tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3408926912338560052023-11-16T07:09:59.212-08:00Read The Mortal InstrumentsRead The Mortal Instruments, The City of Bones, The City of Ashes, The City of Glass, The City of Fallen Angels, The City of Lost Souls today!Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-55600304787377012592013-03-14T07:27:00.001-07:002013-03-14T07:27:49.855-07:00Mortal Instruments Movie Poster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones Poster. Movie showing on August 23, 2013.Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-55539856572888339722013-02-21T03:53:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.101-07:00City of Lost Souls - Epilogue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />At first, Jace was conscious of nothing. Then there was darkness, and within the<br />darkness, a burning pain. It was as if he’d swallowed fire, and it choked him and burned<br />his throat. He gasped desperately for air, for a breath that would cool the fire, and his<br />eyes flew open.<br />He saw darkness and shadows—a dimly lit room, known and unknown, with rows of<br />beds and a window letting in hollow blue light, and he was in one of the beds, blankets<br />and sheets pulled down and tangled around his body like ropes. His chest hurt as if a<br />dead weight lay on it, and his hand scrabbled to find what it was, encountering only a<br />thick bandage wrapped around his bare skin. He gasped again, another cooling breath.<br />“Jace.” The voice was familiar to him as his own, and then there was a hand gripping<br />his, fingers interlacing with his own. With a reflex born out of years of love and familiarity,<br />he gripped back.<br />“Alec,” he said, and he was almost shocked at the sound of his own voice in his ears. It<br />hadn’t changed. He felt as if he had been scorched, melted, and recreated like gold in a<br />crucible—but as what? Could he really be himself again? He looked up at Alec’s anxious<br />blue eyes, and knew where he was. The infirmary at the Institute. Home. “I’m sorry…”<br />A slim, callused hand stroked his cheek, and a second familiar voice said, “Don’t<br />apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”<br />He half-closed his eyes. The weight on his chest was still there: half a wound and half<br />guilt. “Izzy.”<br />Her breath caught. “It really is you, right?”<br />“Isabelle,” Alec began, as if to warn her not to upset Jace, but Jace touched her hand.<br />He could see Izzy’s dark eyes shining in the dawn light, her face full of hopeful<br />expectancy. This was the Izzy only her family knew, loving and worried.<br />“It’s me,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I could understand if you didn’t believe me,<br />but I swear on the Angel, Iz, it’s me.”<br />Alec said nothing, but his grip on Jace’s hand tightened. “You don’t need to swear,” he<br />said, and with his free hand touched the parabatai rune near his collarbone. “I know. I<br />can feel it. I don’t feel like I’m missing a part of me anymore.”<br />“I felt it too.” Jace took a ragged breath. “Something missing. I felt it, even with<br />Sebastian, but I didn’t know what it was I was missing. But it was you. My parabatai.” He<br />looked at Izzy. “And you. My sister. And…” His eyelids burned suddenly with a scorching<br />light: the wound on his chest throbbed, and he saw her face, lit by the blaze of the sword.<br />A strange burning spread through his veins, like white fire. “Clary. Please tell me—”<br />“She’s completely all right,” Isabelle said hastily. There was something else in her voice<br />—surprise, unease.<br />“You swear. You’re not just telling me that because you don’t want to upset me.”<br />“She stabbed you,” Isabelle pointed out.<br />Jace gave a strangled laugh; it hurt. “She saved me.”<br />“She did,” Alec agreed.<br />“When can I see her?” Jace tried not to sound too eager.<br />“It really is you,” Isabelle said, her voice amused.<br />“The Silent Brothers have been in and out, checking on you,” said Alec. “On this”—he<br />touched the bandage on Jace’s chest—“and to see if you were awake yet. When they find<br />out you are, they’ll probably want to talk to you before they let you see Clary.”<br />“How long have I been out cold?”<br />“About two days,” said Alec. “Since we got you back from the Burren and were pretty<br />sure you weren’t going to die. Turns out it’s not that easy to completely heal a wound<br />made by an archangel’s blade.”<br />“So what you’re saying is that I’m going to have a scar.”<br />“A big ugly one,” said Isabelle. “Right across your chest.”<br />“Well, damn,” said Jace. “And I was relying on that money from the topless underwear<br />modeling gig I had lined up, too.” He spoke wryly, but he was thinking that it was right,<br />somehow, that he have a scar: that he should be marked by what had happened to him,<br />physically as well as mentally. He had almost lost his soul, and the scar would serve to<br />remind him of the fragility of will, and the difficulty of goodness.<br />And of darker things. Of what lay ahead, and what he could not allow to happen. He<br />strength was returning; he could feel it, and he would bend all of it against Sebastian.<br />Knowing that, he felt suddenly lighter, a little of the weight gone from his chest. He<br />turned his head, enough to look into Alec’s eyes.<br />“I never thought I’d fight on the opposite side of a battle from you,” he said hoarsely.<br />“Never.”<br />“And you never will again,” Alec said, his jaw set.<br />“Jace,” Isabelle said. “Try to stay calm, all right? It’s just…”<br />Now what? “Is something else wrong?”<br />“Well, you’re glowing a bit,” Isabelle said. “I mean, just a smidge. Of the glowing.”<br />“Glowing?”<br />Alec raised the hand that held Jace’s. Jace could see, in the darkness, a faint shimmer<br />across his forearm that seemed to trace the lines of his veins like a map. “We think it’s a<br />leftover effect from the archangel’s sword,” he said. “It’ll probably fade soon, but the<br />Silent Brothers are curious. Of course.”<br />Jace sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow. He was too exhausted to<br />muster up much interest in his new, illuminated state. “Does that mean you have to go?”<br />he asked. “Do you have to get the Brothers?”<br />“They instructed us to get them when you woke,” said Alec, but he was shaking his<br />head, even as he spoke. “But not if you don’t want us to.”<br />“I feel tired,” Jace confessed. “If I could sleep a few more hours…”<br />“Of course. Of course you can.” Isabelle’s fingers pushed his hair back, out of his eyes.<br />Her tone was firm, absolute: fierce as a mother bear protecting her cub.<br />Jace’s eyes began to close. “And you won’t leave me?”<br />“No,” Alec said. “No, we won’t ever leave you. You know that.”<br />“Never.” Isabelle took his hand, the one Alec wasn’t holding, and pressed it fiercely.<br />“Lightwoods, all together,” she whispered. Jace’s hand was suddenly damp where she<br />was holding it, and he realized she was crying, her tears splashing down—crying for him,<br />because she loved him; even after everything that had happened, she still loved him.<br />They both did.<br />He fell asleep like that, with Isabelle on one side of him and Alec on the other, as the<br />sun came up with the dawn.<br />“What do you mean, I still can’t see him?” demanded Clary. She was sitting on the edge<br />of the couch in Luke’s living room, the cord of the phone wrapped so tightly around her<br />fingers that the tips had turned white.<br />“It’s been only three days, and he was unconscious for two of them,” said Isabelle.<br />There were voices behind her, and Clary strained her ears to hear who was talking. She<br />thought she could pick out Maryse’s voice, but was she talking to Jace? Alec? “The Silent<br />Brothers are still examining him. They still say no visitors.”<br />“Screw the Silent Brothers.”<br />“No thanks. There’s strong and silent, and then there’s just freaky.”<br />“Isabelle!” Clary sat back against the squashy pillows. It was a bright fall day, and<br />sunlight streamed in through the living room windows, though it did nothing to lighten her<br />mood. “I just want to know that he’s all right. That he isn’t injured permanently, and he<br />hasn’t swollen up like a melon—”<br />“Of course he hasn’t swollen up like a melon, don’t be ridiculous.”<br />“I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t know because no one will tell me anything.”<br />“He’s all right,” Isabelle said, though there was something in her voice that told Clary<br />she was holding something back. “Alec’s been sleeping in the bed next to his, and Mom<br />and I have been taking turns staying with him all day. The Silent Brothers haven’t been<br />torturing him. They just need to know what he knows. About Sebastian, the apartment,<br />everything.”<br />“But I can’t believe Jace wouldn’t call me if he could. Not unless this is because he<br />doesn’t want to see me.”<br />“Maybe he doesn’t,” Isabelle said. “It could have been that whole thing where you<br />stabbed him.”<br />“Isabelle—”<br />“I was just kidding, believe it or not. Name of the Angel, Clary, can’t you show some<br />patience?” Isabelle sighed. “Never mind. I forgot who I was talking to. Look, Jace said—<br />not that I’m supposed to repeat this, mind you—that he needed to talk to you in person.<br />If you could just wait—”<br />“That’s all I have been doing,” Clary said. “Waiting.” It was true. She’d spent the past<br />two nights lying in her room at Luke’s house, waiting for news about Jace and reliving the<br />last week of her life over and over in excruciating detail. The Wild Hunt; the antiques<br />store in Prague; fountains full of blood; the tunnels of Sebastian’s eyes; Jace’s body<br />against hers; Sebastian jamming the Infernal Cup against her lips, trying to pry them<br />apart; the bitter stench of demon ichor. Glorious blazing up her arm, spearing through<br />Jace like a bolt of fire, the beat of his heart under her fingertips. He hadn’t even opened<br />his eyes, but Clary had screamed that he was alive, that his heart was beating, and his<br />family had descended on them, even Alec, half-holding up an exceptionally pale Magnus.<br />“All I do is go around and around inside my own head. It’s making me crazy.”<br />“And that’s where we’re in agreement. You know what, Clary?”<br />“What?”<br />There was a pause. “You don’t need my permission to come here and see Jace,”<br />Isabelle said. “You don’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. You’re Clary Fray. You<br />go charging into every situation without knowing how the hell it’s going to turn out, and<br />then you get through it on sheer guts and craziness.”<br />“Not where my personal life is concerned, Iz.”<br />“Huh,” said Isabelle. “Well, maybe you should.” And she put the phone down.<br />Clary stared at her receiver, hearing the distant tinny buzz of the dial tone. Then, with<br />a sigh, she hung up and headed into her bedroom.<br />Simon was sprawled on the bed, his feet on her pillows, his chin propped on his hands.<br />His laptop was propped open at the foot of the bed, frozen on a scene from The Matrix.<br />He looked up as she came in. “Any luck?”<br />“Not exactly.” Clary went over to her closet. She’d already dressed for the possibility<br />that she might see Jace today, in jeans and a soft blue sweater she knew he liked. She<br />pulled a corduroy jacket on and sat down on the bed beside Simon, sliding her feet into<br />boots. “Isabelle won’t tell me anything. The Silent Brothers don’t want Jace to have<br />visitors, but whatever. I’m going over anyway.”<br />Simon closed the laptop and rolled over onto his back. “That’s my brave little stalker.”<br />“Shut up,” she said. “Do you want to come with me? See Isabelle?”<br />“I’m meeting Becky,” he said. “At the apartment.”<br />“Good. Give her my love.” She finished lacing her boots and reached forward to brush<br />Simon’s hair away from his forehead. “First I had to get used to you with that Mark on<br />you. Now I have to get used to you without it.”<br />His dark brown eyes traced her face. “With or without it, I’m still just me.”<br />“Simon, do you remember what was written on the blade of the sword? Of Glorious?”<br />“Quis ut Deus.”<br />“It’s Latin,” she said. “I looked it up. It means Who is like God? It’s a trick question. The<br />answer is no one—no one is like God. Don’t you see?”<br />He looked at her. “See what?”<br />“You said it. Deus. God.”<br />Simon opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “I…”<br />“I know Camille told you that she could say God’s name because she didn’t believe in<br />God, but I think it has to do with what you believe about yourself. If you believe you’re<br />damned, then you are. But if you don’t…”<br />She touched his hand; he squeezed her fingers briefly and released them, his face<br />troubled. “I need some time to think about this.”<br />“Whatever you need. But I’m here if you need to talk.”<br />“And I’m here if you do. Whatever happens with you and Jace at the Institute… you<br />know you can always come over to my place if you want to talk.”<br />“How’s Jordan?”<br />“Pretty good,” said Simon. “He and Maia are definitely together now. They’re in that<br />ooky stage where I feel like I should be giving them space all the time.” He crinkled up<br />his nose. “When she’s not there, he frets about how he feels insecure because she’s dated<br />a bunch of dudes and he’s spent the past three years doing military-style training for the<br />Praetor and pretending he was asexual.”<br />“Oh, come on. I doubt she cares about that.”<br />“You know men. We have delicate egos.”<br />“I wouldn’t describe Jace’s ego as delicate.”<br />“No, Jace’s is sort of the antiaircraft artillery tank of male egos,” Simon admitted. He<br />was lying with his right hand splayed across his stomach, and the gold faerie ring<br />glittered on his finger. Since the other had been destroyed, it no longer seemed to have<br />any powers, but Simon wore it anyway. Impulsively Clary bent down and kissed his<br />forehead.<br />“You’re the best friend anyone could ever have, you know that?” she said.<br />“I did know that, but it’s always nice to hear it again.”<br />Clary laughed and stood up. “Well, we might as well walk to the subway together.<br />Unless you want to hang around here with the ’rents instead of in your cool downtown<br />bachelor pad.”<br />“Right. With my lovelorn roommate and my sister.” He slid off the bed and followed her<br />as she walked out into the living room. “You’re not just going to Portal?”<br />She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems… wasteful.” She crossed the hall and, after<br />knocking quickly, stuck her head into the master bedroom. “Luke?”<br />“Come on in.”<br />She went in, Simon beside her. Luke was sitting up in bed. The bulk of the bandage<br />that wrapped his chest was visible as an outline beneath his flannel shirt. There was a<br />stack of magazines on the bed in front of him. Simon picked one up. “Sparkle Like an Ice<br />Princess: The Winter Bride,” he read out loud. “I don’t know, man. I’m not sure a tiara of<br />snowflakes would be the best look for you.”<br />Luke glanced around the bed and sighed. “Jocelyn thought wedding planning might be<br />good for us. Return to normalcy and all that.” There were shadows under his blue eyes.<br />Jocelyn had been the one to break the news to him about Amatis, while he was still at<br />the police station. Though Clary had greeted him with hugs when he’d come home, he<br />hadn’t mentioned his sister once, and neither had she. “If it was up to me, I would elope<br />to Vegas and have a fifty-dollar pirate-themed wedding with Elvis presiding.”<br />“I could be the wench of honor,” Clary suggested. She looked at Simon expectantly.<br />“And you could be…”<br />“Oh, no,” he said. “I am a hipster. I am too cool for themed weddings.”<br />“You play D and D. You’re a geek,” she corrected him fondly.<br />“Geek is chic,” Simon declared. “Ladies love nerds.”<br />Luke cleared his throat. “I assume you came in here to tell me something?”<br />“I’m heading over to the Institute to see Jace,” Clary said. “Do you want me to bring<br />you anything back?”<br />He shook his head. “Your mother’s at the store, stocking up.” He leaned over to ruffle<br />her hair, and winced. He was healing, but slowly. “Have fun.”<br />Clary thought of what she was probably facing at the Institute—an angry Maryse, a<br />wearied Isabelle, an absent Alec, and a Jace who didn’t want to see her—and sighed.<br />“You bet.”