She seemed to gain some strength from that.

“It was never meant to happen,” she said. “There was a club downtown where some of the mundanes enjoyed getting bitten. They had the drugs in their system. They are quite powerful, these substances. It just took hold. I was given some of the infected blood to drink as a gift. I didn’t know what I was drinking—I only knew what effect it had. I didn’t know we were capable of addiction. We didn’t know.”

Magnus looked at the char on the ceiling. Old wounds. Nothing ever really went away.

“I will . . . I will make the command,” she said. “What happened here will never happen again. You have my word.”

“It’s not me you have to tell.”

“Tell the Praetor,” she replied. “Tell the Shadowhunters if you must. It will not happen again. I’ll forfeit my life before I allow it.”

“It’s probably best you speak to Lincoln.”

“Then I will speak to him.”

The mantle of dignity had returned to her shoulders. Despite all that had happened, she was still Camille Belcourt.

“You should leave now,” she said. “This isn’t for you anymore.”

Magnus wavered for a moment. Something—some part of him wanted to remain. But he found that he was already walking down the steps.

“Magnus,” Camille called.

He turned.

“Thank you for lying to me. You have always been kind. I never have been. That was why we couldn’t be, wasn’t it?”

Without replying, Magnus turned and continued down the stairs. Raphael Santiago passed him on the way up.

“I am sorry,” Raphael said.

“Where have you been?”

“When I saw what was happening, I tried to stop them. Camille attempted to make me drink some of the blood. She wanted everyone in her inner circle to participate. She was sick. I have seen such things before and knew how they would end. So I went away. I returned when a vial of my grave soil was broken.”

“I never saw you enter the hotel,” Magnus said.

“I entered through a broken basement window. I thought it was best to remain hidden for a while. I have been caring for the sick. It has been very unpleasant, but . . .”

He looked up, past Magnus’s shoulder, in Camille’s direction.

“I must go now. We have much to do here. Go, Magnus. There’s nothing for you here.”

Raphael had always been able to read Magnus a little too well.

Magnus made his decision when he was in the cab going home. Once he got inside his apartment, he prepared without hesitation, gathering everything he would need. He would need to be very specific. He would write it all down.

Then he called Catarina. He drank some wine while he waited for her to arrive.

Catarina was perhaps Magnus’s truest and closest friend, aside from Ragnor (and that relationship was often in a state of flux). Catarina was the only one who’d gotten any letters or calls while he’d been on his two-year trip. He hadn’t, however, actually told her he was home.

“Really?” she said when he opened the door. “Two years, and then you come back and don’t even call for two weeks? And then it’s, ‘Come over, I need you’? You didn’t even tell me you were home, Magnus.”

“I’m home,” he said, giving what he considered to be his most winning smile. The smiling took a bit of effort, but hopefully it looked genuine.

“Don’t even try that face with me. I am not one of your conquests, Magnus. I am your friend. We are supposed to get pizza, not do the nasty.”

“The nasty? But I—”

“Don’t.” She held up a warning finger. “I mean it. I almost didn’t come. But you sounded so pathetic on the phone that I had to.”

Magnus examined her rainbow T-shirt and pair of red overalls. Both of these stood out strongly against her blue skin. The contrast hurt Magnus’s eyes. He decided not to comment on her attire. The red overalls were very popular. It was just that most people weren’t blue. Most people did not live the rainbow.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, Magnus—”

“Let me explain,” he said. “Then yell at me if you want.”

So he explained. And she listened. Catarina was a nurse, and a good listener.

“Memory spells,” she said, shaking her head. “Not really my thing. I’m a healer. You’re the one who handles all this kind of stuff. If I do it wrong . . .”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“I trust you. Here.”

He handed Catarina the folded piece of paper. On it was a list of every time he’d seen Camille in New York. Every time in the entire twentieth century. These were the things that had to go.

“You know, there’s a reason we can remember,” she said more softly.

“That’s much easier when your life has an expiration date.”

“It may be more important for us.”

“I loved her,” he said. “I can’t take what I saw.”

“Magnus . . .”

“Either you do this or I attempt to do it on myself.”

Catarina sighed and nodded. She examined the paper for several moments, then took hold of Magnus’s temples very gently.

“You remember you’re lucky to have me, right?” she said.

“Always.”

Five minutes later Magnus was puzzled to find Catarina sitting beside him on the sofa.

“Catarina? What—”

“You were sleeping,” she said. “You left the door open. I let myself in. You have to lock your door. This city is nuts. You may be a warlock, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get your stereo stolen.”

“I usually lock it,” Magnus said, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t even realize I fell asleep. How did you know I was—”

“You called me and said you were home and wanted to go out for pizza.”

“I did? What time is it?”

“Time for pizza,” she replied.

“I called you?”

“Uh-huh.” She stood and put out a hand to help him up. “And you’ve been back for two weeks and just called me tonight, so you’re in trouble. You sounded sorry on the phone but not sorry enough. More groveling will be needed.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was . . .”

Magnus struggled for the words. What had he been doing the last couple of weeks? Working. Calling clients. Dancing with handsome strangers. Something else too, but he couldn’t quite think of it. It didn’t matter.

“Pizza,” she said again, pulling him to his feet.

“Pizza. Sure. Sounds good.”

“Hey,” she said as he was locking the door. “Have you heard anything about Camille recently?”

“Camille? I haven’t seen her in at least . . . eighty years? Something like that? Why are you asking about Camille?”

“No reason,” she said. “Her name just popped into my mind. By the way, you’re buying.”