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.
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.
For an instant, she saw possessive anger storm over Merlin’s face,
