I think we should go back to the servants' stairs," she whispered. "I feel too exposed out here."
Jace nodded. "You realize, once we get there, you'll have to call out for Simon and hope he can hear you?"
She wondered if the fear she felt showed on her face. "I-"
Her words were cut short by a bloodcurdling scream. Clary whirled.
Raphael.
He was gone, no marks in the dust showing where he might have walked-or been dragged. She reached for Jace, reflexively, but he was already moving, running toward the gaping arch in the far wall and the shadows beyond. She couldn't see him but followed the darting witchlight he carried, like a traveler being led through a swamp by a treacherous will-o'-the-wisp.
Beyond the arch was what had once been a grand ballroom. The ruined floor was white marble, now so badly cracked that it resembled a sea of floating arctic ice. Curved balconies ran along the walls, their railings veiled in rust. Gold-framed mirrors hung at intervals between them, each crowned with a gilded cupid's head. Spiderwebs drifted in the clammy air like ancient wedding veils.
Raphael was standing in the center of the room, his arms at his sides. Clary ran to him, Jace following more slowly behind her. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.
He nodded slowly. "I thought I saw a movement in the shadows. It was nothing."
"We've decided to head back to the servants' stairs," Jace said. "There's nothing on this floor."
Raphael nodded. "Good idea."
He headed for the door, not looking to see if they followed. He had gotten only a few steps when Jace said, "Raphael?"
Raphael turned, eyes widening inquisitively, and Jace threw his knife.
Raphael's reflexes were quick, but not quick enough. The blade struck home, the force of the impact knocking him over. His feet went out from under him and he fell heavily to the cracked marble floor. In the dim witchlight his blood looked black.
"Jace,"
Clary hissed in disbelief, shock pounding through her. He'd said he hated mundanes, but he'd never-
As she turned to go to Raphael, Jace shoved her brutally aside. He flung himself on the other boy and grabbed for the knife sticking out of Raphael's chest.
But Raphael was faster. He seized the knife, then screamed as his hand came in contact with the cross-shaped hilt. It clattered to the marble floor, blade smeared black. Jace had one hand fisted in the material of Raphael's shirt, Sanvi in the other. It was glowing with such a bright light that Clary could see colors again: the peeling royal blue of the wallpaper, the gold flecks in the marble floor, the red stain spreading across Raphael's chest.