Chapter 94 – Deceptions

--- 2 hours before sunset. ---

"Are you okay?" Isabelle whispered over her shoulder, crouching in the shade of a wide tree trunk that smelled of dried resin. With Adam and the other Nephilim named Paal Mendoza at her back, she felt safe enough to wipe the blood that was sticking between her fingers on her pants.

"Nothing but a few scratches," Paal replied, and as Isabelle hung her dagger back on her belt, she watched the two boys applying Iratzes to each other.

"Since I'm unharmed, I guess I won." Isabelle briefly flashed them a smile before her attention returned to the mission at hand.

They had managed to fight their way to the south side, although it had not been an easy task. Contrary to what they had hoped, the density of patrols had increased the further south they had traveled. Never in groups larger than four, which had saved them. But the last group had consisted entirely of Nephilim. A clear sign that they had to get closer to Valentine. No matter how much he trusted the Seelie Queen, from Isabelle's perspective, he preferred to put his safety in the hands of his own people.

"Adam?" she finally asked after a minute of waiting. His lack of response was answer enough, but Isabelle turned to look at him anyway. His face had lost all color – a complexion so ashen that it was not unlike the snow around them.

"I only knew them by sight," Adam choked as he felt their eyes on him. "But they were still Nephilim."

"They were traitors," Paal replied calmly. Nothing ever seemed to faze him, as Isabelle had already noticed. Even at the height of the battle, he remained composed, as if it were just another training session in his routine. Now he looked at Adam through his unusual almond-colored irises. "We were only fulfilling our duty as imposed by the Inquisitor."

Adam's dejection didn't lift, but he clenched his jaw in a gesture as if he were trying to hold back an outburst of emotion. He slowly raised his chin, dipped his fingers in the snow, and then ran them over his scattered brown hair to hold them back.

"Let it grow for another week and you can put it up in a little braid," Isabelle tried to cheer him up.

Adam's cheek muscles relaxed almost imperceptibly, his pupils darted towards her and the lack of a wall to his emotions surprised Isabelle. Since he had moved into the New York Institute more than a year ago, he had always treated her with a distant friendliness. A reserve that she now knew was due to his spying assignment. Back then, he had always seemed a little pompous and know-it-all to her. Only Clary's arrival had changed this – both for the better and for the worse.

Paal patted Adam encouragingly on the shoulder and pulled Isabelle out of her thoughts. She turned her back on the boys again and snuck past the trunk of the fir tree towards the shore. There wasn't much distance between them and the golden tent. A few hundred metres perhaps. No army anywhere in sight, just isolated, masked figures who went in and out of the tent and always disappeared into the forest on the east side. Perhaps the army guarding Valentine was stationed there on purpose so that they would not notice them until they were almost in front of the tent. Strategic indeed.

"What are the chances that Valentine really is in that tent?" Isabelle wondered, loud enough for Adam and Paal to hear her.

One of them shrugged, but Isabelle was too focused to take her eyes off the shimmering tent in the north. In the light of the setting sun, it shone like liquid gold and dancing flames. "It might as well be a trap," she heard Paal say. "If there's an army hiding in the east part of the forest, we need to run and reach the south edge before they bring out the archers. We can't take on a force."

"I wish we had more backup than–" Adam began to whisper, as if someone in the distance might otherwise hear him. At that moment, down on the bank, the entrance to the tent was pushed aside.

With the sudden energy of lightning in her veins, Isabelle silenced Adam with a simple shhh. Her posture straightened, as if her muscles were itching to jump. Her eyes widened as she spotted the figure striding out of the tent at that very second. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest so violently that she felt as if it would explode.

Clad in black polished battle armor and a cloak thrown casually over its shoulders, the person stepped out of the darkness of the tent. An oversized sword strapped to his back as if it were just a fashion accessory and not the most powerful weapon in the world. The sun touched his hair as soon as he stepped out of the shadows. Bright as the snow and intense as a sun-drenched winter day.

"Isabelle?" Paal didn't sound half as tense as she felt.

"He's here," she managed between several breaths, feeling as if she were drowning. "Valentine," she clarified quickly, and then the words just poured out of her. "He's here. I see him. He has Mellartach with him. He's walking to the shore. Strolling like he's on a shitty beach trip. No guards. No one."

"Are you sure?"

"He only has one hand," Isabelle clarified. Even without this evidence, his hair was unmistakable. The same shade as his son's, Clary's brother Jonathan.

"He must be scouting the shore for the right place to perform the summoning," Adam said breathlessly, his voice rising several octaves. "Cl ... Clary warned us that he would rather use his allies as cannon fodder than let them in on his plans."