<br />The subway tunnel smelled like the winter that had finally come to the city—cold metal,<br />dank, wet dirt, and a faint hint of smoke. Alec, walking along the tracks, saw his breath<br />puff out in front of his face in white clouds, and he jammed his free hand into the pocket<br />of his blue peacoat to keep it warm. The witchlight he held in his other hand illuminated<br />the tunnel—green and cream-colored tiles, discolored with age, and sprung wiring,<br />dangling like spiderwebs from the walls. It had been a long time since this tunnel had<br />seen a moving train.<br />Alec had gotten up before Magnus had woken, again. Magnus had been sleeping late;<br />he was resting from the battle at the Burren. He had used a great deal of energy to heal<br />himself, but he wasn’t entirely well yet. Warlocks were immortal but not invulnerable, and<br />“a few inches higher and that would have been it for me,” Magnus had said ruefully,<br />examining the knife wound. “It would have stopped my heart.”<br />There had been a few moments—minutes, even—when Alec had truly thought Magnus<br />was dead. And after so much time spent worrying that he would grow old and die before<br />Magnus did. What a bitter irony it would have been. The sort of thing he deserved, for<br />seriously contemplating the offer Camille had made him, even for a second.<br />He could see light up ahead—the City Hall station, lit by chandeliers and skylights. He<br />was about to douse his witchlight when he heard a familiar voice behind him.<br />“Alec,” it said. “Alexander Gideon Lightwood.”<br />Alec felt his heart lurch. He turned around slowly. “Magnus?”<br />Magnus moved forward, into the circle of illumination cast by Alec’s witchlight. He<br />looked uncharacteristically somber, his eyes shadowed. His spiky hair was rumpled. He<br />wore only a suit jacket over a T-shirt, and Alec couldn’t help wondering if he was cold.<br />“Magnus,” Alec said again. “I thought you were asleep.”<br />“Evidently,” Magnus said.<br />Alec swallowed hard. He had never seen Magnus angry, not really. Not like this.<br />Magnus’s cat eyes were remote, impossible to read. “Did you follow me?” Alec asked.<br />“You could say that. It helped that I knew where you were going.” Moving stiffly,<br />Magnus took a folded square of paper from his pocket. In the dim light, all Alec could see<br />was that it was covered with a careful, flourishing handwriting. “You know, when she told<br />me you’d been here—told me about the bargain she’d struck with you—I didn’t believe<br />her. I didn’t want to believe her. But here you are.”<br />“Camille told you—”<br />Magnus held up a hand to cut him off. “Just stop,” he said wearily. “Of course she told<br />me. I warned you she was a master at manipulation and politics, but you didn’t listen to<br />me. Who do you think she’d rather have on her side—me or you? You’re eighteen years<br />old, Alexander. You’re not exactly a powerful ally.”<br />“I already told her,” Alec said. “I wouldn’t kill Raphael. I came here and told her the<br />bargain was off, I wouldn’t do it—”<br />“You had to come all the way here, to this abandoned subway station, to deliver that<br />message?” Magnus raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think you could have delivered<br />essentially the same message by, perhaps, staying away?”<br />“It was—”<br />“And even if you did come here—unnecessarily—and tell her the deal was off,” Magnus<br />went on in a deadly calm voice, “why are you here now? Social call? Just visiting? Explain<br />it to me, Alexander, if there’s something I’m missing.”<br />Alec swallowed. Surely there must be a way to explain. That he had been coming down<br />here, visiting Camille, because she was the only person he could talk to about Magnus.<br />The only person who knew Magnus, as he did, not just as the High Warlock of Brooklyn<br />but as someone who could love and be loved back, who had human frailties and<br />peculiarities and odd, irregular currents of mood that Alec had no idea how to navigate<br />without advice. “Magnus—” Alec took a step toward his boyfriend, and for the first time<br />that he remembered, Magnus moved away from him. His posture was stiff and unfriendly.<br />He was looking at Alec the way he’d look at a stranger, a stranger he didn’t like very<br />much.<br />“I’m so sorry,” Alec said. His voice sounded scratchy and uneven to his own ears. “I<br />never meant—”<br />“I was thinking about it, you know,” Magnus said. “That’s part of why I wanted the<br />Book of the White. Immortality can be a burden. You think of the days that stretch out<br />before you, when you have been everywhere, seen everything. The one thing I hadn’t<br />experienced was growing old with someone—someone I loved. I thought perhaps it would<br />be you. But that does not give you the right to make the length of my life your choice and<br />not mine.”<br />“I know.” Alec’s heart raced. “I know, and I wasn’t going to do it—”<br />“I’ll be out all day,” Magnus said. “Come and get your things out of the apartment.<br />Leave your key on the dining room table.” His eyes searched Alec’s face. “It’s over. I don’t<br />want to see you again, Alec. Or any of your friends. I’m tired of being their pet warlock.”<br />Alec’s hands had begun to shake, hard enough that he dropped his witchlight. The light<br />winked out, and he fell to his knees, scrabbling on the ground among the trash and the<br />dirt. At last something lit up before his eyes, and he rose to see Magnus standing before<br />him, the witchlight in his hand. It shone and flickered with a strangely colored light.<br />“It shouldn’t light up like that,” Alec said automatically. “For anyone but a<br />Shadowhunter.”<br />Magnus held it out. The heart of the witchlight was glowing a dark red, like the coal of<br />a fire.<br />“Is it because of your father?” Alec asked.<br />Magnus didn’t reply, only tipped the rune-stone into Alec’s palm. As their hands<br />touched, Magnus’s face changed. “You’re freezing cold.”<br />“I am?”<br />“Alexander…” Magnus pulled him close, and the witchlight flickered between them, its<br />color changing rapidly. Alec had never seen a witchlight rune-stone do that before. He put<br />his head against Magnus’s shoulder and let Magnus hold him. Magnus’s heart didn’t beat<br />like human hearts did. It was slower, but steady. Sometimes Alec thought it was the<br />steadiest thing in his life.<br />“Kiss me,” Alec said.<br />Magnus put his hand to the side of Alec’s face and gently, almost absently, ran his<br />thumb along Alec’s cheekbone. When he bent to kiss him, he smelled like sandalwood.<br />Alec clutched the sleeve of Magnus’s jacket, and the witchlight, held between their<br />bodies, flared up in colors of rose and blue and green.<br />It was a slow kiss, and a sad one. When Magnus drew away, Alec found that somehow<br />he was holding the witchlight alone; Magnus’s hand was gone. The light was a soft white.<br />Softly, Magnus said, “Aku cinta kamu.”<br />“What does that mean?”<br />Magnus disentangled himself from Alec’s grip. “It means I love you. Not that that<br />changes anything.”<br />“But if you love me—”<br />“Of course I do. More than I thought I would. But we’re still done,” Magnus said. “It<br />doesn’t change what you did.”<br />“But it was just a mistake,” Alec whispered. “One mistake—”<br />Magnus laughed sharply. “One mistake? That’s like calling the maiden voyage of the<br />Titanic a minor boating accident. Alec, you tried to shorten my life.”<br />“It was just—She offered, but I thought about it and I couldn’t go through with it—I<br />couldn’t do that to you.”<br />“But you had to think about it. And you never mentioned it to me.” Magnus shook his<br />head. “You didn’t trust me. You never have.”<br />“I do,” Alec said. “I will—I’ll try. Give me another chance—”<br />“No,” Magnus said. “And if I might give you a piece of advice: Avoid Camille. There is a<br />war coming, Alexander, and you don’t want your loyalties to be in question. Do you?”<br />And with that he turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets—walking slowly, as<br />if he were injured, and not just from the cut in his side. But he was walking away just the<br />same. Alec watched him until he moved beyond the glow of the witchlight and out of<br />sight.<br />The inside of the Institute had been cool in the summer, but now, with winter well and<br />truly here, Clary thought, it was warm. The nave was bright with rows of candelabras,<br />and the stained-glass windows glowed softly. She let the front door swing shut behind her<br />and headed for the elevator. She was halfway up the center aisle when she heard<br />someone laughing.<br />She turned. Isabelle was sitting in one of the old pews, her long legs slung over the<br />back of the seats in front of her. She wore boots that hit her midthigh, slim jeans, and a<br />red sweater that left one shoulder bare. Her skin was traced with black designs; Clary<br />remembered what Sebastian had said about not liking it when women disfigured their<br />skin with Marks, and shivered inside. “Didn’t you hear me saying your name?” Izzy<br />demanded. “You really can be astonishingly single-minded.”<br />Clary stopped and leaned against a pew. “I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose.”<br />Isabelle swung her legs down and stood up. The heels on her boots were high, making<br />her tower over Clary. “Oh, I know. That’s why I said ‘single-minded,’ not ‘rude.’”<br />“Are you here to tell me to go away?” Clary was pleased by the fact that her voice<br />didn’t shake. She wanted to see Jace. She wanted to see him more than anything else.<br />But after what she’d been through this past month, she knew that what mattered was<br />that he was alive, and that he was himself. Everything else was secondary.<br />“No,” Izzy said, and started moving toward the elevator. Clary fell into step beside her.<br />“I think the whole thing is ridiculous. You saved his life.”<br />Clary swallowed against the cold feeling in her throat. “You said there were things I<br />didn’t understand.”<br />“There are.” Isabelle punched the elevator button. “Jace can explain them to you. I<br />came down because I thought there were a few other things you should know.”<br />Clary listened for the familiar creak, rattle, and groan of the old cage elevator. “Like?”<br />“My dad’s back,” Isabelle said, not meeting Clary’s eyes.<br />“Back for a visit, or back for good?”<br />“For good.” Isabelle sounded calm, but Clary remembered how hurt she had been when<br />they’d found out Robert had been trying for the Inquisitor position. “Basically, Aline and<br />Helen saved us from getting in real trouble for what happened in Ireland. When we came<br />to help you, we did it without telling the Clave. My mom was sure that if we told them<br />they’d send fighters to kill Jace. She couldn’t do it. I mean, this is our family.”<br />The elevator arrived with a rattle and a crash before Clary could say anything. She<br />followed the other girl inside, fighting the strange urge to give Isabelle a hug. She<br />doubted Izzy would like it.<br />“So Aline told the Consul—who is, after all, her mother—that there hadn’t been any<br />time to notify the Clave, that she’d been left behind with strict orders to call Jia, but<br />there’d been some malfunction with the telephones and it hadn’t worked. Basically, she<br />lied her butt off. Anyway, that’s our story, and we’re sticking to it. I don’t think Jia<br />believed her, but it doesn’t matter; it’s not like Jia wants to punish Mom. She just had to<br />have some kind of story she could grab on to so she didn’t have to sanction us. After all,<br />it’s not like the operation was a disaster. We went in, got Jace out, killed most of the dark<br />Nephilim, and got Sebastian on the run.”<br />The elevator stopped rising and came to a crashing halt.<br />“Got Sebastian on the run,” Clary repeated. “So we have no idea where he is? I thought<br />maybe since I destroyed his apartment—the dimensional pocket—he could be tracked.”<br />“We’ve tried,” said Isabelle. “Wherever he is, he’s still beyond or outside tracking<br />capabilities. And according to the Silent Brothers, the magic that Lilith worked—Well, he’s<br />strong, Clary. Really strong. We have to assume he’s out there, with the Infernal Cup,<br />planning his next move.” She pulled the cage door of the elevator open and stepped out.<br />“Do you think he’ll come back for you—or Jace?”<br />Clary hesitated. “Not right away,” she said finally. “For him we’re the last parts of the<br />puzzle. He’ll want everything set up first. He’ll want an army. He’ll want to be ready.<br />We’re like… the prizes he gets for winning. And so he doesn’t have to be alone.”<br />“He must be really lonely,” Isabelle said. There was no sympathy in her voice; it was<br />only an observation.<br />Clary thought of him, of the face that she’d been trying to forget, that haunted her<br />nightmares and waking dreams. You asked me who I belonged to. “You have no idea.”<br />They reached the stairs that led to the infirmary. Isabelle paused, her hand at her<br />throat. Clary could see the square outline of her ruby necklace beneath the material of<br />her sweater. “Clary…”<br />Clary suddenly felt awkward. She straightened the hem of her sweater, not wanting to<br />look at Isabelle.<br />“What’s it like?” Isabelle said abruptly.<br />“What’s what like?”<br />“Being in love,” Isabelle said. “How do you know you are? And how do you know<br />someone else is in love with you?”<br />“Um…”<br />“Like Simon,” Isabelle said. “How could you tell he was in love with you?”<br />“Well,” said Clary. “He said so.”<br />“He said so.”<br />Clary shrugged.<br />“And before that, you had no idea?”<br />“No, I really didn’t,” said Clary, recalling the moment. “Izzy… if you have feelings for<br />Simon, or if you want to know if he has feelings for you… maybe you should just tell him.”<br />Isabelle fiddled with some nonexistent lint on her cuff. “Tell him what?”<br />“How you feel about him.”<br />Isabelle looked mutinous. “I shouldn’t have to.”<br />Clary shook her head. “God. You and Alec, you’re so alike—”<br />Isabelle’s eyes widened. “We are not! We are totally not alike. I date around; he’s<br />never dated before Magnus. He gets jealous; I don’t—”<br />“Everyone gets jealous.” Clary spoke with finality. “And you’re both so stoic. It’s love,<br />not the Battle of Thermopylae. You don’t have to treat everything like it’s a last stand.<br />You don’t have to keep everything inside.”<br />Isabelle threw her hands up. “Suddenly you’re an expert?”<br />“I’m not an expert,” Clary said. “But I do know Simon. If you don’t say something to<br />him, he’s going to assume it’s because you’re not interested, and he’ll give up. He needs<br />you, Iz, and you need him. He just also needs you to be the one to say it.”<br />Isabelle sighed and whirled to begin mounting the steps. Clary could hear her<br />muttering as she went. “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t broken his heart—”<br />“Isabelle!”<br />“Well, you did.”<br />“Yeah, and I seem to remember that when he got turned into a rat, you were the one<br />who suggested we leave him in rat form. Permanently.”<br />“I did not.”<br />“You did—” Clary broke off. They had reached the next floor, where a long corridor<br />stretched in both directions. Before the double doors of the infirmary stood the<br />parchment-robed figure of a Silent Brother, hands folded, face cast down in a meditative<br />stance.<br />Isabelle indicated him with an exaggerated wave. “There you go,” she said. “Good luck<br />getting past him to see Jace.” And she walked off down the corridor, her boots clicking on<br />the wooden floor.<br />Clary sighed inwardly and reached for the stele in her belt. She doubted there was a<br />glamour rune that could fool a Silent Brother, but perhaps, if she could get close enough<br />to use a sleep rune on his skin…<br />Clary Fray. The voice in her head was amused, and also familiar. It had no sound, but<br />she recognized the shape of the thoughts, the way you might recognize the way someone<br />laughed or breathed.<br />“Brother Zachariah.” Resignedly she slid the stele back in place and moved closer to<br />him, wishing Isabelle had stayed with her.<br />I presume you are here to see Jonathan, he said, lifting his head from the meditative<br />stance. His face was still in shadow beneath the hood, though she could see the shape of<br />an angular cheekbone. Despite the orders of the Brotherhood.<br />“Please call him Jace. It’s too confusing otherwise.”<br />‘Jonathan’ is a fine old Shadowhunter name, the first of names. The Herondales have<br />always kept names in the family—<br />“He wasn’t named by a Herondale,” Clary pointed out. “Though he has a dagger of his<br />father’s. It says S.W.H. on the blade.”<br />Stephen William Herondale.<br />Clary took another step toward the doors, and toward Zachariah. “You know a lot about<br />the Herondales,” she said. “And of all the Silent Brothers, you seem the most human.