“You look good,” Magnus told her. His eyes slid to Alec, and he handed Alec a silk half-mask, the deep blue color of twilight. Alec accepted it, and Magnus smiled. “And you look perfect. Let’s go.”

DUSK CURTAINED THE CITY. THE palazzo was decorated with torches that dotted the tops of the walls. A white fog had settled over the streets around the palazzo, curling around pillars and blanketing canals, lending the scene an eerie glow. Alec could not tell if it was magic or naturally occurring.

Over the marble facade of the building were faerie lights that sparkled and shifted, moving every other minute to spell out the words ANY DAY BUT VALENTINE’S DAY.

Alec was not a fan of parties, but he could at least appreciate the reason behind this one.

He had fought to stop Valentine Morgenstern. He would have given his life to do it. He hadn’t given much thought to how Downworlders overall regarded Valentine, who thought they were unclean and planned to wipe the stain of their existence from the earth. Now he saw how scared they must have been.

The Shadowhunters had many celebrated warriors. Alec hadn’t realized how it would be for Downworlders to have a Downworlder victory and war heroes of their own—not just of one clan or one family or one pack, but that belonged to all of Downworld together.

He would have been even more sympathetic if the werewolf security team had not insisted on patting him down. Twice. The security didn’t seem all that strict, until they spotted Alec’s runes.

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I fought in the war whose victory you’re celebrating. On the winning side,” he added quickly.

The head of security, the largest of the werewolves—Alec figured that made sense—had been summoned. He said to Alec in a low voice, “We just don’t want any trouble.”

“I wasn’t planning to be any trouble. I am only,” Alec said clearly, “here to party.”

“And I thought there were going to be two of you,” the werewolf muttered.

“What?” said Alec. “Two Shadowhunters?”

The werewolf shrugged his burly shoulders. “Lord, I hope not.”

Magnus said, “Are you finished with my dance partner yet? I understand it’s difficult to keep your hands off him, but I really must insist.”

The security head shrugged and waved a hand. “Fine, go.”

“Thanks,” said Alec in a low voice, and reached for Magnus’s hand. The security guards had confiscated his bow and arrow, but he wasn’t too bothered since they’d missed the six seraph blades and four daggers he also had concealed about his person. “These people are impossible.”

Magnus moved back a fraction, so Alec missed catching his hand.

“Some of these people are my friends,” said Magnus. But then he shrugged and smiled. “Some of my friends are impossible.”

Alec was not entirely convinced. He was unsettled by the space between their hands. They went into the glittering mansion with that small, cold distance between them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

* * *

Tread Softly

JOHANN STRAUSS’S “EMPEROR WALTZ” WAS playing in the grand ballroom. Magnus saw hundreds of masked people in elaborate costumes dancing in unison, and around them was music that could be seen as well as heard. As if ripped from a black-and-white sheet of paper and turned into bright, living shapes, the notes floated in the air, drifting along currents of musical lines and wrapping around the glittering masks and elaborate hair of the dancers.

Along the ceiling, the constellations were moving; no, they were the orchestra. Stars moved to suggest the shapes of people and instruments. Libra was first chair, playing the violin, Ursa Major next to him his second. Aquila played the viola while Scorpio was on the bass. Orion played the cello, Hercules was on percussion. The stars played, while the masked couples danced, and the musical notes floated in between.

Magnus moved down the Carrara marble stairs from the foyer into the ballroom with Alec and Shinyun shadowing him like bodyguards.

“Prince Adaon,” he called, recognizing a friend.

Prince Adaon, his swan mask a gorgeous contrast to his dark skin, sent Magnus a grin over the heads of his courtiers.

“You’re on speaking terms with a prince?” Alec asked.

“I wouldn’t speak to most of the Unseelie Court princes,” said Magnus. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of things they get up to. They should only be thankful there are no faerie tabloids. Adaon’s the best of the bunch.”

As they came to the foot of the staircase, they met a man in a lavender tuxedo and a full-face mask of El Muerto, his white hair slicked back. Magnus grinned.

“Our host, I believe.”

“What makes you think that?” asked the man in a low English accent.

“Who else could have thrown this party? I commend you on going all out. No sense in going half out.” Magnus reached over and shook his hand. “Malcolm Fade. It’s been a long time.”

“Just before the millennium turned. I remember you were going through a particularly grungy period last I saw you.”

“Yes. It was called grunge. I was surprised to hear you moved to Los Angeles, and they made you High Warlock.”

Malcolm raised his mask, and Magnus saw him smile, the expression always sweet and more than a little sad.