"It's probably nothing more than an exercise of power to prove to his followers that he isn't afraid of the enemy." As always, Paal seemed to have his emotions under control. There was hardly a hint of excitement in his tone. Isabelle wished she could cut herself some of his discipline. "Bodyguards would make him seem aloof and weak. He would be no different from the Inquisitors and Consuls who rule Alicante. He must come across as down-to-earth and competent. He can only hope that his cruel reputation precedes him, so that his opponents – in this case us – fear confrontation."

"No way," Isabelle said through the cooling evening air. "We're not going to let this opportunity slip away." Then she was on her feet and beckoned them over. "We're going down there now and killing that bastard."

Adam and Paal stood up and nodded in agreement, their faces grim. "But keep a clear head. Remember the faerie traps," said Paal, taking his bow from his shoulder. Adam drew his seraph blade and then they crept through the forest, down the last hill before they emerged into the open between the firs.

There was still enough distance between them and Valentine for him to have noticed them. And yet he suddenly stopped moving as if he had heard them. All three of them stopped and Isabelle had to push Adam behind a high rock to avoid being discovered.

Valentine had his back to them, his face directed toward the shallow waves, facing north. Isabelle cursed inwardly. Now that they were close enough to make out his shape better, it was clear that it wasn't the Mortal Sword at all. It was a sword of similar size, but that was where the similarities ended. The handle was simple, the silver of the blade grayed from many battles. That meant that Valentine's confrontation would not be enough. Their mission was to return the sword. Everything that happened in the meantime was just the way to the goal. No one had specifically ordered them to kill Valentine Morgenstern. For that reason, it would probably have been smarter to rush to the tent instead of lying in wait for him.

But Isabelle didn't move, nor did she open her lips to tell the others about her discovery. Whether Valentine died or they found Mellartach was ultimately irrelevant. And now that she had the man who had brought so much suffering to her and her loved ones standing before her, her heart no longer wanted to listen to the rational voice of her brain. It felt like a curse suddenly fell upon Isabelle. A curse that stifled any retreating movement in its infancy.

"Now or never," Adam whispered through clenched teeth, giving her a challenging look through his green-rimmed pupils.

Isabelle sucked air into her lungs and listened for any sounds from Valentine. The fine sand crunched almost inaudibly under his boots as he waded along the water with leisurely steps. Without actively noticing it, her fingers freed one of the daggers from her belt and clung to it as if it were a life preserver. Her heart pounding in an excited rhythm, she looked over at Paal. He was already waiting for her command. As was Adam, who now drew his own weapon while Paal nocked an arrow.

"Clear shot," he whispered as soon as he had Valentine in his sights.

Could it really be that simple? Never before had Isabelle found it so easy to give a brief nod. Paal drew his bow, aimed at Valentine Morgenstern and let the arrow fly. Isabelle and Adam jumped out from behind the rock before it hit its target. Digging their feet into the shaking gravel, they watched as the arrowhead pierced deep into Valentine's shoulder.

A deep, pain-filled roar filled the narrow strip of beach, but neither Isabelle nor Adam stopped sprinting. With Paal as backup, they dared to run straight toward Valentine, who fell to his knees in front of them like a fallen angel.

Isabelle raised her dagger and hurled it at Valentine before he could even half turn to face them. Right at his still functioning arm, which was just about to slide up to the hilt of the massive sword. Another sound escaped his throat, but instead of sounding painful, it reminded her more of–

Valentine Morgenstern laughed. From the bottom of his lungs and with full fervor. His chest shook so violently that the hood fell completely from the back of his head. Adam on her right aligned his seraph blade and placed the sharp blade at his neck. But unlike him, Isabelle's body suddenly hesitated beneath her, even if she could not say why.

"Your Inquisitor has no more than three children to offer," Valentine purred, seemingly unimpressed by the threat Adam posed. As soon as he spoke, Isabelle knew why.

Valentine had been in the Clave halls – five days ago. To kill Malachi and deliver his ultimatum to the Nephilim. His voice, so unmistakable and unique, still echoed in Isabelle's head days later. A voice filled with authority and self-assurance – free of any doubt or sympathy. A voice that bore no resemblance to that of this man. A man who wasn't Valentine Morgenstern.

Isabelle grabbed Adam's wrist and pulled him away from the figure before he could take advantage of their surprise. Adam followed without resisting; he must have noticed it too.

Clearly enjoying the shock on their faces, the stranger smiled up at them. "Oh, did you really expect to find Lord Valentine here?" There was something about his smile that radiated a satisfied malice, as if he was delighted at their fatal mistake.