<br />Most of them never show any emotion. They’re like statues. But you seem to feel things.<br />You remember your life.”<br />Being a Silent Brother is life, Clary Fray. But if you mean I remember my life before the<br />Brotherhood, I do.<br />Clary took a deep breath. “Were you ever in love? Before the Brotherhood? Was there<br />ever anyone you would have died for?”<br />There was a long silence. Then:<br />Two people, said Brother Zachariah. There are memories that time does not erase,<br />Clarissa. Ask your friend Magnus Bane, if you do not believe me. Forever does not make<br />loss forgettable, only bearable.<br />“Well, I don’t have forever,” said Clary in a small voice. “Please let me in to see Jace.”<br />Brother Zachariah did not move. She still could not see his face, only a suggestion of<br />shadows and planes beneath the hood of his robe. Only his hands, clasped in front of him.<br />“Please,” Clary said.<br />Alec swung himself up onto the platform at the City Hall subway station and stalked<br />toward the stairs. He had blocked out the image of Magnus walking away from him with<br />one thought, and one only:<br />He was going to kill Camille Belcourt.<br />He strode up the stairs, drawing a seraph blade from his belt as he went. The light here<br />was wavering and dim—he emerged onto the mezzanine below City Hall Park, where<br />tinted glass skylights let in the wintery light. He tucked the witchlight into his pocket and<br />raised the seraph blade.<br />“Amriel,” he whispered, and the sword blazed up, a bolt of lightning from his hand. He<br />lifted his chin, his gaze sweeping the lobby. The high-backed sofa was there, but Camille<br />was not on it. He’d sent her a message saying he was coming, but after the way she’d<br />betrayed him, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that she hadn’t remained to see<br />him. In a fury he stalked across the room and kicked the sofa, hard; it went over with a<br />crash of wood and a puff of dust, one of the legs snapped off.<br />From the corner of the room came a tinkling silver laugh.<br />Alec whirled, the seraph blade blazing in his hand. The shadows in the corners were<br />thick and deep; even Amriel’s light could not penetrate them. “Camille?” he said, his voice<br />dangerously calm. “Camille Belcourt. Come out here now.”<br />There was another giggle, and a figure stepped forth from the darkness. But it was not<br />Camille.<br />It was a girl—probably no older than twelve or thirteen—very thin, wearing a pair of<br />ragged jeans and a pink, short-sleeved T-shirt with a glittery unicorn on it. She wore a<br />long pink scarf as well, its ends dabbled in blood. Blood masked the lower half of her<br />face, and stained the hem of her shirt. She looked at Alec with wide, happy eyes.<br />“I know you,” she breathed, and as she spoke, he saw her needle incisors flash.<br />Vampire. “Alec Lightwood. You’re a friend of Simon’s. I’ve seen you at the concerts.”<br />He stared at her. Had he seen her before? Perhaps—the flicker of a face among the<br />shadows at a bar, one of those performances Isabelle had dragged him to. He couldn’t be<br />sure. But that didn’t mean he didn’t know who she was.<br />“Maureen,” he said. “You’re Simon’s Maureen.”<br />She looked pleased. “I am,” she said. “I’m Simon’s Maureen.” She looked down at her<br />hands, which were gloved in blood, as if she’d plunged them into a pool of the stuff. And<br />not human blood, either, Alec thought. The dark, ruby-red blood of vampires. “You’re<br />looking for Camille,” she said in a singsong voice. “But she isn’t here anymore. Oh, no.<br />She’s gone.”<br />“She’s gone?” Alec demanded. “What do you mean she’s gone?”<br />Maureen giggled. “You know how vampire law works, don’t you? Whoever kills the head<br />of a vampire clan becomes its leader. And Camille was the head of the New York clan.<br />Oh, yes, she was.”<br />“So—someone killed her?”<br />Maureen burst into a happy peal of laughter. “Not just someone, silly,” she said. “It was<br />me.”<br />The arched ceiling of the infirmary was blue, painted with a rococo pattern of cherubs<br />trailing gold ribbons, and white drifting clouds. Rows of metal beds lined the walls to the<br />left and right, leaving a wide aisle down the middle. Two high skylights let in the clear<br />wintery sunlight, though it did little to warm the chilly room.<br />Jace was seated on one of the beds, leaning back against a pile of pillows he had<br />swiped from the other beds. He wore jeans, frayed at the hems, and a gray T-shirt. He<br />had a book balanced on his knees. He looked up as Clary came into the room, but said<br />nothing as she approached his bed.<br />Clary’s heart had begun to pound. The silence felt still, almost oppressive; Jace’s eyes<br />followed her as she reached the foot of his bed and stopped there, her hands on the<br />metal footboard. She studied his face. So many times she’d tried to draw him, she<br />thought, tried to capture that ineffable quality that made Jace himself, but her fingers had<br />never been able to get what she saw down on paper. It was there now, where it had not<br />been when he was controlled by Sebastian—whatever you wanted to call it, soul or spirit,<br />looking out of his eyes.<br />She tightened her hands on the footboard. “Jace…”<br />He tucked a lock of pale gold hair behind his ear. “It’s—did the Silent Brothers tell you<br />it was okay to be in here?”<br />“Not exactly.”<br />The corner of his mouth twitched. “So did you knock them out with a two-by-four and<br />break in? The Clave looks darkly on that sort of thing, you know.”<br />“Wow. You really don’t put anything past me, do you?” She moved to sit down on the<br />bed next to him, partly so that they would be on the same level and partly to disguise the<br />fact that her knees were shaking.<br />“I’ve learned not to,” he said, and set his book aside.<br />She felt the words like a slap. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said, and her voice came<br />out as almost a whisper. “I’m sorry.”<br />He sat up straight, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. They were not far from<br />each other, sharing the same bed, but he was holding himself back; she could tell. She<br />could tell that there were secrets at the back of his light eyes, could feel his hesitation.<br />She wanted to reach her hand out, but she kept herself still, kept her voice steady. “I<br />never meant to hurt you. And I don’t just mean at the Burren. I mean from the moment<br />you—the real you—told me what you wanted. I should have listened, but all I thought<br />about was saving you, getting you away. I didn’t listen to you when you said you wanted<br />to turn yourself over to the Clave, and because of it, we both almost wound up like<br />Sebastian. And when I did what I did with Glorious—Alec and Isabelle, they must have<br />told you the blade was meant for Sebastian. But I couldn’t get to him through the crowd.<br />I just couldn’t. And I thought of what you told me, that you’d rather die than live under<br />Sebastian’s influence.” Her voice caught. “The real you, I mean. I couldn’t ask you. I had<br />to guess. You have to know it was awful to hurt you like that. To know that you could<br />have died and it would have been my hand that held the sword that killed you. I would<br />have wanted to die, but I risked your life because I thought it was what you would have<br />asked for, and after I’d betrayed you once, I thought I owed it to you. But if I was<br />wrong…” She paused, but he was silent. Her stomach turned over, a sick, wrenching flip.<br />“Then, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do to make it up to you. But I wanted you to<br />know. That I’m sorry.”<br />She halted again, and this time the silence stretched out between them, longer and<br />longer, a thread pulled impossibly tight.<br />“You can talk now,” she blurted finally. “In fact, it would be really great if you did.”<br />Jace was looking at her incredulously. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You came<br />here to apologize to me?”<br />She was taken aback. “Of course I did.”<br />“Clary,” he said. “You saved my life.”<br />“I stabbed you. With a massive sword. You caught on fire.”<br />His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he said. “So maybe our problems aren’t<br />like other couples’.” He lifted a hand as if he meant to touch her face, then put it down<br />hastily. “I heard you, you know,” he said more softly. “Telling me I wasn’t dead. Asking<br />me to open my eyes.”<br />They looked at each other in silence for what was probably moments but felt like hours<br />to Clary. It was so good to see him like this, completely himself, that it almost erased the<br />fear that this was all going to go horribly wrong in the next few minutes. Finally Jace<br />spoke.<br />“Why do you think I fell in love with you?”<br />It was the last thing she would have expected him to say. “I don’t—That’s not a fair<br />thing to ask.”<br />“Seems fair to me,” he said. “Do you think I don’t know you, Clary? The girl who walked<br />into a hotel full of vampires because her best friend was there and needed saving? Who<br />made a Portal and transported herself to Idris because she hated the idea of being left<br />out of the action?”<br />“You yelled at me for that—”<br />“I was yelling at myself,” he said. “There are ways in which we’re so alike. We’re<br />reckless. We don’t think before we act. We’ll do anything for the people we love. And I<br />never thought how scary that was for the people who loved me until I saw it in you and it<br />terrified me. How could I protect you if you wouldn’t let me?” He leaned forward. “That,<br />by the way, is a rhetorical question.”<br />“Good. Because I don’t need protecting.”<br />“I knew you’d say that. But the thing is, sometimes you do. And sometimes I do. We’re<br />meant to protect each other, but not from everything. Not from the truth. That’s what it<br />means to love someone but let them be themselves.”<br />Clary looked down at her hands. She wanted to reach out and touch him so badly. It<br />was like visiting someone in jail, where you could see them so clearly and so close, but<br />there was unbreakable glass separating you.<br />“I fell in love with you,” he said, “because you were one of the bravest people I’d ever<br />known. So how could I ask you to stop being brave just because I loved you?” He ran his<br />hands through his hair, making it stick up in loops and curls that Clary ached to smooth<br />down. “You came for me,” he said. “You saved me when almost everyone else had given<br />up, and even the people who hadn’t given up didn’t know what to do. You think I don’t<br />know what you went through?” His eyes darkened. “How do you imagine I could possibly<br />be angry with you?”<br />“Then, why haven’t you wanted to see me?”<br />“Because…” Jace exhaled. “Okay, fair point, but there’s something you don’t know. The<br />sword you used, the one Raziel gave to Simon…”<br />“Glorious,” said Clary. “The Archangel Michael’s sword. It was destroyed.”<br />“Not destroyed. It went back where it came from once the heavenly fire consumed it.”<br />Jace smiled faintly. “Otherwise our Angel would have had some serious explaining to do<br />once Michael found out his buddy Raziel had lent out his favorite sword to a bunch of<br />careless humans. But I digress. The sword… the way it burned… that was no ordinary<br />fire.”<br />“I guessed that.” Clary wished Jace would hold out his arm and draw her against him.<br />But he seemed to want to keep space between them, so she stayed where she was. It<br />felt like an ache in her body, to be this close to him and not be able to touch him.<br />“I wish you hadn’t worn that sweater,” Jace muttered.<br />“What?” She glanced down. “I thought you liked this sweater.”<br />“I do,” he said, and shook his head. “Never mind. That fire—it was Heaven’s fire. The<br />burning bush, the fire and brimstone, the pillar of fire that went before the children of<br />Israel—that’s the fire we’re talking about. ‘For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall<br />burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire<br />the foundations of the mountains.’ That’s the fire that burned away what Lilith had done<br />to me.” He reached for the hem of his shirt and drew it up. Clary sucked in her breath, for<br />above his heart, on the smooth skin of his chest, there was no more Mark—and only a<br />healed white scar where the sword had gone in.<br />She reached her hand out, wanting to touch him, but he drew back, shaking his head.<br />She felt the hurt expression flash across her face before she could hide it as he rolled his<br />shirt back down. “Clary,” he said. “That fire—it’s still inside me.”<br />She stared at him. “What do you mean?”<br />He took a deep breath and held his hands out, palms down. She looked at them, slim<br />and familiar, the Voyance rune on his right hand faded with white scars layered over it. As<br />they both watched, his hands began to shake slightly—and then, under Clary’s<br />incredulous eyes, to turn transparent. Like the blade of Glorious when it had begun to<br />burn, his skin seemed to turn to glass, glass that trapped within it a gold that moved and<br />darkened and burned. She could see the outline of his skeleton through the transparency<br />of his skin, golden bones connected by tendons of fire.<br />She heard him inhale sharply. He looked up then, and met her eyes with his. His eyes<br />were gold. They had always been gold, but she could swear that now that gold lived and<br />burned as well. He was breathing hard, and there was sweat shining on his cheeks and<br />collarbones.<br />“You’re right,” Clary said. “Our problems really aren’t like other people’s problems.”<br />Jace stared at her incredulously. Slowly he closed his hands into fists, and the fire<br />vanished, leaving only his ordinary, familiar, unharmed hands behind. Half-choking on a<br />laugh, he said, “That’s what you have to say?”<br />“No. I have a lot more to say. What’s going on? Are your hands weapons now? Are you<br />the Human Torch? What on earth—”<br />“I don’t know what the human torch is, but—All right, look, the Silent Brothers have<br />told me that I carry the heavenly fire inside me now. Inside my veins. In my soul. When I<br />first woke up, I felt like I was breathing in fire. Alec and Isabelle thought it was just a<br />temporary effect of the sword, but when it didn’t go away and the Silent Brothers were<br />called in, Brother Zachariah said he didn’t know how temporary it would be. And I burned<br />him—he was touching my hand when he said it, and I felt a jolt of energy go through<br />me.”<br />“A bad burn?”<br />“No. Minor. But still—”<br />“That’s why you won’t touch me,” Clary realized aloud. “You’re afraid you’ll burn me.”<br />He nodded. “No one’s ever seen anything like this, Clary. Not before. Not ever. The<br />sword didn’t kill me. But it left this—this piece of something deadly inside me. Something<br />so powerful it would probably kill an ordinary human, maybe even an ordinary<br />Shadowhunter.” He took a deep breath. “The Silent Brothers are working on how I might<br />control it, or get rid of it. But as you might imagine, I’m not their first priority.”<br />“Because Sebastian is. You heard I destroyed that apartment. I know he has other<br />ways of getting around, but…”<br />“That’s my girl. But he has backups. Other hiding places. I don’t know what they are.<br />He never told me.” He leaned forward, close enough that she could see the changing<br />colors in his eyes. “Since I woke up, the Silent Brothers have been with me practically<br />every minute. They had to perform the ceremony on me again, the one that gets<br />performed on Shadowhunters when they’re born to keep them safe. And then they went<br />into my mind. Searching, trying to pull out any snippet of information about Sebastian,<br />anything I might know and not remember I knew. But—” Jace shook his head in<br />frustration. “There just isn’t anything. I knew his plans through the ceremony at the<br />Burren. Beyond that, I have no idea what he’s going to do next. Where he might strike.<br />They do know he’s been working with demons, so they’re shoring up the wards, especially<br />around Idris. But I feel like there’s one useful thing we might have gotten out of all this—<br />some secret knowledge on my part—and we don’t even have that.”<br />“But if you did know anything, Jace, he would just change his plans,” Clary objected.<br />“He knows he lost you. You two were tied together. I heard him scream when I stabbed<br />you.” She shivered. “It was this horrible lost sound. He really did care about you in some<br />strange way, I think. And even though the whole thing was awful, both of us got<br />something out of it that might turn out to be useful.”