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“You were a child then,” the Queen snapped. “Now you are grown. And you know as well as I do that there is a difference between spilling mortal blood and that which is royal—”

A voice rang out. “Enough!”

Nene had appeared in the narrow archway. She was no longer disguised as Elara; she wore simple gray traveling clothes, and her hair, the same color as Mark’s and Helen’s, was unbound. She was glaring furiously at the Queen. “How dare you give your son such orders?”

The Queen laughed incredulously. “Nene?” she said. “How dare you defy your banishment? The wild fey have no business with the Seelie Court. I forbid your presence here.”

“And yet here I am,” said Nene, taking a step onto the riverbank. Ash’s gaze followed her. “Your Huntsman has preyed upon us, killing and taking wild fey as trophies. Of course that concerns us.”

The Seelie Queen looked at Nene, a cold direct look as if she were glancing through a window. “That may be why Mother Hawthorn sent you, but it is not why you came, Nene. You came for Ash. You have always wanted him more than I did, ever since he was a baby.”

“If I had come to the Court and discovered he was happy here, and that you treated him well, I would have departed without a word,” said Nene. “But you are incapable of love, Your Highness. Your son is just a thing to be forced into obedience, reshaped until he is as soulless as his mother. Anyone can be made evil through cruelty and neglect, but Ash is so much better than that. So much better than either of his parents.”

The Queen’s face twisted; she raised a slim white hand and gestured, and vines sprang up around Nene’s body, slithering around her legs like snakes, pinning her arms to her sides. Nene screamed, and Dru realized that the vines were sprouting thorns, long wicked black points that dug into Nene’s skin and drew blood.

Ash turned on his mother. “Stop!” he shouted. “Why punish her for the truth? She is the only one who ever cared for me. She is the only reason I might still have a soul. She was more of a mother to me than you ever were—”

Dru turned to look at Nene. The vines were tight around her, and her blood ran down her arms and hands, and pattered onto her shoes. Still, when she looked at Ash, she was smiling. “You see,” she said, to the Queen. “You cannot destroy everything good. You have done nothing to deserve the love of your people, and they despise you. Now you make your son despise you, too—”

“That does not matter,” the Queen snapped. “Any who stand against me will feel the wrath of Hell.”

Like constricting snakes, the vines tightened, suddenly and violently, around Nene’s neck. She was only able to give one choked scream before she fell to the ground.

Ash cried out, but didn’t move, keeping his sword trained on the Queen. Dru ran toward Nene’s fallen body. She had fallen at the edge of the water, and her blood was running into the river, red streams diluted by clear blue. As Dru came closer, she saw that Nene’s eyes were open, staring sightlessly ahead. The thorned vines had cut nearly all the way through her throat.

She was dead.

Dru could feel tears burning in her eyes. She thought of Luke, warning her not to do stupid things, and—as she always had in the past—totally disregarded the advice. “You bitch,” she snarled, turning on the Queen. “No wonder your Court hates you—Nene was right—”

“Dru!” Ash barked a warning, but it was too late. Dru felt a stabbing pain all over her body—her arms, her wrists, her neck. The same vines that had captured Nene were encircling her, the same thorns digging into her skin.

Agony exploded from her every nerve—she fell to her knees and then those gave out, too. She crumpled flat against the riverbank, the water-smoothed stones jutting into her belly, her chest, her legs. Breathless, she started to drag herself across the stones, toward the Queen. She was growing lightheaded. Her hands were sticky and wet with blood. Far overhead, she thought she heard the Queen laugh.

Dru looked up. Her vision was starting to darken, but she could see the Queen standing over her, her mouth curved into a smile. “Janus tried to convince me you should be the last Nephilim to die, as a favor to Ash,” said the Queen. “But as it turns out, you will be the first.”

Dru tried to lift herself off the ground, to reach for the Queen, to find some part of her Dru could dig her nails into. But the Queen was so far away, so high up. She was smiling down at Dru, even as a shadow moved behind her, blocking the light from overhead. Even as there was a sharp, metallic sound, and a silver-black blade whipped across Dru’s vision.

The Queen staggered back, Phaesphoros sunk deep into her chest. Her breath rattled in her throat as she fell to her knees, her dress pooling around her like the petals of a flower. She stared down in disbelief at the blood on her gown, her hands. When she looked at Dru, her eyes had already turned a milky white. She seemed to gaze into a far distance that only she could see; when she spoke, her voice was like broken crystal.

“The throne,” she said, hollowly. “It is taken.”

The vines torturing Dru vanished, leaving only a stinging pain behind. Blinking blood out of her eyes, she looked up to see Ash standing over his mother’s body, his expression flat as he reached down to pull the sword from her chest.

He had slain the Seelie Queen.

Jace

Under the waters of Lake Lyn, the Shadowhunters floated, and among them, Jace Herondale dreamed.

He was not aware that he was dreaming, and indeed, none of his companions dreamed. For them, the darkness and silence beneath the lake was akin to nothingness. They did not feel pain nor fear, nor joy nor hope, only the endless quiet.

But in Jace’s veins, the blood of the angel Ithuriel stirred, drawn by something that was very much its opposite. A tiny spark lit in the darkness. Behind his eyes, illusions swam.

He saw Clary. Sitting in the sun in Central Park, her back against a tree, sketch pad on her lap. Tumble of red curls, pen behind her ear. A little smile because she knew he was there, even as she refused to look up.

He reached out a hand, fingers stirring water, as if he could touch her.

There is no greater sorrow for a mortal than remembering a happier time, said a deep, unfamiliar voice in his ear. Especially if that time will not come again.