“Who knew he’d be so willing to trust a warlock?”

“Who knew anyone would believe you were the long-lost descendant of some noble Shadowhunter line?” she said, then laughed. “Oh wait, I knew. Admit it, deep down, you knew it would work. You just didn’t want it to.”

“Of course I didn’t want it to.” He touched her cheek, impossibly gently. “I hate this. I hate leaving you here.” Céline realized with a slight shock that she recognized him. This was the man the Silent Brother had chased after at the Market.

“It’s not for long. And it’s for the best, Jack, I promise.”

“You’ll come find me in L.A. as soon as it’s taken care of? You swear?”

“In the Shadow Market. At our old place. I swear. As soon as I can be sure the trail’s gone cold.” She kissed him, long and hard. When she pressed her hand to his cheek, Céline spotted the glint of a wedding band.

“Rosemary—”

“I don’t want you anywhere near these people. It’s not safe.”

“But it’s safe for you?”

“You know I’m right,” she said.

The man hung his head and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. It looked expensive, except for the giant gaping hole torn through the left side. “Yeah.”

“You ready?”

He nodded, and she pulled a small bottle from her bag. “This better work the way it’s supposed to.” She handed it to her husband, who uncorked it, swallowed its contents, and tossed it into the river.

A moment later, he clutched his hands to his face and began to scream.

Céline panicked. It wasn’t her place to interfere, but she couldn’t just stand here and watch as this woman murdered her—

“Jack, Jack, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

She clung to him as the man moaned and shuddered, and, finally, slumped quietly into her arms. “I think it worked,” he said.

When they backed away from each other, Céline gasped. Even in the dim light of the streetlights, she could see that his face had transformed. He had been a blond with sparkling green eyes and sharp, chiseled features, around the age of Stephen and nearly as handsome. Now he looked ten years older, his face carved with worry lines, his hair mud colored, his smile crooked.

“Hideous,” the woman named Rosemary said approvingly. Then she kissed him again, just as desperately as before, as if nothing had changed. “Now go.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as I am that I love you.”

The man fled into the night, his coat melting into the darkness.

“And ditch the trench!” Rosemary called after him. “It’s too obvious!”

“Never!” he shouted back, and then he was gone.

Rosemary sagged against the bridge and buried her face in her hands. So she didn’t see the gargoyle behind her blink its eyes and swivel its stone snout in her direction.

Céline suddenly remembered: the Pont des Arts had no gargoyles. This was a flesh-and-blood Achaieral demon, and it looked hungry.