<br />“Which is… ?”<br />“We understand him. I mean, as much as anyone can ever understand him. And that’s<br />not something he can erase with a change of plans.”<br />Jace nodded slowly. “You know who else I feel like I understand now? My father.”<br />“Valen—no,” Clary said, watching his expression. “You mean Stephen.”<br />“I’ve been looking at his letters. The things in the box Amatis gave me. He wrote a<br />letter to me, you know, that he meant me to read after he died. He told me to be a<br />better man than he was.”<br />“You are,” Clary said. “In those moments in the apartment when you were you, you<br />cared about doing the right thing more than you cared about your own life.”<br />“I know,” Jace said, glancing down at his scarred knuckles. “That’s the strange thing. I<br />know. I had so much doubt about myself, always, but now I know the difference.<br />Between myself and Sebastian. Between myself and Valentine. Even the difference<br />between the two of them. Valentine honestly believed he was doing the right thing. He<br />hated demons. But to Sebastian, the creature he thinks of as his mother is one. He would<br />happily rule a race of dark Shadowhunters who did the bidding of demons, while the<br />ordinary humans of this world were slaughtered for the demons’ pleasure. Valentine still<br />believed it was the mandate of Shadowhunters to protect human beings; Sebastian thinks<br />they’re cockroaches. And he doesn’t want to protect anyone. He only wants what he<br />wants at the moment he wants it. And the only real thing he ever feels is annoyance<br />when he’s thwarted.”<br />Clary wondered. She had seen Sebastian looking at Jace, even at herself, and knew<br />there was some part of him as echoingly lonely as the blackest void of space. Loneliness<br />drove him as much as a desire for power—loneliness and a need to be loved without any<br />corresponding understanding that love was something you earned. But all she said was,<br />“Well, let’s get with the thwarting, then.”<br />A smile ghosted across his face. “You know I want to beg you to stay out of this, right?<br />It’s going to be a vicious battle. More vicious than I think the Clave even begins to<br />understand.”<br />“But you’re not going to do that,” Clary said. “Because that would make you an idiot.”<br />“You mean because we need your rune powers?”<br />“Well, that, and—Did you not listen to anything you just said? That whole business<br />about protecting each other?”<br />“I will have you know I practiced that speech. In front of a mirror before you got here.”<br />“So what do you think it meant?”<br />“I’m not sure,” Jace admitted, “but I know I look damn good delivering it.”<br />“God, I forgot how annoying the un-possessed you is,” Clary muttered. “Need I remind<br />you that you said that you have to accept you can’t protect me from everything? The only<br />way that we can protect each other is if we are together. If we face things together. If we<br />trust each other.” She looked him directly in the eye. “I shouldn’t have stopped you from<br />going to the Clave by calling for Sebastian. I should respect the decisions you make. And<br />you should respect mine. Because we’re going to be together a long time, and that’s the<br />only way it’s going to work.”<br />His hand inched toward her on the blanket. “Being under Sebastian’s influence,” he<br />said, hoarsely. “It seems like a bad dream to me, now. That insane place—those closets<br />of clothes for your mother—”<br />“So you remember.” She almost whispered it.<br />His fingertips touched hers, and she almost jumped. Both of them held their breath<br />while he touched her; she didn’t move, watching as his shoulders slowly relaxed and the<br />anxious look left his face. “I remember everything,” he said. “I remember the boat in<br />Venice. The club in Prague. That night in Paris, when I was myself.”<br />She felt the blood rush up under her skin, making her face burn.<br />“In some ways, we’ve been through something no one else can ever understand but<br />the two of us,” he said. “And it made me realize. We are always and absolutely better<br />together.” He raised his face to hers. He was pale, and fire flickered in his eyes. “I am<br />going to kill Sebastian,” he said. “I am going to kill him for what he did to me, and what<br />he did to you, and what he did to Max. I am going to kill him because of what he has<br />done, and what he will do. The Clave wants him dead, and they will hunt him. But I want<br />my hand to be the one that cuts him down.”<br />She reached out then, and put her hand on his cheek. He shuddered, and half-closed<br />his eyes. She had expected his skin to be warm, but it was cool to the touch. “And what if<br />I’m the one who kills him?”<br />“My heart is your heart,” he said. “My hands are your hands.”<br />His eyes were the color of honey and slid as slowly as honey over her body as he<br />looked her up and down as if for the first time since she’d come into the room, from her<br />windblown hair to her booted feet, and back again. When their gaze met again, Clary’s<br />mouth was dry.<br />“Do you remember,” he said, “when we first met and I told you I was ninety percent<br />sure putting a rune on you wouldn’t kill you—and you slapped me in the face and told me<br />it was for the other ten percent?”<br />Clary nodded.<br />“I always figured a demon would kill me,” he said. “A rogue Downworlder. A battle. But<br />I realized then that I just might die if I didn’t get to kiss you, and soon.”<br />Clary licked her dry lips. “Well, you did,” she said. “Kiss me, I mean.”<br />He reached up and took a curl of her hair between his fingers. He was close enough<br />that she could feel the warmth of his body, smell his soap and skin and hair. “Not<br />enough,” he said, letting her hair slip through his fingers. “If I kiss you all day every day<br />for the rest of my life, it won’t be enough.”<br />He bent his head. She couldn’t help tilting her own face up. Her mind was full of the<br />memory of Paris, holding on to him as if it would be the last time she ever held him, and<br />it almost had been. The way he had tasted, felt, breathed. She could hear him breathing<br />now. His eyelashes tickled her cheek. Their lips were millimeters apart and then not apart<br />at all, they brushed lightly and then with firmer pressure; they leaned in to each other—<br />And Clary felt a spark—not painful, more like a fillip of mild static electricity—pass<br />between them. Jace drew quickly away. He was flushed. “We may need to work on that.”<br />Clary’s mind was still whirling. “Okay.”<br />He was staring straight ahead, still breathing hard. “I have something I want to give<br />you.”<br />“I gathered that.”<br />At that he jerked his gaze back to hers and—almost reluctantly—grinned. “Not that.”<br />He reached down into the collar of his shirt and drew out the Morgenstern ring on its<br />chain. He pulled it over his head and, leaning forward, dropped it lightly into her hand. It<br />was warm from his skin. “Alec got it back from Magnus for me. Will you wear it again?”<br />Her hand closed around it. “Always.”<br />His grin softened to a smile, and, daring, she put her head on his shoulder. She felt his<br />breath catch, but he didn’t move. At first he sat still, but slowly the tension drained from<br />his body and they leaned together. It wasn’t hot and heavy, but it was companionable<br />and sweet.<br />He cleared his throat. “You know this means that what we did—what we almost did in<br />Paris—”<br />“Going to the Eiffel Tower?”<br />He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “You never let me off the hook for a single<br />minute, do you? Never mind. It’s one of the things I love about you. Anyway, that other<br />thing we almost did in Paris—that’s probably off the table for a while. Unless you want<br />that whole baby-I’m-on-fire-when-we kiss thing to become freakishly literal.”<br />“No kissing?”<br />“Well, kissing, probably. But as for the rest of it…”<br />She brushed her cheek lightly against his. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.”<br />“Of course it’s not okay with me. I’m a teenage boy. As far as I’m concerned, this is the<br />worst thing that’s happened since I found out why Magnus was banned from Peru.” His<br />eyes softened. “But it doesn’t change what we are to each other. It’s like there’s always<br />been a piece of my soul missing, and it’s inside you, Clary. I know I told you once that<br />whether God exists or not, we’re on our own. But when I’m with you, I’m not.”<br />She closed her eyes so he wouldn’t see her tears—happy tears, for the first time in a<br />long time now. Despite everything, despite the fact that Jace’s hands remained carefully<br />together in his lap, Clary felt a sense of relief so overwhelming that it drowned out<br />everything else—the worry about where Sebastian was, the fear of an unknown future—<br />everything receded into the background. None of it mattered. They were together, and<br />Jace was himself again. She felt him turn his head and lightly kiss her hair.<br />“I really wish you hadn’t worn that sweater,” he muttered into her ear.<br />“It’s good practice for you,” she replied, her lips moving against his skin. “Tomorrow,<br />fishnets.”<br />Against her side, warm and familiar, she felt him laugh.<br />“Brother Enoch,” said Maryse, rising from behind her desk. “Thank you for joining me and<br />Brother Zachariah here on such short notice.”<br />Is this in regards to Jace? Zachariah inquired, and if Maryse had not known better, she<br />would have imagined a tinge of anxiety in his mental voice. I have checked in on him<br />several times today. His condition has not changed.<br />Enoch shifted within his robes. And I have been looking through the archives and the<br />ancient documentation on the topic of Heaven’s fire. There is some information about the<br />manner in which it may be released, but you must be patient. There is no need to call on<br />us. Should we have news, we will call on you.<br />“This is not about Jace,” said Maryse, and she moved around the desk, her heels<br />clicking on the stone floor of the library. “This is about something else entirely.” She<br />glanced down. A rug had been carelessly tossed across the floor, where no rug usually<br />rested. It did not lie flat but was draped over an irregular humped shape. It obscured the<br />delicate pattern of tiles that outlined the shape of the Cup, the Sword, and the Angel. She<br />reached down, took hold of a corner of the rug, and yanked it aside.<br />The Silent Brothers did not gasp, of course; they could make no sound. But a<br />cacophony filled Maryse’s mind, the psychic echo of their shock and horror. Brother Enoch<br />took a step back, while Brother Zachariah raised one long-fingered hand to cover his face,<br />as if he could block his ruined eyes from the sight before him.<br />“It was not here this morning,” said Maryse. “But when I returned this afternoon, it<br />awaited me.”<br />At the very first glimpse she had thought that some kind of large bird had found its way<br />into the library and died, perhaps breaking its neck against one of the tall windows. But<br />as she had moved closer, the truth of what she was looking at had dawned on her. She<br />said nothing of the visceral shock of despair that had gone through her like an arrow, or<br />the way she had staggered to the window and been sick out of it the moment she’d<br />realized what she was looking at.<br />A pair of white wings—not quite white, really, but an amalgamation of colors that<br />shifted and flickered as she looked at it: pale silver, streaks of violet, dark blue, each<br />feather outlined in gold. And then, there at the root, an ugly gash of sheared-off bone and<br />sinew. Angel’s wings—angel’s wings that had been sliced from the body of a living angel.<br />Angelic ichor, the color of liquid gold, smeared the floor.<br />Atop the wings was a folded piece of paper, addressed to the New York Institute. After<br />splashing water on her face, Maryse had taken the letter and read it. It was short—one<br />sentence—and was signed with a name in a handwriting oddly familiar to her, for in it<br />there was the echo of Valentine’s cursive, the flourishes of his letters, the strong, steady<br />hand. But it was not Valentine’s name. It was his son’s.<br />Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.<br />She held it out now to Brother Zachariah. He took it from her fingers and opened it,<br />reading, as she had, the single word of Ancient Greek scrawled in elaborate script across<br />the top of the page.<br />Erchomai, it said.<br />I am coming.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-12426214860934797002013-02-21T03:50:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.112-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 21<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Luke’s sister looked up, her blue eyes, so much like Luke’s, fastening on Clary. She<br />seemed dizzied, shocked, her expression a little unfocused as if she’d been drugged. She<br />tried to start to her feet, but Cartwright shoved her back down. Sebastian started toward<br />them, the Cup in his hand.<br />Clary scrambled forward, but Jace caught her by the arm, pulling her back. She kicked<br />at him, but he’d already swung her up into his arms, his hand over her mouth. Sebastian<br />was speaking to Amatis in a low, hypnotic voice. She shook her head violently, but<br />Cartwright caught her by her long hair and jerked her head back. Clary heard her cry out,<br />a thin sound over the wind.<br />Clary thought of the night she’d stayed up watching Jace’s chest rise and fall, thinking<br />how she could end all this with a single knife blow. But all this hadn’t had a face, a voice,<br />a plan. Now that it wore Luke’s sister’s face, now that Clary knew the plan, it was too<br />late.<br />Sebastian had one hand fisted in the back of Amatis’s hair, the Cup jammed against her<br />mouth. As he forced the contents down her throat, she retched and coughed, black fluid<br />dripping down her chin.<br />Sebastian yanked the Cup back, but it had done its work. Amatis made an awful<br />hacking sound, her body jerking upright. Her eyes bulged, turning as dark as Sebastian’s.<br />She slapped her hands over her face, a wail escaping her, and Clary saw in astonishment<br />that the Voyance rune was fading from her hand—fading to pallor—and then it was gone.<br />Amatis dropped her hands. Her expression had smoothed and her eyes were blue<br />again. They fastened on Sebastian.<br />“Release her,” Clary’s brother said to Cartwright, his gaze on Amatis. “Let her come to<br />me.”<br />Cartwright snapped the chain binding him to Amatis and stepped back, a curious<br />mixture of apprehension and fascination on his face.<br />Amatis remained still a moment, her hands lolling at her sides. Then she stood and<br />walked over to Sebastian. She knelt before him, her hair brushing the dirt. “Master,” she<br />said. “How may I serve you?”<br />“Rise,” Sebastian said, and Amatis rose from the ground gracefully. She seemed to<br />have a new way of moving, all of a sudden. All Shadowhunters were adroit, but she<br />moved now with a silent grace that Clary found oddly chilling. She stood straight in front<br />of Sebastian. For the first time Clary saw that what she had taken for a long white dress<br />was a nightgown, as if she had been awakened and spirited out of bed. What a<br />nightmare, to wake up here, among these hooded figures, in this bitter, abandoned place.<br />“Come here to me,” Sebastian beckoned, and Amatis stepped toward him. She was a<br />head shorter than him at least, and she craned her head up as he whispered to her. A<br />cold smile split her face.<br />Sebastian raised his hand. “Would you like to fight Cartwright?”<br />Cartwright dropped the chain he had been holding, his hand going to his weapons belt<br />through the gap in his cloak. He was a young man, with fairish hair, and a wide, squarejawed<br />face. “But I—”<br />“Surely some demonstration of her power is in order,” said Sebastian. “Come,<br />Cartwright, she is a woman, and older than you are. Are you afraid?”<br />Cartwright looked bewildered, but he drew a long dagger from his belt. “Jonathan—”<br />Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “Fight him, Amatis.”<br />Her lips curved. “I would be delighted to,” she said, and sprang. Her speed was<br />astonishing. She leaped into the air and swung her foot forward, knocking the dagger<br />from his grip. Clary watched in astonishment as she darted up his body, driving her knee<br />into his stomach. He staggered back, and she slammed her head into his, spinning around<br />his body to jerk him hard by the back of his robes, yanking him to the ground. He landed<br />at her feet with a sickening crack, and groaned in pain.