He took a ragged breath and said, "Why did you text Isabelle instead of me? If you were in trouble-"

"Because I knew she'd come," said Clary. "And I don't know that about you. Not right now."

"If something had happened to you-"

"Then I guess you would have heard about it eventually. You know, when you deigned to actually pick up the phone." She was still holding his wrists; she let go of them now, and sat back. It was hard, physically hard, to be close to him like this and not touch him, but she forced her hands down by her sides and kept them there. "Either you tell me what's wrong, or you can get out of the room."

His lips parted, but he said nothing; she didn't think she'd spoken to him this harshly in a long time. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I mean, I know, with the way I've been acting, you've got no reason to listen to me. And I probably shouldn't have come in here. But when Isabelle said you were hurt, I couldn't stop myself."

"Some burns," Clary said. "Nothing that matters."

"Everything that happens to you matters to me."

"Well, that certainly explains why you haven't called me back once. And the last time I saw you, you ran away without telling me why. It's like dating a ghost."

Jace's mouth quirked up slightly at the side. "Not exactly. Isabelle actually dated a ghost. She could tell you-"

"No," Clary said. "It was a metaphor. And you know exactly what I mean."

For a moment he was silent. Then he said, "Let me see the burns."

She held out her arms. There were harsh red splotches on the insides of her wrists where the demon's blood had spattered. He took her wrists, very lightly, looking at her for permission first, and turned them over. She remembered the first time he had touched her, in the street outside Java Jones, searching her hands for Marks she didn't have. "Demon blood," he said. "They'll go away in a few hours. Do they hurt?"

Clary shook her head.

"I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know you needed me."

Her voice shook. "I always need you."

He bent his head and kissed the burn on her wrist. A flare of heat coursed through her, like a hot spike that went from her wrist to the pit of her stomach. "I didn't realize," he said. He kissed the next burn, on her forearm, and then the next, moving up her arm to her shoulder, the pressure of his body bearing her back until she was lying against the pillows, looking up at him. He propped himself on his elbows so as not to crush her with his weight and looked down at her.

His eyes always darkened when they kissed, as if desire changed their color in some fundamental way. He touched the white star mark on her shoulder, the one they both had, that marked them as the children of those who had had contact with angels. "I know I've been acting strange lately," he said. "But it's not you. I love you. That never changes."

"Then what-?"

"I think everything that happened in Idris-Valentine, Max, Hodge, even Sebastian-I kept shoving it all down, trying to forget, but it's catching up with me. I ... I'll get help. I'll get better. I promise."

"You promise."

"I swear on the Angel." He ducked his head down, kissed her cheek. "The hell with that. I swear on us."

Clary wound her fingers into the sleeve of his T-shirt. "Why us?"

"Because there isn't anything I believe in more." He tilted his head to the side. "If we were to get married," he began, and he must have felt her tense under him, because he smiled. "Don't panic, I'm not proposing on the spot. I was just wondering what you knew about Shadowhunter weddings."

"No rings," Clary said, brushing her fingers across the back of his neck, where the skin was soft. "Just runes."

"One here," he said, gently touching her arm, where the scar was, with a fingertip. "And another here." He slid his fingertip up her arm, across her collarbone, and down until it rested over her racing heart. "The ritual is taken from the Song of Solomon. 'Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.'"

"Ours is stronger than that," Clary whispered, remembering how she had brought him back. And this time, when his eyes darkened, she reached up and drew him down to her mouth.

They kissed for a long time, until most of the light had bled out of the room and they were just shadows. Jace didn't move his hands or try to touch her, though, and she sensed he was waiting for permission.

She realized she would have to be the one to take it further, if she wanted to-and she did want to. He'd admitted something was wrong and that it had nothing to do with her. This was progress: positive progress. He ought to be rewarded, right? A little grin crooked the edge of her mouth. Who was she kidding; she wanted more on her own behalf. Because he was Jace, because she loved him, because he was so gorgeous that sometimes she felt the need to poke him in the arm just to make sure he was real.

