadow yet and wasn’t afraid of death. Yet she had feared Merlin’s spell, because she knew it meant the Abyss.
There were many names for it: Hades, Hell, the Underworld. Wherever demons had come from, they had passed through this desolate place to reach the mortal realms. The operative phrase was pass through. No one actually wanted to stay there, given the open pits of flame, rocky deserts and pools of toxic sludge that passed for lakes. Magic could make the odd oasis, but that was a far cry from a truly habitable world. Could anyone really blame them for wanting to stay away?
And yet Merlin was using her own spell to push them off the green earth, with its fresh water and birdsong, into the lifeless pit the petty King of Camelot thought they deserved.
The spell’s release was a hot slice across her skin. It was a ring of force radiating from Camelot’s highest tower, not quite seen except for a bend in space and time where the ripple passed over the surrounding land and sky. Clouds scudded away like foam in a ship’s wake. Trees bowed and broke, the most flexible all but flattening before the force of Merlin’s magic. And there was not just one wave of power, but pulse after pulse in concentric rings of crushing force.
The mortal realms would recover, but the demons would not. The spell hit them like a war hammer, the force hurling them across the veil between worlds and sealing their path against return. Vivian flew end over end, losing all sense of her physical being as the magic smashed her to pieces and plunged her into the Abyss, a drop in a torrential waterfall of demonkind.
Down, down into the dark they crashed, into the sunless pit of arid rock. Here no birds sang, no trees stretched tall, no children laughed. Their freedom was gone, as surely as if chains bound their limbs. Here was their punishment on the command of Arthur, King of Mortals—but it was Merlin who had done it.
Vivian raged, yet she might have accepted her fate if it had come another way. But it had come like a knife in the back. She had loved Merlin, and this was the result.
For the first time ever, Vivian had felt the hot kiss of a tear.
* * *
Clary pulled her bike to the curb and pulled off her helmet to cool her head a few degrees. Vivian’s memory left her solemn, unsure whether to offer her regrets. It wasn’t like she sided with the demons, but banishment seemed harsh.
I’m not asking for sympathy, Vivian remarked in her usual dry tone. Just that you understand we have our own story. There was a rational reason we wanted the mortal realms for ourselves. I, at least, am not a mindless evil who devours infant children on toast.
“You say that like you’re the exception.”
Some questions shouldn’t be asked. Where are we?
Clary didn’t know Seattle well, but could tell this had to be one of the newer suburbs. It still had that semipermanent feel that came from half-finished construction and lawns just sprouting new grass. The afternoon light made all the fresh, colorful paint pop.
Very shiny, Vivian commented without enthusiasm. There is something here I do not like.
“In-ground sprinklers?”
Something is watching us.
“I thought you were keeping Merlin off our back.”
For now. I am curious to see a little of the modern mortal realm and you have been showing it to me at an alarmingly grounds-eye view. I have been content to ride along.
Clary considered that. Since Merlin had knocked Vivian senseless in the post-potion aftermath, the demoness hadn’t interfered with Clary’s physical movements. Nor had she talked quite so much about vengeance. Something had changed.
But now wasn’t the time to ponder that. “If it’s not Merlin, then who’s watching?”
Vivian uttered something Clary assumed was a demon curse word. Fae, and they are carrying blades hewn from the black rock mined from the roots of the Crystal Mountains. Once blessed by the High Druids of ancient days, such knives can wound a demon. I thought they were all destroyed in the war.
“Then how did the fae get them?” It seemed a stupid thing to worry about in the moment, but at the same time...
Clary sensed a rush of rage from the demon. It was pure, white-hot and fueled by the instinct to survive. It was also tinged by fear.
Tenebrius has betrayed me. He must have discovered that I lied when I agreed to spy for LaFaye. This is my punishment.
Clary froze. She was still straddling her bike, one foot on the curb and her helmet dangling loose in her hand. Her backpack was strapped with bungee cords to the rack she’d put on the bike for the occasion. The neighborhood had that post-apocalyptic quiet that bedroom communities get when everyone has left for the day. The only noise was a lawn sprinkler making a rhythmic whoosh-whoosh from the house to her left.
Her spine prickled in warning. Slowly, casually, she put the helmet back on and buckled the chin strap. “Where are they?” she asked softly.
Behind you. Go now.
Clary crouched over her low handlebars and started pedaling, rising from her seat a little to pump harder. Pain screamed up her exhausted thigh muscles, but Vivian’s fright kept her moving. Now she could hear movement above the hiss of her tires on the pavement. It wasn’t so much footfalls—fae were light on their feet—but the jingle of metal. She risked a glance over her shoulder to see two fae, long, white braids streaming as they ran, almost pacing her speeding bike. Despite the heat, they wore battle leathers, weapons belts strapped around their waists. It was the belts making all the noise.
Each fae carried a foot-long blade. They were black and gleaming, curved and tapered like a small saber. Demon-killers, Vivian hissed. There was no doubt they’d slice a human just as effectively.
Clary looked back to the road, struggling with the image of neat family homes paired with the deadly fae. Between the houses she could see a main road ahead, although she wasn’t sure how to get to it. Like so many new developments, the streets were a maze designed to keep traffic slow and safe.
She’d just decided to forget the road and ride overland when something bumped the back wheel. Her narrow tire erupted into a sickening thwap-thwap-thwap. Clary skidded, just managing to control her fall as the bike went over. Pavement slammed her shoulder as she rolled free. She caught a glimpse of the fallen bike, a throwing star sticking from the mangled back tire. Well, that was one downside of the fashion for no fenders.
A split second later, an ear-splitting crack told her the helmet had saved her skull from the edge of the curb, but pain still flashed white behind her eyes. Hands snatched her upright. The fae was breathing hard, the thrill of the hunt plain in his dark pupils.
“Don’t think I’m going to pause to drink your tainted soul, demon child.” The fae’s voice was low, almost a growl.
Clary was too stunned by her fall to speak. She could only react, and Gawain’s fighting drills kicked in. She slammed the heel of her hand into the fae’s elegant nose. The crunch of bone and flesh twisted her stomach.
The fae howled in surprise, reflexively clutching his face. Clary snatched at his blade, risking her fingers as she grabbed it free. It all happened so quickly, she barely had time to spin on her heel before his partner reacted.
Run!
Clary sped for the closest yard, but her legs were slow and heavy and the biking shoes that were so good at sticking to the pedals sucked for running. She dodged between houses, nearly tripping over the small, useless hedge separating one empty driveway from the next. The fae was gaining on her with ease.
“If you can do anything,” she urged Vivian, “now would be the moment.”
As soon as she spoke, she sensed the demon gathering power. It rose like an electric storm, crawling down her arms and raising the fine hairs despite the sweat soaking her skin. Then all at once, Clary was no longer Clary but a being of enormous power. She skidded—no, swaggered—to a halt in a backyard. There were no children there, but a swing set creaked in the silent breeze. She spun to face the fae, who came to a juddering halt and fell back at the look on her face.
Clary fell to one knee, clasped her hands in a double fist around the knife hilt and smote the ground. The world vanished into blackness.