Since Lily Chen had become the leader of the vampires of New York, she’d redecorated on the inside. Alec and Jace opened splintered double doors on a shining hall. The flight of stairs and the balcony above them had a glittering rail, gilt-painted iron fretwork depicting snakes and roses. Lily liked things to look like the 1920s, which she said was the best decade. The decor wasn’t the only thing that had changed; now there were hipsters in the know, and though Alec didn’t understand the allure himself, there was a waiting list to be a party victim.

A pair of legs was sticking out from under the curving flight of stairs. Alec strode over and peered into the shadowy alcove, seeing a man wearing suspenders, a blood-smudged shirt, and a grin.

“Hi,” Alec said. “Just checking. Is this a voluntary situation?”

The man blinked. “Oh yes. I signed the consent form!”

“There’s a consent form now?” Jace murmured.

“I told them they didn’t have to do that,” Alec murmured back.

“My fabulous fanged lady friend said I should sign it, otherwise the Clave would get stern with her. Are you the Clave?”

“No,” said Alec.

“But Hetty said that if I didn’t sign the consent form, the Clave would look at her with those disappointed blue eyes. Your eyes are very blue.”

“And very disappointed,” said Alec sternly.

“Are you bothering Alec?” demanded a vampire girl, running out of the double doors that led to the parlor. “Don’t bother Alec.”

“Oh dear,” said the man in delighted tones. “Is my mortal soul doomed? Are you about to visit your undead wrath upon me?”

Hetty snarled, and dived under the stairs with a giggle. Alec averted his eyes and headed for the parlor, Jace falling in behind him. Jace let Alec take point when it came to the vampires. As head of the New York Institute, Jace reprimanding a vampire might sound like a threat. Jace and Alec had talked over how to make the city welcoming to all Downworlders, now that New York was a refuge in the times of the Cold Peace.

Through the parlor doors came the sound of music: not Lily’s usual jazz but a pounding mix that sounded like rap and jazz combined. Inside the parlor were tufted chairs, a gleaming piano, and an elaborate set of turntables and wires. Bat Velasquez the werewolf DJ was sitting cross-legged on a plush velvet sofa, fiddling with dials.

In other cities, vampires and werewolves didn’t get along. Things were different in New York.

Elliott, second in command of the vampire clan, was dancing around in a happy circle by himself. His arms and dreadlocks waved to the beat like plants underwater.

“Is Lily up?” asked Alec.

Elliott suddenly looked hunted. “Not yet. We had a bit of a late morning yesterday. There was an incident. Well, more a disaster.”

“What caused this disaster?”