She did just that.

"Ow," he said. "What was that for?"

"Take your shirt off," she whispered. She reached for the hem of it but he was already there, lifting it over his head and tossing it casually to the floor. He shook his hair out, and she almost expected the bright gold strands to scatter sparks in the darkness of the room.

"Sit up," she said softly. Her heart was pounding. She didn't usually take the lead in these sort of situations, but he didn't seem to mind. He sat up slowly, pulling her up with him, until they were both sitting among the welter of blankets. She crawled into his lap, straddling his hips. Now they were face-to-face. She heard him suck his breath in and he raised his hands, reaching for her shirt, but she pushed them back down again, gently, to his sides, and put her own hands on him instead. She watched her fingers slide over his chest and arms, the swell of his biceps where the black Marks twined, the star-shaped mark on his shoulder. She traced her index finger down the line between his pectoral muscles, across his flat washboard stomach. They were both breathing hard when she reached the buckle on his jeans, but he didn't move, just looked at her with an expression that said: Whatever you want.

Her heart thudding, she dropped her hands to the hem of her own shirt and pulled it off over her head. She wished she'd worn a more exciting bra-this one was plain white cotton-but when she looked up again at Jace's expression, the thought evaporated. His lips were parted, his eyes nearly black; she could see herself reflected in them and knew he didn't care if her bra was white or black or neon green. All he was seeing was her.

She reached for his hands, then, freeing them, and put them on her waist, as if to say, You can touch me now. He tilted his head up, her mouth came down over his, and they were kissing again, but it was fierce instead of languorous, a hot and fast-burning fire. His hands were feverish: in her hair, on her body, pulling her down so that she lay under him, and as their bare skin slid together she was acutely conscious that there really was nothing between them but his jeans and her bra and panties. She tangled her hands in his silky, disheveled hair, holding his head as he kissed down her throat. How far are we going? What are we doing? a small part of her brain was asking, but the rest of her mind was screaming at that small part to shut up. She wanted to keep touching him, kissing him; she wanted him to hold her and to know that he was real, here with her, and that he would never leave again.

His fingers found the clasp of her bra. She tensed. His eyes were large and luminous in the darkness, his smile slow. "Is this all right?"

She nodded. Her breath was coming fast. No one in her entire life had ever seen her topless-no boy, anyway. As if sensing her nervousness, he cupped her face gently with one hand, his lips teasing hers, brushing gently across them until her whole body felt as if it were shattering with tension. His long-fingered, callused right hand stroked along her cheek, then her shoulder, soothing her. She was still on edge, though, waiting for his other hand to move back to her bra clasp, to touch her again, but he seemed to be reaching for something behind him-What was he doing?

Clary thought suddenly of what Isabelle had said about being careful. Oh, she thought. She stiffened a little and drew back. "Jace, I'm not sure I-"

There was a flash of silver in the darkness, and something cold and sharp lanced across the side of her arm. All she felt for a moment was surprise-then pain. She drew her hands back, blinking, and saw a line of dark blood beading on her skin where a shallow cut ran from her elbow to her wrist. "Ouch," she said, more in annoyance and surprise than hurt. "What-"

Jace launched himself off her, off the bed, in a single motion. Suddenly he was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, his face as white as bone.

Hand clasped across her injured arm, Clary started to sit up. "Jace, what-"

She broke off. In his left hand he was clutching a knife-the silver-handled knife she had seen in the box that had belonged to his father. There was a thin smear of blood across the blade.

She looked down at her hand, and then up again, at him. "I don't understand..."

He opened his hand, and the knife clattered to the floor. For a moment he looked as if he might run again, the way he had outside the bar. Then he sank to the ground and put his head in his hands.

"I like her," said Camille as the doors shut behind Isabelle. "She rather reminds me of me."