At that moment, Isabelle realized that the fake Mellartach on his back had just been one of many tricks. A trick she had seen through but had misinterpreted. She had simply thought the sword was Valentine's preferred weapon, not a ruse. Now that she thought about it, it all made sense. Valentine knew the meaning of symbols. He would never go into battle with a sword other than Mellartach, no matter how well he felt about another sword. His gait alone should have given him away: he would never stroll leisurely along the beach just before sunset; he would have chosen and prepared the place for his ritual days ago.

Valentine Morgenstern would never leave the Mortal Sword unattended for even one second.

Under the influence of revenge, Isabelle had allowed herself to be led astray by clues and now they were trapped. Because this was nothing but a trap and she had preferred to fall into it rather than tell Adam and Paal about her observation of the false sword. She could have struck them down personally, it would have made no difference.

At that moment, the walls of the golden tent suddenly collapsed like wet sheets of cloth under the weight of gravity. Without the walls, one could now look into the tent from all directions and see exactly what was inside.

Warriors. The tent was filled with warriors to the last square meter. Mostly faerie knights and only a few Nephilim – quite the opposite of the illusion that had been sold to them. There must have been around twenty of them in total.

Suddenly, Isabelle realized that they had been lured into a trap since their encounter with the faeries in the forest. This wasn't Valentine's camp. Yet the faerie, who must have come to the clearing feigning breathlessness, had blurted out exactly what their group had wanted to hear in a moment of undetected spying. Without their knowledge, the faeries had known of their presence on the hilltop and had manipulated them to come here. To their certain death.

Adam looked as if he was about to fall from the sky. His astonishment quickly turned to horror. The sword in his hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

"Your parents will be so disappointed to hear of your death, Adam," the false Valentine purred, running his only hand through his white-blond hair. The arrow in his back didn't seem to hinder him as he stood up to his full height.

"Did you really have your hand chopped off just to play a trick on us?" Adam whispered with disturbed familiarity, the syllables strung together so hastily that it sounded even more garbled.

If Adam knew this man, he had to be a Shadowhunter. Isabelle's eyes slid to the missing hand that should have filled his empty sleeve. Had he actually had it amputated, as Adam implied?

"Anything for Lord Valentine," was all the man replied, not a shred of remorse on his face. Then he raised his hand and motioned to the waiting warriors to begin the fight.

Isabelle rushed at the man and decapitated him in the blink of an eye. She heard Adam's protesting cries behind her, but completely ignored him.

"No room for hesitation!" she screamed at him as soon as she had whirled around to face him. "Either fight or die!" The shock of this death rang in her ears. Now stronger than ever, they had to stick together. Anything else would kill them. Isabelle could only pray to the Angel that Adam would not allow himself to show any more weakness.

Instead of going to meet the broad-shouldered men and women, Isabelle ripped her knife from the headless Valentine's arm and hurled it right between the eyebrows of the nearest faerie. Time passed far too quickly and she had just the chance to take a deep breath when a female Shadowhunter brought her sword down on her. Isabelle raised her own and the adamas sprayed white sparks as the metal grazed against each other. They crossed their swords in a deep arc and finally whirled apart, only to immediately turn around again, the second attack imminent.

Something behind Isabelle hissed, and before her opponent knew what was happening, she had already ducked to avoid Paal's arrow. It split the woman's Adam's apple, and in the blink of an eye, her weapon slipped from her hand and clattered onto the gravel.

Without breaking her flow of movement, Isabelle rolled to the side and threw her next dagger. The way Clary had taught her – back when it had just been training and nothing more. When they had looked forward to this day because it promised the end of a conflict that had destroyed generations. When the thought of this day had been nothing but a harmless image in their heads, soaked in their youthful exuberance.

Adam was easy to spot in the crowd. He was fighting two faerie knights at once – he had deliberately left a lot of space between himself and the Nephilim. He was involved in a fight that he could not win. If only because of the two other faeries who were standing by grinning and letting their colleagues take over as if they had all the time in the world.

The most helpful of the three was probably Paal, who took out the enemies from a distance without putting himself in danger. Isabelle knew that he was doing his best, but even his arrows didn't work wonders on the heavy armor. Always on the move, accurate hits were required. While Isabelle rushed to Adam's aid, she was sure that Clary's shooting talent would also have come to an end here.

