LITMIR.BIZ

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      Clary pushed away from the wall. Merlin took a step forward as if to support her, but she wasn’t dizzy now. Anger had cleared her head and set her pulse speeding at a quick march. Her whole body sang with pain, but she stalked toward the door on perfectly steady feet.

      “Clary!” Merlin said, his tone thick with irritation. “Come back here.”

      “Don’t talk to me right now. And don’t come after me.” Clary slammed the workshop door behind her, taking the steps down to the main level of the warehouse at a run. She didn’t look back.

      When she reached the street a minute later, the late May sunshine seemed strange. There was no darkness, no storms and certainly no demons. Sparrows flitted through the last blossoms of the cherry trees lining the streets, and a senior couple walked matching Scottie dogs in the leaf-dappled shade. It was the perfect day for a cross-country bike ride, the kind that might take her fifty or sixty miles. Clary shook her head, feeling as if she was suddenly in the wrong movie.

      She started walking, the residue of her anger still hot in her veins. Merlin’s workshop was at the edge of Carlyle’s bustling downtown and a twenty-minute walk from her sister’s apartment. If Clary went for a visit, she could get her throbbing arm checked and complain to Tamsin about men at the same time.

      Tamsin would be sympathetic for sure. Clary was the baby of the family and her uncertain talent upset a cartload of familial expectations, but she was an accomplished computer programmer and was making a new career as a social media consultant for Medievaland. Tamsin would tell her she was doing fine, which was exactly what she needed right now.

      The social media job had been a stroke of luck, something she’d pitched to Camelot when she’d moved across the country to study with Merlin. In fact, she was his first student in a hundred years because she’d refused to take no for an answer the moment she’d found out her big sister had met the man. In her imagination he’d been the ultimate enchanter, a rebel prince of the magical world. He’d turned out to be short-tempered and demanding, arrogant and aloof. She’d been crushed.

      It wasn’t that Merlin was a bad teacher—he was fabulous. He drilled her remorselessly, showing her three or four ways to launch a spell until they found one that worked for her. Fighting spells, spying spells, portals, wards—he taught far more practical application than theory and approached every lesson with resolute patience. Her skills had leaped forward. It was just that he was so very Merlin.

      Clary swore under her breath. You’d think he could have put a sign on the door to keep visitors out. Sure, she’d dropped by unexpectedly with a question about the homework he’d given her and, yes, there had been a ward she disarmed to walk in, but he always had a ward on the door. Sometimes he put them there just to test her. How was she to know he’d be chatting with hellspawn?

      And as for the rest, why was she surprised? It had been a kiss in the moment, a rare moment of compassion from a very dark horse. Merlin was the greatest enchanter in written history. She was so far down the food chain she wasn’t even on the menu. There would never be anything more between them, however much that one embrace made her imagination explode.

      She ground her teeth. Maybe she should have stuck with computers. At least software didn’t have claws. At least it didn’t kiss her and then shut down the moment with a wall of ice.

      Clary’s thoughts scattered as she neared Tamsin’s street. This block was lined with low-rise storefronts featuring a drugstore, a used-clothing exchange and a place that still sold vinyl records. The neighborhood was like a small town where shopkeepers greeted their customers by name and residents knew which child belonged to which mother. Normally, she enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere, but she was starting to feel sick again. Whatever fury she’d been running on was draining fast. There was a café with a few outdoor tables, and she sat down on one of the ornate metal chairs. She rested her head on her good hand and cradled her injured arm in her lap. I should call Tamsin, she thought, but the pocket with her phone seemed miles away.

      Her heart was hammering, perspiration clammy on her skin. It took her a moment to recognize the sensation as raw, primal fear. But why? She was out of danger now, wasn’t she? Hadn’t Merlin said Clary herself was of no interest to the demons? And yet, it felt as if something was looking over her shoulder. She jerked around, but saw nothing except a passerby startled by Clary’s frown.

      The sudden motion sent spikes of pain up her arm. She pushed up the torn sleeve of her jacket to see the scratches were swelling now. She touched the pink skin and discovered it was hot. Infection. Wonderful. No wonder she felt queasy. She slumped in the chair, aware of the clatter and bustle of the coffee shop though it seemed far, far in the distance.

      She fished her phone out and set it on the table, realizing she’d have to dial it left-handed because the fingers of her injured hand had gone numb. Clary had managed to punch the code that unlocked it when a wave of pain struck her. It was like the shock of power Merlin had administered, but on steroids.

      Clary hunched over the table, robbed of the breath even to cry out. A white haze swallowed the world around her, turning everything to static. Sound vanished, a high, thin hum filling her brain. She began to shake—not a ladylike trembling, either. Her head lolled back as her jerking knees rattled the table. All at once she was on the ground, her cheek pressed to the gritty sidewalk.

      Blackness.

      Hands gathered her up. Voices distant and muffled as if she was underwater. She was in the chair again, the cold metal beneath the seat of her jeans. Hard to stay in the chair because her limbs were like spaghetti.

      “Miss? Miss?”

      There was a sound like a bubble popping, and she could see and hear again.

      “By the Abyss!” Clary gasped as the world smacked her like cold water. Sounds, colors, smells all seemed out of control. Clary blinked, wiping her eyes with the back of her good hand.

      “Can we call someone for you?” asked a voice.

      Clary squinted, recognizing the square, pleasant face of the woman who ran the coffee shop. She searched for the woman’s name, but it was gone. “Huh?”

      “You passed out,” the woman said slowly and carefully. “You might have had a seizure.”

      Goddess! She should probably be in the hospital, but then she’d have to explain the claw marks. Clary looked around. Her phone was still on the table. “Tamsin,” she said but couldn’t manage more. A wave of disorientation swamped her. Her voice sounded wrong, but she wasn’t sure why.

      “Tamsin who lives in the apartment building down the street?” the woman asked.

      Clary nodded, afraid to speak again.

      “She ordered a birthday cake for the weekend. I have her number.” The woman bustled back inside.

      Clary closed her eyes. Whose birthday was it? The name bobbed just out of reach of her thoughts. Facts and memories receded, as if her consciousness was a balloon that had come untethered. When she opened her eyes again, she caught sight of her reflection in the café window and froze.

      Her face was familiar, and it was not. So this is what it’s like to be human.

      Clary’s thoughts swerved. What the blazes?

      She’d recognized the voice in her head. Cold needles of fear crept up her body, turning her fingers and nose so cold it felt like January. Something had been watching her, and now she knew it was Vivian.

      Or what’s left of me after Merlin smashed his precious globe. Immortals are hard to kill, but I was vulnerable when he did that. I needed a safe harbor and your body was empty for a split second before he brought you back. Hope you don’t mind a roomie.

      Clary sat up straight, fighting a sudden urge to scream. Her head, seemingly of its own accord, turned back to her reflection. She took in the mop of shaggy blond hair, the ragged, bloody clothes and her wide, frightened eyes.

      It’s not the body I’m used to, but beggars can’t be choosers.

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