Simon turned to look at her. It was very dim in the Sanctuary, but he could see her clearly, her back against the pillar, her hands bound behind her. There was a Shadowhunter guard stationed near the doors to the Institute, but either he hadn't heard Camille or he wasn't interested.

Simon moved a bit closer to Camille. The bonds that constrained her held an odd fascination for him. Blessed metal. The chain seemed to gleam softly against her pale skin, and he thought he could see a few threads of blood seeping around the manacles at her wrists. "She isn't at all like you."

"So you think." Camille tilted her head to the side; her blond hair seemed artfully arranged around her face, though he knew she couldn't have touched it. "You love them so," she said, "your Shadowhunter friends. As the falcon loves the master who binds and blinds it."

"Things aren't like that," Simon said. "Shadowhunters and Downworlders aren't enemies."

"You can't even go with them into their home," she said. "You are shut out. Yet so eager to serve them. You would stand on their side against your own kind."

"I have no kind," Simon said. "I'm not one of them. But I'm not one of you, either. And I'd rather be like them than like you."

"You are one of us." She moved impatiently, rattling her chains, and gave a little gasp of pain. "There is something I didn't say to you, back at the bank. But it is true." She smiled tightly through the pain. "I can smell human blood on you. You fed recently. On a mundane."

Simon felt something inside him jump. "I..."

"It was wonderful, wasn't it?" Her red lips curved. "The first time since you've been a vampire that you haven't been hungry."

"No," Simon said.

"You're lying." There was conviction in her voice. "They try to make us fight against our natures, the Nephilim. They will accept us only if we pretend to be other than we are-not hunters, not predators. Your friends will never accept what you are, only what you pretend to be. What you do for them, they would never do for you."

"I don't know why you're bothering with this," said Simon. "What's done is done. I'm not going to let you go. I made my choice. I don't want what you offered me."

"Maybe not now," Camille said softly. "But you will. You will."

The Shadowhunter guard stepped back as the door opened, and Maryse came into the room. She was followed by two figures immediately familiar to Simon: Isabelle's brother Alec, and his boyfriend, the warlock Magnus Bane.

Alec was dressed in a sober black suit; Magnus, to Simon's surprise, was similarly dressed, with the addition of a long white silk scarf with tasseled ends and a pair of white gloves. His hair stood up like it always did, but for a change he was devoid of glitter. Camille, upon seeing him, went very still.

Magnus didn't seem to see her yet; he was listening to Maryse, who was saying, rather awkwardly, that it was good of them to come so quickly. "We really didn't expect you until tomorrow, at the earliest."

Alec made a muffled noise of annoyance and gazed off into space. He seemed as if he wasn't happy to be there at all. Beyond that, Simon thought, he looked much the same as he always had-same black hair, same steady blue eyes-although there was something more relaxed about him than there had been before, as if he had grown into himself somehow.

"Fortunately there's a Portal located near the Vienna Opera House," Magnus said, flinging his scarf back over his shoulder with a grand gesture. "The moment we got your message, we hurried to be here."

"I still really don't see what any of this has to do with us," Alec said. "So you caught a vampire who was up to something nasty. Aren't they always?"

Simon felt his stomach turn. He looked toward Camille to see if she was laughing at him, but her gaze was fixed on Magnus.

Alec, looking at Simon for the first time, flushed. It was always very noticeable on him because his skin was so pale. "Sorry, Simon. I didn't mean you. You're different."

Would you think that if you had seen me last night, feeding on a fourteen-year-old girl? Simon thought. He didn't say that, though, just dropped Alec a nod.

"She is of interest in our current investigation into the deaths of three Shadowhunters," said Maryse. "We need information from her, and she will only talk to Magnus Bane."

"Really?" Alec looked at Camille with puzzled interest. "Only to Magnus?"

Magnus followed his gaze, and for the first time-or so it seemed to Simon-looked at Camille directly. Something crackled between them, a sort of energy. Magnus's mouth quirked up at the corners into a wistful smile.