<br />“And that’s for dragging me out of my bed in the middle of the night,” Amatis said, and<br />wiped the back of her hand across her lip, which was bleeding slightly. A faint murmur of<br />strained laughter went around the crowd.<br />“And there you see it,” said Sebastian. “Even a Shadowhunter of no particular skill or<br />strength—your pardon, Amatis—can become stronger, swifter, than their seraphically<br />allied counterparts.” He slammed one fist into the opposite palm. “Power. Real power.<br />Who is ready for it?”<br />There was a moment of hesitation, and then Cartwright stumbled to his feet, one hand<br />curved protectively over his stomach. “I am,” he said, shooting a venomous look at<br />Amatis, who only smiled.<br />Sebastian held up the Infernal Cup. “Then, come forward.”<br />Cartwright moved toward Sebastian, and as he did, the other Shadowhunters broke<br />formation, surging toward the place where Sebastian stood, forming a ragged line. Amatis<br />stood serenely to the side, her hands folded. Clary stared at her, willing the older woman<br />to look at her. It was Luke’s sister. If things had gone as planned, she would have been<br />Clary’s step-aunt now.<br />Amatis. Clary thought of her small canal house in Idris, the way she had been so kind,<br />the way she had loved Jace’s father so much. Please look at me, she thought. Please<br />show me you’re still yourself. As if Amatis had heard her silent prayer, she raised her<br />head and looked directly at Clary.<br />And smiled. Not a kind smile or a reassuring smile. Her smile was dark and cold and<br />quietly amused. It was the smile of someone who would watch you drown, Clary thought,<br />and not lift a finger to help. It was not Amatis’s smile. It was not Amatis at all. Amatis<br />was gone.<br />Jace had taken his hand from her mouth, but she felt no desire to scream. No one here<br />would help her, and the person standing with his arms around her, prisoning her with his<br />body, wasn’t Jace. The way that clothes retained the shape of their owner even if they<br />had not been worn for years, or a pillow kept the outline of the head of the person who<br />had once slept there even if they were long dead, that was all he was. An empty shell she<br />had filled with her wishes and love and dreams.<br />And in doing so she had done the real Jace a terrible wrong. In her quest to save him,<br />she had almost forgotten who she was saving. And she remembered what he had said to<br />her during those few moments when he had been himself. I hate the thought of him<br />being with you. Him. That other me. Jace had known they were two different people—<br />that himself with the soul scraped out wasn’t himself at all.<br />He had tried to turn himself over to the Clave, and she hadn’t let him. She hadn’t<br />listened to what he’d wanted. She had made the choice for him—in a moment of flight<br />and panic, but she had made it—not realizing that her Jace would rather die than be like<br />this, and that she’d been not so much saving his life as damning him to an existence he<br />would despise.<br />She sagged against him, and Jace, taking her sudden shift as an indicator that she<br />wasn’t fighting him anymore, loosened his grip on her. The last of the Shadowhunters<br />was in front of Sebastian, reaching eagerly for the Infernal Cup as he held it out. “Clary<br />—,” Jace began.<br />She never found out what he would have said. There was a cry, and the Shadowhunter<br />reaching for the Cup staggered back, an arrow in his throat. In disbelief Clary whipped her<br />head around and saw, standing on top of the stone dolmen, Alec, in gear, holding his<br />bow. He grinned in satisfaction and reached back over his shoulder for another arrow.<br />And then, coming from behind him, the rest of them poured out onto the plain. A pack<br />of wolves, running low to the ground, their brindled fur shining in the variegated light.<br />Maia and Jordan were among them, she guessed. Behind them walked familiar<br />Shadowhunters in an unbroken line: Isabelle and Maryse Lightwood, Helen Blackthorn<br />and Aline Penhallow, and Jocelyn, her red hair visible even at a distance. With them was<br />Simon, the hilt of a silver sword protruding over the curve of his shoulder, and Magnus,<br />hands crackling with blue fire.<br />Her heart leaped in her chest. “I’m here!” she called out to them. “I’m here!”<br />“Can you see her?” Jocelyn demanded. “Is she there?”<br />Simon tried to focus on the milling darkness ahead of him, his vampire senses<br />sharpening at the distinct scent of blood. Different kinds of blood, mixing together—<br />Shadowhunter blood, demon blood, and the bitterness of Sebastian’s blood. “I see her,”<br />he said. “Jace has hold of her. He’s pulling her behind that line of Shadowhunters there.”<br />“If they’re loyal to Jonathan like the Circle was to Valentine, they’ll make a wall of<br />bodies to protect him, and Clary and Jace along with him.” Jocelyn was all cold maternal<br />fury, her green eyes burning. “We’re going to have to break through it to get to them.”<br />“What we need to get to is Sebastian,” said Isabelle. “Simon, we’ll hack a path for you.<br />You get to Sebastian and run him through with Glorious. Once he falls—”<br />“The others will probably scatter,” said Magnus. “Or, depending on how tied they are to<br />Sebastian, they might die or collapse along with him. We can hope, at least.” He craned<br />his head back. “Speaking of hope, did you see that shot Alec got off with his bow? That’s<br />my boyfriend.” He beamed and wiggled his fingers; blue sparks shot from them. He shone<br />all over. Only Magnus, Simon thought resignedly, would have access to sequined battle<br />armor.<br />Isabelle uncurled her whip from around her wrist. It shot out in front of her, a lick of<br />golden fire. “Okay, Simon,” she said. “Are you ready?”<br />Simon’s shoulders tightened. They were still some distance from the line of the<br />opposing army—he didn’t know how else to think of them—who were holding their line in<br />their red robes and gear, their hands bristling with weapons. Some of them were<br />exclaiming out loud in confusion. He couldn’t hold back a grin.<br />“Name of the Angel, Simon,” said Izzy. “What’s there to smile about?”<br />“Their seraph blades don’t work anymore,” said Simon. “They’re trying to figure out<br />why. Sebastian just shouted at them to use other weapons.” A cry came up from the line<br />as another arrow swooped down from the tomb and buried itself in the back of a burly<br />red-robed Shadowhunter, who collapsed forward. The line jerked and opened slightly, like<br />a fracture in a wall. Simon, seeing his chance, dashed forward, and the others rushed<br />with him.<br />It was like diving into a black ocean at night, an ocean filled with sharks and viciously<br />toothed sea creatures colliding against one another. It was not the first battle Simon had<br />ever been in, but during the Mortal War he had been newly Marked with the Mark of Cain.<br />It hadn’t quite begun working yet, though many demons had reeled back upon seeing it.<br />He had never thought he would miss it, but he missed it now, as he tried to shove<br />forward through the tightly packed Shadowhunters, who hacked at him with blades.<br />Isabelle was on one side of him, Magnus on the other, protecting him—protecting<br />Glorious. Isabelle’s whip sang out strong and sure, and Magnus’s hands spat fire, red and<br />green and blue. Lashes of colored fire struck the dark Nephilim, burning them where they<br />stood. Other Shadowhunters screamed as Luke’s wolves slunk among them, nipping and<br />biting, leaping for their throats.<br />A dagger shot out with astonishing speed and sliced at Simon’s side. He cried out but<br />kept going, knowing the wound would knit itself together in seconds. He pushed forward<br />—<br />And froze. A familiar face was before him. Luke’s sister, Amatis. As her eyes settled on<br />him, he saw the recognition in them. What was she doing here? Had she come to fight<br />alongside them? But—<br />She lunged at him, a darkly gleaming dagger in her hand. She was fast—but not so fast<br />that his vampire reflexes couldn’t have saved him, if he hadn’t been too astonished to<br />move. Amatis was Luke’s sister; he knew her; and that moment of disbelief might have<br />been the end of him if Magnus hadn’t jumped in front of him, shoving him backward. Blue<br />fire shot from Magnus’s hand, but Amatis was faster than the warlock, too. She spun<br />away from the blaze and under Magnus’s arm, and Simon caught the flash of moonlight<br />off the blade of her knife. Magnus’s eyes widened in shock as her midnight-colored blade<br />drove downward, slicing through his armor. She jerked it back, the blade now slick with<br />reflective blood; Isabelle screamed as Magnus collapsed to his knees. Simon tried to turn<br />toward him, but the surge and pressure of the fighting crowd was carrying him away. He<br />cried out Magnus’s name as Amatis bent over the fallen warlock and raised the dagger a<br />second time, aiming for his heart.<br />“Let go of me!” Clary shouted, writhing and kicking as she did her best to wrench herself<br />out of Jace’s grip. She could see almost nothing above the surging crowd of red-clad<br />Shadowhunters that stood in front of her, Jace, and Sebastian, blocking her family and<br />friends. The three of them were a few feet behind the line of battle; Jace was holding her<br />tightly as she struggled, and Sebastian, to the side of them, was watching events unfold<br />with a look of dark fury on his face. His lips were moving. She couldn’t tell if he was<br />swearing, praying, or chanting the words of a spell. “Let go of me, you—”<br />Sebastian turned, a frightening expression on his face, somewhere between a grin and<br />a snarl. “Shut her up, Jace.”<br />Jace, still gripping Clary, said, “Are we just going to stand back here and let them<br />protect us?” He jerked his chin toward the line of Shadowhunters.<br />“Yes,” Sebastian said. “We are too important to risk getting hurt, you and I.”<br />Jace shook his head. “I don’t like it. There are too many on the other side.” He craned<br />his neck to look out over the crowd. “What about Lilith? Can you summon her back, have<br />her help us?”<br />“What, right here?” There was contempt in Sebastian’s tone. “No. Besides, she’s too<br />weak now to be of much help. Once she could have smote down an army, but that piece<br />of scum Downworlder with his Mark of Cain scattered her essence through the voids<br />between the worlds. It was all she could do to appear and give us her blood.”<br />“Coward,” Clary spat at him. “You turned all these people into your slaves and you<br />won’t even fight to protect them—”<br />Sebastian raised his hand as if he meant to backhand her across the face. Clary wished<br />he would, wished Jace could be there to see it happen when he did, but a smirk flashed<br />across Sebastian’s mouth instead. He lowered his hand. “And if Jace let you go, I suppose<br />you’d fight?”<br />“Of course I would—”<br />“On what side?” Sebastian took a quick step toward her, raising the Infernal Cup. She<br />could see what was inside it. Though many had drunk from it, the blood had remained at<br />the same level. “Lift her head up, Jace.”<br />“No!” She redoubled her efforts to get away. Jace’s hand slipped beneath her chin, but<br />she thought she felt hesitation in his touch.<br />“Sebastian,” he said. “Not—”<br />“Now,” Sebastian said. “There’s no need for us to remain here. We are the important<br />ones, not these cannon fodder. We’ve proved the Infernal Cup works. That’s what<br />matters.” He seized the front of Clary’s dress. “But it will be much easier to escape,” he<br />said, “without this one kicking and screaming and punching every step of the way.”<br />“We can make her drink later—”<br />“No,” Sebastian snarled. “Hold her still.” And he raised the Cup and jammed it against<br />Clary’s lips, trying to pry open her mouth. She fought him, gritting her teeth. “Drink,”<br />Sebastian said in a vicious whisper, so low she doubted Jace could hear it. “I told you by<br />the end of this night you would do whatever I wanted. Drink.” His black eyes darkened,<br />and he dug the Cup in, slicing her bottom lip.<br />She tasted blood as she reached behind her, grabbing Jace’s shoulders, using his body<br />to push off against as she kicked out with her legs. She felt the seam rip on her dress as<br />it split up the side and her feet slammed solidly against Sebastian’s rib cage. He<br />staggered back with the wind knocked out of him, just as she jerked her head back,<br />hearing the solid crack as her skull connected with Jace’s face. He yelled and loosened his<br />grip on her enough for her to tear free. She ripped away from him and plunged into the<br />battle without looking back.<br />Maia raced along the rocky ground, starlight raking its cool fingers through her coat, the<br />strong scents of battle assailing her sensitive nose—blood, sweat, and the burned-rubber<br />stench of dark magic.<br />The pack had spread out widely over the field, leaping and killing with deadly teeth and<br />claws. Maia kept close to Jordan’s side, not because she needed his protection but<br />because she had discovered that side by side they fought better and more effectively. She<br />had been in only one battle before, on Brocelind Plain, and that had been a chaotic whirl<br />of demons and Downworlders. There were many fewer combatants here on the Burren,<br />but the dark Shadowhunters were formidable, swinging their swords and daggers with a<br />swift, frightening force. Maia had seen one slender man use a short-bladed dagger to<br />whip the head off a wolf who’d been in midleap; what had collapsed to the ground was a<br />headless human body, bloody and unrecognizable.<br />Even as she thought it, one of the scarlet-robed Nephilim loomed up in front of them, a<br />double-edged sword gripped in his hands. The blade was stained red-black under the<br />moonlight. Jordan, beside Maia, snarled, but she was the one who launched herself at the<br />man. He ducked away, slashing out with his sword. She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder<br />and hit the ground on all four paws, pain stabbing through her. There was a clatter, and<br />she knew she had knocked the man’s sword from his hand. She growled in satisfaction<br />and spun around, but Jordan was already leaping for the Nephilim’s throat—<br />And the man caught him by the neck, out of the air, as if he were catching hold of a<br />rebellious puppy. “Downworlder scum,” he spat, and though it wasn’t the first time Maia<br />had heard such insults, something about the icy hatred of his tone made her shudder.<br />“You should be a coat. I should be wearing you.”<br />Maia sank her teeth into his leg. Coppery blood exploded into her mouth as the man<br />shouted in pain and staggered back, kicking at her, his hold on Jordan slipping. Maia<br />gripped him tight as Jordan lunged again, and this time the Shadowhunter’s shout of rage<br />was cut short as the werewolf’s claws tore his throat open.<br />Amatis drove the knife toward Magnus’s heart—just as an arrow whistled through the air<br />and thumped into her shoulder, knocking her aside with such force that she spun halfway<br />around and fell face-forward to the rocky ground. She was screaming, a noise quickly<br />drowned out by the clash of weapons all around them. Isabelle knelt down by Magnus’s<br />side; Simon, glancing up, saw Alec on the stone tomb, standing frozen with the bow in his<br />hands. He was probably too far away to see Magnus clearly; Isabelle had her hands<br />against the warlock’s chest, but Magnus—Magnus, who was always so kinetic, so bursting<br />with energy—was utterly still under Isabelle’s ministrations. She looked up and saw<br />Simon staring at them; her hands were red with blood, but she shook her head at him<br />violently.<br />“Keep going!” she shouted. “Find Sebastian!”<br />With a wrench Simon turned himself around and plunged back into the battle. The tight<br />line of red-clad Shadowhunters had started to come undone. The wolves were darting<br />here and there, herding the Shadowhunters away from one another. Jocelyn was sword to<br />sword with a snarling man whose free arm dripped blood—and Simon realized something<br />bizarre as he staggered forward, pushing his way through the narrow gaps between<br />skirmishes: None of the red-clad Nephilim were Marked. Their skin was bare of<br />decoration.