“Atheed!” the woman shouted, and her seraph blade caught fire in her hand. The man beside her drew his bow.

“Wait!” said Alec, and pulled his silk mask down with his free hand. “I’m a Shadowhunter! I’m Alec Lightwood; I’m from the New York Institute!”

“Oh,” said the man, and lowered his bow. “Hi there.”

The Shadowhunter woman who had drawn first did not put her seraph blade away but stepped closer, studying him. Alec studied her in turn, and recognized her, pale as a pearl, with streaming fair hair, delicately pointed ears, and striking blue-green eyes. Her pretty face was set in grim lines now.

She was the faerie woman who had been kissing the vampire girl, in the first room Alec had stumbled into at this ball.

She was the Shadowhunter woman Alec had seen from the vantage of a hot-air balloon, chasing a demon in Paris.

There was only one Shadowhunter woman with faerie heritage Alec knew of.

“And you’re Helen Blackthorn,” he said slowly, “from Los Angeles. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my travel year,” said Helen. “I was in the Paris Institute, intending to go on to the Institute in Rome, when we heard rumors about a warlock commanding demons and leading a cult called the Crimson Hand.”

“What rumors?” asked Alec. “What have you heard, and where from?”

Helen ignored the questions. “I’ve been chasing the demons and the warlock ever since. Malcolm Fade, High Warlock of Los Angeles, gave me an invitation to this party, and I came hoping to find answers. What are you doing here?”

Alec blinked. “Oh. Um. I’m on vacation.”

He realized how stupid that sounded. It was as close to the truth as he could admit, though, without exposing Magnus and leading to a situation where he was standing in front of the Clave explaining, My warlock boyfriend accidentally founded a demon cult.

When Alec was in trouble, he was used to being able to turn to his fellow Shadowhunters for help. If it hadn’t been for Magnus, he would’ve told these two about Mori Shu and the stone goat. They could all have gone searching together. But Alec couldn’t do that now. These Shadowhunters and he might not be on the same side.

He looked at the Shadowhunters, and instead of relief that they were here, he felt only anxiety about the lies he had to tell them.

“I’m just here to have a good time,” Alec added weakly.

Disbelief flashed across Helen’s face. “In the subbasement of a former cult headquarters, during a Downworlder party full of miscreants, armed with a seraph blade?”

“That isn’t your idea of a good time?” Alec asked.

“I’ve heard of you,” said Helen. “You were in the war. You were the one with Magnus Bane.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Alec said flatly.

He deliberately did not look at the face of the Shadowhunter man, who had hung back silently. Given what Alec had seen earlier, Helen might be okay with same-sex relationships, but Shadowhunters often were not.

She didn’t look shocked, though. She looked worried. “Malcolm Fade told me there’s a rumor Magnus Bane is the warlock leading the Crimson Hand,” said Helen.

So now Shadowhunters had heard the rumor. Alec told himself to be calm. Malcolm was the High Warlock of Los Angeles. Helen lived in the Los Angeles Institute. They knew each other. That didn’t mean the story had spread to the rest of the Clave.

“It’s not true,” said Alec, with all the conviction he could muster.

“Malcolm did say he didn’t believe it,” Helen admitted.

“Right,” Alec said. “I can see you’ve got the situation handled. I’ll just head back upstairs to the party.”

Helen casually walked past him to look up the steps to see if anyone else was there. It wasn’t lost on Alec that she still held the seraph blade in her hand, nor that she had just cut off his escape route. She turned to him and said, “I think you should come with us to the Rome Institute to answer some questions.”

Alec kept his face neutral, but a chill swept through his body. If it came to it, the Clave could put the Mortal Sword in his hands and he would be forced to tell the truth. He’d have to say that Magnus thought he had founded the cult.

“I think we’re blowing this way out of proportion,” he said.

“I agree,” said the Shadowhunter man unexpectedly, and caught Alec’s attention for the first time. He was short and good-looking, with a dramatic sweep of dark red hair and a French accent. “Excuse me, Monsieur Lightwood, have you been to Paris lately?”

“Yes, right before I arrived in Venice.”

“And were you by chance on a hot-air balloon?”

He almost said no, but realized he was caught. “Yeah, I was.”

“I knew it!” The Shadowhunter rushed forward and grabbed his hand, pumping it enthusiastically. “I want to thank you, Monsieur Lightwood. Can I call you Alec? I am Leon Verlac, of the Paris Institute. The ravissante Helen and I were the Shadowhunters you aided on the rooftop. We cannot thank you enough.”

Helen’s expression suggested that she could probably thank Alec enough. Or possibly not thank him at all. Alec withdrew his hand from Leon’s with difficulty. Leon seemed inclined to hang on to it.

“So you were in Paris as well?” Helen said casually. “What an astonishing coincidence.”