“If you want it …”

Céline had not had the kind of parents who read her fairy tales. But she’d read enough of them herself to know the cardinal rule of these stories: be careful what you wish for.

And like every Shadowhunter, she knew: all the stories are true.

“I want to know,” she said.

He told her she was right. He was framing two Shadowhunters, innocent of these crimes but guilty of a much larger one—standing in the Circle’s way. “They’re bogged down in tradition, they’re beholden to the Clave’s corruption. And they’re dead set on destroying me. So I acted first.” He’d used the warlock to plant evidence, he admitted. Now he would use Stephen and Robert as witnesses to her confession. “Since she is, unfortunately, no longer able to testify.”

“What about the Mortal Sword?” Céline asked. “Aren’t you worried what will happen when the accused Shadowhunters are interrogated?”

Valentine tsked, as if disappointed that she hadn’t jumped to the correct conclusion. “It’s very unfortunate, they’ll never make it that far. I happen to know these two Shadowhunters will make an escape attempt during their transport to the Silent City. They’ll be killed in the ensuing chaos. Tragic.”

The words sat heavy between them. Céline tried to process it. Valentine wasn’t just setting up two Shadowhunters, two innocent Shadowhunters. He was planning to murder them in cold blood. This was an unthinkable crime, for which the Law would demand death.

“Why are you telling me this?” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “What makes you think I won’t turn you in? Unless …”

Unless he had no intention of letting her leave this apartment alive.

A man who could kill two Shadowhunters in cold blood could presumably kill a third. Everything in her said that she should leap to her feet, draw her weapon, fight her way out of here, run straight to the Paris Institute, tell them everything. Stop this—stop him—before he went any further. Valentine watched her calmly, palms up on the table, as if to say, Your move.

She didn’t move.

The Verlac family, who ran the Paris Institute, were friends with her parents. More than once, a Verlac had sought out her hiding place and dumped her back home. That first time, she’d pleaded for asylum at the Institute, where all Shadowhunters were supposedly guaranteed a safe home. Céline was told she was too young to make such requests, too young to know what “safe” meant. She was told her parents loved her and she should stop causing them so much trouble.

She owed these people nothing.

Valentine, on the other hand, had singled her out. Given her a mission, a family. She owed him everything.

He leaned toward her, reached out his hand. She willed herself not to flinch. He touched her neck, lightly, where the Achaieral demon had scratched her. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“And you were limping.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you need another iratze—”