<br />They were also, he realized—seeing out of the corner of his eye one of the enemy<br />Shadowhunters lunging for Aline with a swinging mace, only to be gutted by Helen,<br />darting in from the side—much faster than any Nephilim he had seen before, other than<br />Jace and Sebastian. They moved with the swiftness of vampires, he thought, as one of<br />them slashed at a leaping wolf, slitting its belly open. The dead werewolf crashed to the<br />ground, now the corpse of a stocky man with curling fair hair. Not Maia or Jordan. Relief<br />swamped him, and then guilt; he staggered forward, the smell of blood thick around him,<br />and again he missed the Mark of Cain. If he had still borne it, he thought, he could have<br />burned all these enemy Nephilim to the ground where they stood—<br />One of the dark Nephilim rose up in front of him, swinging a single-edged broadsword.<br />Simon ducked, but he didn’t need to. The man was barely halfway through the swing<br />when an arrow caught him in the neck and he went down, gurgling blood. Simon’s head<br />jerked up, and he saw Alec, still atop the tomb; his face was a stony mask, and he was<br />firing off arrows with machinelike precision, his hand reaching back mechanically to grasp<br />one, fit it to the bow, and let fly. Each one struck a target, but Alec barely seemed to<br />notice. By the time the arrow was flying, he was reaching for another one. Simon heard<br />another one whistle by him and slam into a body as he darted forward, making for a<br />cleared section of the battlefield—<br />He froze. There she was. Clary, a tiny figure fighting her way through the crowd barehanded,<br />kicking and pushing to get past. She wore a torn red dress, and her hair was a<br />tangled mass and when she saw him, a look of incredulous amazement crossed her face.<br />Her lips shaped his name.<br />Just behind her was Jace. His face was bloody. The crowd parted as he plunged<br />through it, letting him by. Behind him, in the gap left by his passing, Simon could see a<br />shimmer of red and silver—a familiar figure, topped now with white-gilt hair like<br />Valentine’s.<br />Sebastian. Still hiding behind the last line of defense of dark Shadowhunters. Seeing<br />him, Simon reached over his shoulder and hauled Glorious from its sheath. A moment<br />later a surge in the crowd hurled Clary toward him. Her eyes were nearly black with<br />adrenaline, but her joy at seeing him was plain. Relief spilled through Simon, and he<br />realized he’d been wondering if she was still herself, or changed, as Amatis had been.<br />“Give me the sword!” she cried, her voice almost drowned out by the clang of metal on<br />metal. She thrust her arm forward to take it, and in that moment she was no longer<br />Clary, his friend since childhood, but a Shadowhunter, an avenging angel who belonged<br />with that sword in her hand.<br />He held it out to her, hilt first.<br />Battle was like a whirlpool, Jocelyn thought, cutting her way through the pressing crowd,<br />slashing out with Luke’s kindjal at any spot of red that she saw. Things came at you and<br />then surged away so quickly that all one was really aware of was a sense of<br />uncontrollable danger, the struggle to stay alive and not drown.<br />Her eyes flicked frantically through the mass of fighters, searching for her daughter, for<br />a glimpse of red hair—or even for a sight of Jace, because where he was, Clary would be<br />too. There were boulders strewn across the plain, like icebergs in an unmoving sea. She<br />scrambled up the rough edge of one, trying to get a better view of the battlefield, but she<br />could make out only close-pressed bodies, the flash of weapons, and the dark, lowrunning<br />shapes of wolves among the fighters.<br />She turned to scramble back down the boulder—<br />Only to find someone waiting for her at the bottom. Jocelyn came up short, staring.<br />He wore scarlet robes, and there was a livid scar along one of his cheeks, a relic of<br />some battle unknown to her. His face was pinched and no longer young, but there was no<br />mistaking him. “Jeremy,” she said slowly, her voice barely audible over the clamor of the<br />fighting. “Jeremy Pontmercy.”<br />The man who had once been the youngest member of the Circle looked at her out of<br />bloodshot eyes. “Jocelyn Morgenstern. Have you come to join us?”<br />“Join you? Jeremy, no—”<br />“You were in the Circle once,” he said, stepping closer to her. A long dagger with an<br />edge like a straight razor hung from his right hand. “You were one of us. And now we<br />follow your son.”<br />“I broke with you when you followed my husband,” said Jocelyn. “Why do you think I’d<br />follow you now that my son leads you?”<br />“Either you stand with us or against us, Jocelyn.” His face hardened. “You cannot stand<br />against your own son.”<br />“Jonathan,” she said softly. “He is the greatest evil Valentine ever committed. I could<br />never stand with him. In the end, I never stood with Valentine. So what hope do you<br />have of convincing me now?”<br />He shook his head. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I mean you cannot stand<br />against him. Against us. The Clave cannot. They are not prepared. Not for what we can<br />do. Are willing to do. Blood will run in the streets of every city. The world will burn.<br />Everything you know will be destroyed. And we will rise from the ashes of your defeat,<br />the phoenix triumphant. This is your only chance. I doubt your son will give you another.”<br />“Jeremy,” she said. “You were so young when Valentine recruited you. You could come<br />back, come back even to the Clave. They would be lenient—”<br />“I can never come back to the Clave,” he said with a hard satisfaction. “Don’t you<br />understand? Those of us who stand with your son, we are Nephilim no longer.”<br />Nephilim no longer. Jocelyn began to reply, but before she could speak, blood burst<br />from his mouth. He crumpled, and as he did, Jocelyn saw, standing behind him bearing a<br />broadsword, Maryse.<br />The two women looked at each other for a moment over Jeremy’s body. Then Maryse<br />turned and walked back toward the battle.<br />The moment Clary’s fingers closed around the hilt, the sword exploded with a golden<br />light. Fire blazed down the blade from the tip, illuminating words carved blackly into the<br />side—Quis ut Deus?—and making the hilt shine as if it contained the light of the sun. She<br />nearly dropped it, thinking it had caught on fire, but the flame seemed contained inside<br />the sword, and the metal was cool beneath her palms.<br />Everything after that seemed to happen very slowly. She turned, the sword blazing in<br />her grip. Her eyes searched the crowd desperately for Sebastian. She couldn’t see him,<br />but she knew he was behind the tight knot of Shadowhunters she had punched through to<br />get here. Gripping the sword, she moved toward them, only to find her way blocked.<br />By Jace.<br />“Clary,” he said. It seemed impossible that she could hear him; the sounds around<br />them were deafening: screams and growls, the clatter of metal on metal. But the sea of<br />fighting figures seemed to have fallen away from them on either side like the Red Sea<br />parting, leaving a clear space around her and Jace.<br />The sword burned, slippery in her grip. “Jace. Get out of the way.”<br />She heard Simon, behind her, shout something; Jace was shaking his head. His golden<br />eyes were flat, unreadable. His face was bloody; she had cracked her head against his<br />cheekbone, and the skin was swelling and darkening. “Give me the sword, Clary.”<br />“No.” She shook her head, backing up a step. Glorious lit the space they stood in, lit the<br />trampled, blood-smeared grass around her, and lit Jace as he moved toward her. “Jace. I<br />can separate you from Sebastian. I can kill him without hurting you—”<br />His face twisted. His eyes were the same color as the fire in the sword, or they were<br />reflecting it back, she wasn’t sure which, and as she looked at him she realized it didn’t<br />matter. She was seeing Jace and not-Jace: her memories of him, the beautiful boy she’d<br />met first, reckless with himself and others, learning to care and be careful. She<br />remembered the night they had spent together in Idris, holding hands across the narrow<br />bed, and the bloodstained boy who had looked at her with haunted eyes and confessed to<br />being a murderer in Paris. “Kill him?” Jace-who-wasn’t-Jace demanded now. “Are you out<br />of your mind?”<br />And she remembered that night by Lake Lyn, Valentine driving the sword into him, and<br />the way her own life had seemed to bleed out with his blood.<br />She had watched him die, there on the beach in Idris. And afterward, when she had<br />brought him back, he had crawled to her and looked down at her with those eyes that<br />burned like the Sword, like the incandescent blood of an angel.<br />I was in the dark, he had said. There was nothing there but shadows, and I was a<br />shadow. And then I heard your voice.<br />But that voice blurred into another, more recent one: Jace facing down Sebastian in the<br />living room of Valentine’s apartment, telling her that he would rather die than live like<br />this. She could hear him now, speaking, telling her to give him the sword, that if she<br />didn’t, he would take it from her. His voice was harsh, impatient, the voice of someone<br />talking to a child. And she knew in that moment that just as he wasn’t Jace, the Clary he<br />loved wasn’t her. It was a memory of her, blurred and distorted: the image of someone<br />docile, obedient; someone who didn’t understand that love given without free will or<br />truthfulness wasn’t love at all.<br />“Give me the sword.” His hand was out, his chin raised, his tone imperious. “Give it to<br />me, Clary.”<br />“You want it?”<br />She raised Glorious, the way he had taught her to, balancing the weight of it, though it<br />felt heavy in her hand. The flame in it grew brighter, until it seemed to reach upward and<br />touch the stars. Jace was only the sword’s length away from her, his golden eyes<br />incredulous. Even now he couldn’t believe she might hurt him, really hurt him. Even now.<br />She took a deep breath. “Take it.”<br />She saw his eyes blaze up the way they had that day by the lake, and then she drove<br />the sword into him, just as Valentine had done. She understood now that this was the<br />way it had to be. He had died like this, and she had ripped him back from death. And now<br />it had come again.<br />You cannot cheat death. In the end it will have its own.<br />Glorious sank into his chest, and she felt her bloody hand slide on the hilt as the blade<br />ground against the bones of his rib cage, driving through him until her fist thumped<br />against his body and she froze. He hadn’t moved, and she was pressed up against him<br />now, gripping Glorious as blood began to spill from the wound in his chest.<br />There was a scream—a sound of rage and pain and terror, the sound of someone being<br />brutally torn apart. Sebastian, Clary thought. Sebastian, screaming as his bond with Jace<br />was severed.<br />But Jace. Jace didn’t make a sound. Despite everything, his face was calm and<br />peaceful, the face of a statue. He looked down at Clary, and his eyes shone, as if he were<br />filling with light.<br />And then he began to burn.<br />Alec didn’t remember scrambling down from the top of the stone tomb, or pushing his<br />way across the stony plain among the litter of fallen bodies: dark Shadowhunters, dead<br />and wounded werewolves. His eyes were seeking out only one person. He stumbled and<br />nearly fell; when he looked up, his gaze scanning the field in front of him, he saw<br />Isabelle, kneeling beside Magnus on the stony ground.<br />It felt like there was no air in his lungs. He had never seen Magnus so pale, or so still.<br />There was blood on his leather armor, and blood on the ground beneath him. But it was<br />impossible. Magnus had lived so long. He was permanent. A fixture. In no world Alec’s<br />imagination could conjure did Magnus die before he did.<br />“Alec.” It was Izzy’s voice, swimming up toward him as if through water. “Alec, he’s<br />breathing.”<br />Alec let his own breath out in a shaking gasp. He held a hand out to his sister.<br />“Dagger.”<br />She handed him one silently. She had never paid as much attention as he had in field<br />first aid classes; she had always said runes would do the job. He slit open the front of<br />Magnus’s leather armor and then the shirt beneath it, his teeth gritted. It could be that<br />the armor was all that was holding him together.<br />He peeled back the sides gingerly, surprised at the steadiness of his own hands. There<br />was a good deal of blood, and a wide stab wound under the right side of Magnus’s ribs.<br />But from the rhythm of Magnus’s breathing, it was clear his lungs hadn’t been punctured.<br />Alec yanked off his jacket, wadded it up, and pressed it against the still-bleeding wound.<br />Magnus’s eyes fluttered open. “Ouch,” he said feebly. “Quit leaning on me.”<br />“Raziel,” Alec breathed thankfully. “You’re all right.” He slipped his free hand under<br />Magnus’s head, his thumb stroking Magnus’s bloody cheek. “I thought…”<br />He looked up to glance at his sister before he said anything too embarassing, but she<br />had slipped quietly away.<br />“I saw you fall,” Alec said quietly. He bent down and kissed Magnus lightly on the<br />mouth, not wanting to hurt him. “I thought you were dead.”<br />Magnus smiled crookedly. “What, from that scratch?” He glanced down at the<br />reddening jacket in Alec’s hand. “Okay, a deep scratch. Like, from a really, really big cat.”<br />“Are you delirious?” Alec said.<br />“No.” Magnus’s eyebrows drew together. “Amatis was aiming for my heart, but she<br />didn’t get anything vital. The problem is that the blood loss is sapping my energy and my<br />ability to heal myself.” He took a deep breath that ended in a cough. “Here, give me your<br />hand.” He raised his hand, and Alec twined their fingers together, Magnus’s palm hard<br />against his. “Do you remember, the night of the battle on Valentine’s ship, when I needed<br />some of your strength?”<br />“Do you need it again now?” Alec said. “Because you can have it.”<br />“I always need your strength, Alec,” Magnus said, and closed his eyes as their<br />intertwined fingers began to shine, as if between them they held the light of a star.<br />Fire exploded up through the hilt of the angel’s sword and along the blade. The flame<br />shot through Clary’s arm like a bolt of electricity, knocking her to the ground. Heat<br />lightning sizzled up and down her veins, and she curled up in agony, clutching herself as if<br />she could keep her body from blowing to pieces.<br />Jace fell to his knees. The sword still pierced him, but it was burning now, with a whitegold<br />flame, and the fire was filling his body like colored water filling a clear glass pitcher.<br />Golden flame shot through him, turning his skin translucent. His hair was bronze; his<br />bones were hard, shining tinder visible through his skin. Glorious itself was burning away,<br />dissolving in liquid drops like gold melting in a crucible. Jace’s head was thrown back, his<br />body arched like a bow as the conflagration raged through him. Clary tried to pull herself<br />toward him across the rocky ground, but the heat radiating from his body was too much.<br />His hands clutched at his chest, and a river of golden blood slipped through his fingers.<br />The stone on which he knelt was blackening, cracking, turning to ash. And then Glorious<br />burned up like the last of a bonfire, in a shower of sparks, and Jace collapsed forward,<br />onto the stones.<br />Clary tried to stand, but her legs buckled under her. Her veins still felt as if fire were<br />shooting through them, and pain was darting across the surface of her skin like the touch<br />of hot pokers. She pulled herself forward, bloodying her fingers, hearing her ceremonial<br />dress rip, until she reached Jace.<br />He was lying on his side with his head pillowed on one arm, the other arm flung out<br />wide. She crumpled beside him. Heat radiated from his body as if he were a dying bed of<br />coals, but she didn’t care. She could see the rip in the back of his gear where Glorious had<br />torn through it. There were ashes from the burned rocks mixed in with the gold of his<br />hair, and blood.<br />Moving slowly, every movement hurting as if she were old, as if she had aged a year<br />for every second Jace had burned, she pulled him toward her, so he was on his back on<br />the bloodstained and blackened stone. She looked at his face, no longer gold but still, and<br />still beautiful.<br />Clary laid her hand against his chest, where the red of his blood stood out against the<br />darker red of his gear. She had felt the edges of the blade grind against the bones of his<br />ribs. She had seen his blood spill through his fingers, so much blood that it had stained<br />the rocks beneath him black and had stiffened the edges of his hair.