Five of the warriors were down, but the stream of enemies didn't seem to be slowing down. Fifteen against three didn't improve their chances significantly. And so Isabelle's support for Adam was lost in the sheer number of their enemies. As soon as she reached him, they seemed to be surrounded on all sides. In an act of last defense, she raised her blade, but deep down she knew that they had already lost. The fatal fact was that it was no one's fault. They could have fought five times better and still would have lost.

But it was Isabelle's fault that they had gotten into a fight in the first place.

Not a minute passed before their swords were knocked from their hands and their arms were grabbed, forcing them to their knees. In the brief scuffle that broke out, someone struck Isabelle in the temple with the full force of her dagger handle, so that through the wild pounding of her head she could only see half of the beach clearly. The rest was lost in a blinding white that made stars swirl around her.

Her body went into a state of icy rigidity as soon as she felt the cool metal of a blade against her jugular vein. She blinked, trying to fight the overwhelming weakness of her mind as it struggled with the blow. In a span in which time seemed to pass more quickly than usual, inaction cost her life and death.

"Hast thou the third one?" Isabelle heard someone ask through a deafening noise.

It was the knight who held his sword to her throat, she realized through half-closed eyelids. His attention was not on her, but on something behind her. Something inside Isabelle screamed to use his distraction to free herself. To at least try. After all, she had not yet used the whip that adorned her wrist like an inconspicuous bracelet.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the faerie's eyes flew back to Isabelle – piercing her with a frostiness that was a silent warning to stay still rather than test his reflexes. Eyes that suddenly reminded her of Meliorn, although they bore no resemblance to his own. But just thinking of him hurt Isabelle so much that she just watched in silence as Paal was dragged towards them. No sign of his bow; his fingers clenched into fists, but his features practiced and motionless – despite the blood that was flowing from his nose.

When one of the faeries finally held a knife to Paal's throat, Isabelle had an unpleasant premonition. Three hostile Nephilim were of no use to Valentine. Eliminating them before they could cause further damage was the only sensible course of action. And according to the determined gaze of the apparent leader of this group, whose curved sword could finish Isabelle off with a tiny touch, her death would be quick and meaningless.

No preface. No final words. All that remained for Isabelle, Adam and Paal was the adrenaline-charged pounding of their hearts, which assured them that this was actually happening. That they were still alive. That–

"Stop!" a young but no less commanding voice called out across the beach at that moment. Controlled, uncompromising and arrogant, with every syllable carrying the order that hung over them all like an echo, although the faeries' sudden pause was accompanied by nothing but silence.

The gravel crunched under the weight of boots as someone approached their group from behind – the south from which Isabelle, Adam and Paal had attacked. With their backs to the action, none of them could tell what was happening, but the faeries' expressions were surprisingly uncertain – offering a surprisingly wide range of guesses. A mixture of confusion and disbelief flickered across most faces, which was replaced with a stronger, door-kicking unease with each passing second. The two Nephilim who were still alive, on the other hand, first widened their eyes in surprise and finally squared their shoulders in an official manner.

Finally, the leader lifted his sword from Isabelle's throat and held it out to the newcomer, which elicited an indignant huff from one of the Shadowhunters. "Identify yourself!"

The faerie's melodic tone almost drowned out the burgeoning defiance, but Isabelle had spent enough time in the presence of his kind to catch it. Breathing shallowly, and without the harsh deathly cold on her neck, she dared to glance over her shoulder. To her right, Adam sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes met what hers had already set their sights on.

Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in midnight-black, blood-splattered battle gear, he stood there, his hands skillfully wrapped loosely around Mellartach's huge hilt as if it were nothing more than an ordinary sword. Compared to his stormy appearance, his snow-white hair sat perfectly in place, accentuating the uncomfortable calm that seemed to emanate from him. The only sign that he didn't belong here.

"You know exactly who I am." His lips widened into a grin that lacked any kindness. The seething expression in his jet-black eyes reminded Isabelle of a hellmouth that drew everything and everyone that dared to stand in his way into a torturous infinity.

The Nephilims' attention was solely focused on the Mortal Sword. The faeries' attention was solely focused on his face.

"Lord Jonathan," murmured the Shadowhunter closest to Isabelle, sinking to his knees. "What an honor that you're here."

-

Merry Christmas! Hopefully, you had wonderful days with your families. In Germany, we have two Christmas Days, so I will be out for dinner with my family in the evening. Since I usually post Thursdays, I also wish you a Happy New Year! For this occasion I want to take the moment to thank you all, my dear readers, for going on this journey with me. I am most grateful to all of you, who enjoy my stories. Every like, every comment, it all makes my day and means a lot to me. So thank you!

As always, I hope you liked this chapter. 

See you next year!

Skyllen <3