<br />And yet. Not if he’s more Heaven’s than Hell’s.<br />“Jace,” she whispered. All around them were running feet. The shattered remains of<br />Sebastian’s small army was fleeing across the Burren, dropping their weapons as they<br />went. She ignored them. “Jace.”<br />He didn’t move. His face was still, peaceful under the moonlight. His eyelashes threw<br />dark, spidering shadows against the tops of his cheekbones.<br />“Please,” she said, and her voice felt as if it were scraping out of her throat. When she<br />breathed, her lungs burned. “Look at me.”<br />Clary closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her mother was kneeling down<br />beside her, touching her shoulder. Tears were running down Jocelyn’s face. But that<br />couldn’t be—Why would her mother be crying?<br />“Clary,” her mother whispered. “Let him go. He’s dead.”<br />In the distance Clary saw Alec kneeling beside Magnus. “No,” Clary said. “The sword—it<br />burns away what’s evil. He could still live.”<br />Her mother ran a hand down her back, her fingers tangling in Clary’s filthy curls. “Clary,<br />no…”<br />Jace, Clary thought fiercely, her hands curling around his arms. You’re stronger than<br />this. If this is you, really you, you’ll open your eyes and look at me.<br />Suddenly Simon was there, kneeling on the other side of Jace, his face smeared with<br />blood and grime. He reached for Clary. She whipped her head up to glare at him, at him<br />and her mother, and saw Isabelle coming up behind them, her eyes wide, moving slowly.<br />The front of her gear was stained with blood. Unable to face Izzy, Clary turned away, her<br />eyes on the gold of Jace’s hair.<br />“Sebastian,” Clary said, or tried to say. Her voice came out as a croak. “Someone<br />should go after him.” And leave me alone.<br />“They’re looking for him now.” Her mother leaned in, anxious, her eyes wide. “Clary, let<br />him go. Clary, baby…”<br />“Let her be,” Clary heard Isabelle say sharply. She heard her mother’s protest, but<br />everything they were doing seemed to be going on at a great distance, as if Clary were<br />watching a play from the last row. Nothing mattered but Jace. Jace, burning. Tears<br />scalded the backs of her eyes. “Jace, goddamit,” she said, her voice ragged. “You are not<br />dead.”<br />“Clary,” Simon said gently. “It was a chance…”<br />Come away from him. That was what Simon was asking, but she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.<br />“Jace,” she whispered. It was like a mantra, the way he had once held her at Renwick’s<br />and chanted her name over and over. “Jace Lightwood…”<br />She froze. There. A movement so tiny, it was hardly a movement at all. The flutter of<br />an eyelash. She leaned forward, almost overbalancing, and pressed her hand against the<br />torn scarlet material over his chest, as if she could heal the wound she had made. She<br />felt instead—so wonderful that for a moment it made no sense to her, could not possibly<br />be—under her fingertips, the rhythm of his heart.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-16265248982723564582013-02-20T06:35:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.121-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 20<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Clary screamed aloud in pure frustration as the shard of glass embedded itself in the<br />wooden floor, inches from Sebastian’s throat.<br />She felt him laugh underneath her. “You can’t do it,” he said. “You can’t kill me.”<br />“To hell with you,” she snarled. “I can’t kill Jace.”<br />“Same thing,” he said, and, sitting up so fast she barely saw him move, he belted her<br />across the face with enough force to send her skidding across the glass-strewn floor. Her<br />slide was arrested when she hit the wall, gagged, and coughed blood. She buried her<br />head against her forearm, the taste and smell of her own blood everywhere, sickening<br />and metallic. A moment later Sebastian’s hand was fisted in her jacket and he was<br />hauling her to her feet.<br />She didn’t fight him. What was the point? Why fight someone when they were willing to<br />kill you and they knew you weren’t willing to kill, or even seriously wound, them? They’d<br />always win. She stood still as he examined her. “Could be worse,” he said. “Looks like the<br />jacket kept you from any real damage.”<br />Real damage? Her body felt like it had been sliced all over with thin knives. She glared<br />at him through her eyelashes as he swung her up into his arms. It was like it had been in<br />Paris, when he’d carried her away from the Dahak demons, but then she had been—if not<br />grateful, at least confused, and now she was filled with a boiling hatred. She kept her<br />body tense while he carried her upstairs, his boots ringing on the glass. She was trying to<br />forget she was touching him, that his arm was under her thighs, his hands possessive on<br />her back.<br />I will kill him, she thought. I will find a way, and I will kill him.<br />He walked into Jace’s room and dumped her onto the floor. She staggered back a step.<br />He caught her and ripped the jacket off her. Underneath she was wearing only a T-shirt.<br />It was shredded as if she’d run a cheese grater over it, and stained everywhere with<br />blood.<br />Sebastian whistled.<br />“You’re a mess, little sister,” he said. “Better get in the bathroom and wash some of<br />that blood off.”<br />“No,” she said. “Let them see me like this. Let them see what you had to do to get me<br />to come with you.”<br />His hand shot out and grabbed her under the chin, forcing her face up to his. Their<br />faces were inches apart. She wanted to close her eyes but refused to give him the<br />satisfaction; she stared back at him, at the loops of silver in his black eyes, the blood on<br />his lip where she’d bitten him. “You belong to me,” he said again. “And I will have you by<br />my side, however I have to force you to be there.”<br />“Why?” she demanded, rage as bitter on her tongue as the taste of blood. “What do<br />you care? I know you can’t kill Jace, but you could kill me. Why don’t you just do it?”<br />Just for a moment, his eyes went distant, glassy, as if he were seeing something<br />invisible to her. “This world will be consumed by hellfire,” he said. “But I will bring you<br />and Jace safely through the flames if you only do what I ask. It is a grace I extend to no<br />one else. Do you not see how foolish you are to reject it?”<br />“Jonathan,” she said. “Don’t you see how impossible it is to ask me to fight by your side<br />when you want to burn down the world?”<br />His eyes refocused on her face. “But why?” It was almost plaintive. “Why is this world<br />so precious to you? You know that there are others.” His own blood was very red against<br />his stark white skin. “Tell me you love me. Tell me you love me and will fight with me.”<br />“I’ll never love you. You were wrong when you said we have the same blood. Your<br />blood is poison. Demon poison.” She spat the last words.<br />He only smiled, his eyes glowing darkly. She felt something burn on her upper arm, and<br />she jumped before she realized it was a stele; he was tracing an iratze on her skin. She<br />hated him even as the pain faded. His bracelet clanked on his wrist as he moved his hand<br />skillfully, completing the rune.<br />“I knew you lied,” she said to him suddenly.<br />“I tell so many lies, sweetheart,” he said. “Which one specifically?”<br />“Your bracelet,” she said. “‘ Acheronta movebo.’ It doesn’t mean ‘Thus always to<br />tyrants.’ That’s ‘ sic semper tyrannis.’ This is from Virgil. ‘Flectere si nequeo superos,<br />Acheronta movebo.’ ‘If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell.’”<br />“Your Latin’s better that I thought.”<br />“I learn fast.”<br />“Not fast enough.” He released his grip on her chin. “Now get into the bathroom and<br />clean yourself up,” he said, shoving her backward. He grabbed her mother’s ceremonial<br />dress off the bed and dumped it into her arms. “Time grows short, and my patience wears<br />thin. If you’re not out in ten minutes, I’ll come in after you. And trust me, you won’t like<br />that.”<br />“I’m starving,” Maia said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.” She pulled the refrigerator<br />door open and peered in. “Oh, yuck.”<br />Jordan pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her, and nuzzled the back of her<br />neck. “We can order food. Pizza, Thai, Mexican, whatever you want. As long as it doesn’t<br />cost more than twenty-five dollars.”<br />She turned around in his arms, laughing. She was wearing one of his shirts; it was a<br />little too big on him, and on her it hung nearly to her knees. Her hair was pulled up in a<br />knot at the back of her neck. “Big spender,” she said.<br />“For you, anything.” He lifted her up by the waist and set her on one of the counter<br />stools. “You can have a taco.” He kissed her. His lips were sweet, slightly minty from<br />toothpaste. She felt the buzz in her body that came from touching him, that started at the<br />base of her spine and shot through all her nerves.<br />She giggled against his mouth, wrapping her arms around his neck. A sharp ringing cut<br />through the humming in her blood as Jordan pulled away, frowning. “My phone.” Hanging<br />on to her with one hand, he fumbled behind himself on the counter until he found it. It<br />had stopped ringing, but he lifted it anyway, frowning. “It’s the Praetor.”<br />The Praetor never called, or at least rarely. Only when something was of deadly<br />importance. Maia sighed and leaned back. “Take it.”<br />He nodded, already lifting the phone to his ear. His voice was a soft murmur in the<br />back of her consciousness as she jumped down from the counter and went to the<br />refrigerator, where the take-out menus were pinned. She riffled through them until she<br />found the menu for the local Thai place she liked, and turned around with it in her hand.<br />Jordan was now standing in the middle of the living room, white-faced, with his phone<br />forgotten in his hand. Maia could hear a tinny, distant voice coming from it, saying his<br />name.<br />Maia dropped the menu and hurried across the room to him. She took the phone out of<br />his hand, disconnected the call, and set it on the counter. “Jordan? What happened?”<br />“My roommate—Nick—you remember?” he said, disbelief in his hazel eyes. “You never<br />met him but—”<br />“I saw the photos of him,” she said. “Has something happened?”<br />“He’s dead.”<br />“How?”<br />“Throat torn out, all his blood gone. They think he tracked his assignment down and<br />she killed him.”<br />“Maureen?” Maia was shocked. “But she was just a little girl.”<br />“She’s a vampire now.” He took a ragged breath. “Maia…”<br />She stared at him. His eyes were glassy, his hair tousled. A sudden panic rose inside<br />her. Kissing and cuddling and even sex were one thing. Comforting someone when they<br />were stricken with loss was something else. It meant commitment. It meant caring. It<br />meant you wanted to ease their pain, and at the same time you were thanking God that<br />whatever the bad thing was that had happened, it hadn’t happened to them.<br />“Jordan,” she said softly, and reaching up on her toes, she put her arms around him.<br />“I’m sorry.”<br />Jordan’s heart beat hard against hers. “Nick was only seventeen.”<br />“He was a Praetor, like you,” she said softly. “He knew it was dangerous. You’re only<br />eighteen.” He tightened his grip on her but said nothing. “Jordan,” she said. “I love you. I<br />love you and I’m sorry.”<br />She felt him freeze. It was the first time she’d said the words since a few weeks before<br />she’d been bitten. He seemed to be holding his breath. Finally he let it out with a gasp.<br />“Maia,” he croaked. And then, unbelievably, before he could say another word—her<br />phone rang.<br />“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll ignore it.”<br />He let her go, his face soft, bemused with grief and amazement. “No,” he said. “No, it<br />could be important. You go ahead.”<br />She sighed and went to the counter. It had stopped ringing by the time she reached it,<br />but there was a text message blinking on the screen. She felt her stomach muscles<br />tighten.<br />“What is it?” Jordan asked, as if he had sensed her sudden tension. Maybe he had.<br />“A 911. An emergency.” She turned to him, holding the phone. “A call to battle. It went<br />out to everyone in the pack. From Luke—and Magnus. We have to leave right away.”<br />Clary sat on the floor of Jace’s bathroom, her back against the tile of the tub, her legs<br />stretched out in front of her. She had cleaned the blood from her face and body, and<br />rinsed her bloody hair in the sink. She was wearing her mother’s ceremonial dress, rucked<br />up to her thighs, and the tiled floor was cold against her bare feet and calves.<br />She looked down at her hands. They ought to look different, she thought. But they<br />were the same hands she’d always had, thin fingers, squared-off nails—you didn’t want<br />long nails when you were an artist—and freckles on the backs of the knuckles. Her face<br />looked the same too. All of her seemed the same, but she wasn’t. These past few days<br />had changed her in ways she couldn’t quite yet fully comprehend.<br />She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She was pale, between the flame<br />colors of her hair and the dress. Bruises decorated her shoulders and throat.<br />“Admiring yourself?” She hadn’t heard Sebastian open the door, but there he was,<br />smirking intolerably as always, propped against the frame of the doorway. He was<br />wearing a kind of gear she had never seen before: the usual tough material, but in a<br />scarlet color like fresh blood. He had also added an accessory to his outfit—a recurved<br />crossbow. He held it casually in one hand, though it must have been heavy. “You look<br />lovely, sister. A fitting companion for me.”<br />She bit back her words with the taste of blood that still lingered in her mouth, and<br />walked toward him. He caught at her arm as she tried to squeeze past him in the<br />doorway. His hand ran over her bare shoulder. “Good,” he said. “You’re not Marked here.<br />I hate it when women ruin their skin with scars. Keep the Marks on your arms and legs.”<br />“I’d rather you didn’t touch me.”<br />He snorted, and swung the crossbow up. A bolt was fitted to it, ready to fire. “Walk,” he<br />said. “I’ll be right behind you.”<br />It took every ounce of effort she had not to flinch away from him. She turned and<br />walked toward the door, feeling a burning between her shoulder blades where she<br />imagined the arrow of the crossbow was trained. They moved like that down the glass<br />stairs and through the kitchen and living room. He grunted at the sight of Clary’s scrawled<br />rune on the wall, reached around her, and under his hand a doorway appeared. The door<br />itself swung open onto a square of darkness.<br />The crossbow jabbed Clary hard in the back. “Move.”<br />Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the shadows.<br />Alec slammed his hand against the button in the small cage elevator, and slumped back<br />against the wall. “How much time do we have?”<br />Isabelle checked the glowing screen of her mobile phone. “About forty minutes.”<br />The elevator lurched upward. Isabelle cast a covert glance at her brother. He looked<br />tired—dark circles were under his eyes. Despite his height and strength, Alec, with his<br />blue eyes and soft black hair almost to his collar, looked more delicate than he was. “I’m<br />fine,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “You’re the one who’s going to be in<br />trouble for staying away from home. I’m over eighteen. I can do what I want.”<br />“I texted Mom every night and told her I was with you and Magnus,” Isabelle said as<br />the elevator came to a stop. “It’s not like she didn’t know where I was. And speaking of<br />Magnus…”<br />Alec reached across her and pulled the elevator’s inside cage door open. “What?”<br />“Are you two okay? I mean, getting along all right?”<br />Alec shot her an incredulous look as he stepped out into the entryway. “Everything’s<br />going to hell in a handbasket, and you want to know about my relationship with Magnus?”<br />“I’ve always wondered about that expression,” Isabelle said thoughtfully as she hurried<br />after her brother down the hallway. Alec had long, long legs and, though she was fast, it<br />was hard to keep up with him when he wanted it to be. “Why a handbasket? What is a<br />handbasket, and why is it a particularly good form of transportation?”<br />Alec, who had been Jace’s parabatai long enough to have learned to ignore<br />conversational tangents, said, “Magnus and I are okay, I guess.”<br />“Uh-oh,” Isabelle said. “Okay, you guess? I know what it means when you say that.<br />What happened? Did you have a fight?”<br />Alec was tapping his fingers against the wall as they raced along, a sure sign that he<br />was uncomfortable. “Quit trying to meddle around in my love life, Iz. What about you?<br />Why aren’t you and Simon a couple? You obviously like him.”<br />Isabelle let out a squawk. “I am not obvious.”<br />“You are, actually,” Alec said, sounding as if it surprised him, too, now that he thought<br />about it. “Gazing at him all moony-eyed. The way you freaked out at the lake when the<br />Angel appeared—”<br />“I thought Simon was dead!”<br />“What, more dead?” said Alec unkindly. Seeing the expression on his sister’s face, he<br />shrugged. “Look, if you like him, fine. I just don’t see why you’re not dating.”<br />“Because he doesn’t like me.”<br />“Of course he does. Guys always like you.”<br />“Forgive me if I think your opinion is biased.”<br />“Isabelle,” Alec said, and now there was kindness in his voice, the tone she associated<br />with her brother—love and exasperation mixed together. “You know you’re gorgeous.<br />Guys have chased you since… forever. Why would Simon be different?”<br />She shrugged. “I don’t know. But he is. I figure the ball is in his court. He knows how I<br />feel. But I don’t think he’s rushing to do anything about it.”<br />“To be fair, it’s not like he doesn’t have anything else going on.”<br />“I know, but—he’s always been like this. Clary—”<br />“You think he’s still in love with Clary?”<br />Isabelle chewed her lip. “I—not exactly. I think she’s the one thing he still has from his<br />human life, and he can’t let her go. And as long as he doesn’t let her go, I don’t know if<br />there’s room for me.”<br />They had almost reached the library. Alec looked sideways at Isabelle through his<br />lashes. “But if they’re just friends—”<br />“Alec.” She held up her hand, indicating that he should be quiet. Voices were coming<br />from the library, the first one strident and immediately recognizable as their mother’s:<br />“What do you mean she’s missing?”<br />“No one’s seen her in two days,” said another voice—soft, female, and slightly<br />apologetic. “She lives alone, so people weren’t sure—but we thought, since you know her<br />brother—”<br />Without a pause Alec straight-armed the door of the library open. Isabelle ducked past<br />him to see her mother sitting behind the massive mahogany desk in the center of the<br />room. In front of her stood two familiar figures: Aline Penhallow, dressed in gear, and<br />beside her Helen Blackthorn, her curly hair in disarray. Both of them turned, looking<br />surprised, as the door opened. Helen, beneath her freckles, was pale; she was also in<br />gear, which drained the color out of her skin even more.<br />“Isabelle,” said Maryse, rising to her feet. “Alexander. What’s happened?”<br />Aline reached for Helen’s hand. Silver rings flashed on both their fingers. The Penhallow<br />ring, with its design of mountains, glinted on Helen’s finger, while the intertwined thorn<br />pattern of the Blackthorn family ring adorned Aline’s. Isabelle felt her eyebrows go up;<br />exchanging family rings was serious business. “If we’re intruding, we can go—” Aline<br />began.<br />“No, stay,” said Izzy, striding forward. “We might need you.”<br />Maryse settled back into her chair. “So,” she said. “My children grace me with their<br />presence. Where have you two been?”<br />“I told you,” Isabelle said. “We were at Magnus’s.”<br />“Why?” Maryse demanded. “And I’m not asking you, Alexander. I’m asking my<br />daughter.”<br />“Because the Clave stopped looking for Jace,” said Isabelle. “But we didn’t.”<br />“And Magnus was willing to help,” Alec added. “He’s been up all these nights, searching<br />through spell books, trying to figure out where Jace might be. He even raised the—”<br />“No.” Maryse put up a hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” The<br />black phone on her desk started to ring. They all stared at it. A black phone call was a call<br />from Idris. No one moved to answer it, and in a moment it was silent. “Why are you<br />here?” Maryse demanded, turning her attention back to her offspring.<br />“We were looking for Jace—,” Isabelle began again.<br />“It’s the Clave’s job to do that,” Maryse snapped. She looked tired, Isabelle noticed, the<br />skin stretched thin under her eyes. Lines at the corners of her mouth drew her lips into a<br />frown. She was thin enough that the bones of her wrists seemed to protrude. “Not yours.”<br />Alec slammed his hand down on the desk, hard enough to make the drawers rattle.<br />“Would you listen to us? The Clave didn’t find Jace, but we did. And Sebastian right along<br />with him. And now we know what they’re planning, and we have”—he glanced at the<br />clock on the wall—“barely any time to stop them. Are you going to help or not?”<br />The black phone rang again. Again Maryse didn’t even move to answer it. She was<br />looking at Alec, her face white with shock. “You did what?”<br />“We know where Jace is, Mom,” said Isabelle. “Or at least, where he’s going to be. And<br />what he’s going to do. We know Sebastian’s plan, and he has to be stopped. Oh, and we<br />know how we can kill Sebastian but not Jace—”<br />“Stop.” Maryse shook her head. “Alexander, explain. Concisely, and without hysteria.<br />Thank you.”<br />Alec launched into the story—leaving out, Isabelle thought, all the good parts, which<br />was how he managed to summarize things so neatly. As abbreviated as his rendition was,<br />both Aline and Helen were gaping by the end of it. Maryse stood very still, her features<br />immobile. When Alec was done, she said in a hushed voice:<br />“Why have you done these things?”<br />Alec looked taken aback.<br />“For Jace,” Isabelle said. “To get him back.”<br />“You realize that by putting me in this position, you give me no choice but to notify the<br />Clave,” said Maryse, her hand resting on the black phone. “I wish you hadn’t come here.”<br />Isabelle’s mouth went dry. “Are you seriously mad at us for finally telling you what’s<br />going on?”<br />“If I notify the Clave, they will send all their reinforcements. Jia will have no choice but<br />to give them instructions to kill Jace on sight. Do you have any idea how many<br />Shadowhunters Valentine’s son has following him?<br />Alec shook his head. “Maybe forty, it sounds like.”<br />“Say we brought twice as many as that. We could be fairly confident of defeating his<br />forces, but what kind of chance would Jace have? There’s almost no certainty he’d make<br />it through alive. They’ll kill him just to be sure.”<br />“Then, we can’t tell them,” said Isabelle. “We’ll go ourselves. We’ll do this without the<br />Clave.”<br />But Maryse, looking at her, was shaking her head. “The Law says we have to tell<br />them.”<br />“I don’t care about the Law—,” Isabelle began angrily. She caught sight of Aline looking<br />at her, and slammed her mouth shut.<br />“Don’t worry,” Aline said. “I’m not going to say anything to my mother. I owe you guys.<br />Especially you, Isabelle.” She tightened her jaw, and Isabelle remembered the darkness<br />under a bridge in Idris, and her whip tearing into a demon, its claws locked onto Aline.<br />“And besides, Sebastian killed my cousin. The real Sebastian Verlac. I have my own<br />reasons to hate him, you know.”<br />“Regardless,” said Maryse. “If we do not tell them, we will be breaking the Law. We<br />could be sanctioned, or worse.”<br />“Worse?” said Alec. “What are we talking about here? Exile?”<br />“I don’t know, Alexander,” said his mother. “It would be up to Jia Penhallow, and<br />whoever wins the Inquisitor’s position, to decide our punishment.”<br />“Maybe it’ll be Dad,” muttered Izzy. “Maybe he’ll go easy on us.”<br />“If we fail to notify them of this situation, Isabelle, there is no chance your father will<br />make Inquisitor. None,” said Maryse.<br />Isabelle took a deep breath. “Could we get our Marks stripped?” she said. “Could we…<br />lose the Institute?”<br />“Isabelle,” said Maryse. “We could lose everything.”<br />Clary blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She stood on a rocky plain, whipped by<br />wind, with nothing to break the force of the gale. Patches of grass grew up between slabs<br />of gray rock. In the far distance bleak, scree-covered karst hills rose, black and iron<br />against the night sky. There were lights up ahead. Clary recognized the bobbing white<br />glare of witchlight as the door of the apartment swung shut behind them.<br />There was the sound of a dull explosion. Clary whirled around to see that the door had<br />vanished; there was a charred patch of dirt and grass, still smoldering, where it had been.<br />Sebastian was staring at it in absolute astonishment. “What—”<br />She laughed. A dark glee rose in her at the look on his face. She had never seen him<br />shocked like that, his pretenses gone, his expression naked and horrified.<br />He swung the crossbow back up, inches from her chest. If he fired it at this distance,<br />the bolt would tear through her heart, killing her instantly. “What have you done?”<br />Clary gazed at him with dark triumph. “That rune. The one you thought was an<br />unfinished Opening rune. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t anything you’d ever seen before. It was<br />a rune I created.”<br />“A rune for what?”<br />She remembered putting the stele to the wall, the shape of the rune she had invented<br />on the night when Jace had come to her at Luke’s house. “Destroying the apartment the<br />second someone opened the door. The apartment’s gone. You can’t use it again. No one<br />can.”<br />“Gone?” The crossbow shook; Sebastian’s lips were twitching, his eyes wild. “You bitch.<br />You little—”<br />“Kill me,” she said. “Go ahead. And explain it to Jace afterward. I dare you.”<br />He looked at her, his chest heaving up and down, his fingers trembling on the trigger.<br />Slowly he slid his hand away from it. His eyes were small and furious. “There are worse<br />things than dying,” he said. “And I will do them all to you, little sister, once you’ve drunk<br />from the Cup. And you will like it.”<br />She spat at him. He jabbed her hard, agonizingly, in the chest with the tip of the bow.<br />“Turn around,” he snarled, and she did, dizzy with a mixture of terror and triumph as he<br />prodded her down a rocky slope. She was wearing thin slippers, and she felt every pebble<br />and crack in the rocks. As they neared the witchlight, Clary saw the scene laid out before<br />them.<br />In front of her, the ground rose to a low hill. Atop the hill, facing north, was a massive<br />ancient stone tomb. It reminded her slightly of Stonehenge: there were two narrow<br />standing stones that held up a flat capstone, making the whole assemblage resemble a<br />doorway. In front of the tomb a flat sill stone, like the floor of a stage, stretched across<br />the shale and grass. Grouped before the flat stone was a half-circle of about forty<br />Nephilim, robed in red, carrying witchlight torches. Within their half-circle, against the<br />dark ground, blazed a blue-white pentagram.<br />Atop the flat stone stood Jace. He wore scarlet gear like Sebastian; they had never<br />looked so alike.<br />Clary could see the brightness of his hair even from a distance. He was pacing the edge<br />of the flat sill stone, and as they grew closer, Clary driven ahead by Sebastian, she could<br />hear what he was saying.<br />“… gratitude for your loyalty, even over these last difficult years, and grateful for your<br />belief in our father, and now in his sons. And his daughter.”<br />A murmur ran around the square. Sebastian shoved Clary forward, and they moved<br />through the shadows, and then climbed up onto the stone behind Jace. Jace saw them<br />and inclined his head before turning back to the crowd; he was smiling. “You are the ones<br />who will be saved,” he said. “A thousand years ago the Angel gave us his blood, to make<br />us special, to make us warriors. But it was not enough. A thousand years have passed,<br />and still we hide in the shadows. We protect mundanes we do not love from forces of<br />which they remain ignorant, and an ancient, ossified Law prevents us from revealing<br />ourselves as their saviors. We die in our hundreds, unthanked, unmourned but by our own<br />kind, and without recourse to the Angel who created us.” He moved closer to the edge of<br />the rock platform. The Shadowhunters before it were standing in a half-circle. His hair<br />looked like pale fire. “Yes. I dare to say it. The Angel who created us will not aid us, and<br />we are alone. More alone even than the mundanes, for as one of their great scientists<br />once said, they are like children playing with pebbles on the seashore, while all around<br />them the great ocean of truth lies undiscovered. But we know the truth. We are the<br />saviors of this earth, and we should be ruling it.”<br />Jace was a good speaker, Clary thought with a sort of pain at her heart, in the same<br />way that Valentine had been. She and Sebastian were behind him now, facing the plain<br />and the crowd on it; she could feel the stares of the gathered Shadowhunters on both of<br />them.<br />“Yes. Ruling it.” He smiled, a lovely easy smile, full of charm, edged with darkness.<br />“Raziel is cruel and indifferent to our sufferings. It is time to turn from him. Turn to Lilith,<br />Great Mother, who will give us power without punishment, leadership without the Law.<br />Our birthright is power. It is time to claim it.”<br />He looked sideways with a smile as Sebastian moved forward. “And now I’ll let you<br />hear the rest of it from Jonathan, whose dream this is,” said Jace smoothly, and he<br />retreated, letting Sebastian slide easily into his place. He took another step back, and<br />now he was beside Clary, his hand reaching down to twine with hers.<br />“Good speech,” she muttered. Sebastian was speaking; she ignored him, focusing on<br />Jace. “Very convincing.”<br />“You think? I was going to start off ‘Friends, Romans, evildoers…’ but I didn’t think<br />they’d see the humor.”<br />“You think they’re evildoers?”<br />He shrugged. “The Clave would.” He looked away from Sebastian, down at her. “You<br />look beautiful,” he said, but his voice was oddly flat. “What happened?”<br />She was caught off guard. “What do you mean?”<br />He opened his jacket. Underneath he was wearing a white shirt. It was stained at the<br />side and the sleeve with red. She noticed he was careful to turn away from the crowd as<br />he showed her the blood. “I feel what he feels,” he said. “Or did you forget? I had to<br />iratze myself without anyone noticing. It felt like someone was slicing my skin with a<br />razor blade.”<br />Clary met his gaze. There was no point lying, was there? There was no going back,<br />literally or figuratively. “Sebastian and I had a fight.”<br />His eyes searched her face. “Well,” he said, letting his jacket fall closed, “I hope you’ve<br />worked it out, whatever it was.”<br />“Jace… ,” she began, but he had given his attention to Sebastian now. His profile was<br />cold and clear in the moonlight, like a silhouette cut out of dark paper. In front of them<br />Sebastian, who had set down his crossbow, raised his arms. “Are you with me?” he cried.<br />A murmur ran around the square, and Clary tensed. One of the group of Nephilim, an<br />older man, threw his hood back and scowled. “Your father made us many promises. None<br />were fulfilled. Why should we trust you?”<br />“Because I will bring you the fulfillment of my promises now. Tonight,” Sebastian said,<br />and from his tunic he drew the imitation Mortal Cup. It glowed softly white under the<br />moon.<br />The murmuring was louder now. Under its cover Jace said, “I hope this goes smoothly.<br />I feel like I didn’t sleep last night at all.”<br />He was facing the crowd and the pentagram, a look of keen interest on his face. His<br />face was delicately angular in the witchlight. She could see the scar on his cheek, the<br />hollows at his temples, the lovely shape of his mouth. I won’t remember this, he had said.<br />When I’m back—like I was, under his control, I won’t remember being myself. And it was<br />true. He had forgotten every detail. Somehow, though she had known it, had seen him<br />forget, the pain of the reality was acute.<br />Sebastian stepped down off the rock and moved toward the pentagram. At the edge of<br />it he began to chant. “Abyssum invoco. Lilith invoco. Mater mea, invoco.”<br />He drew a thin dagger from his belt. Tucking the Cup into the curve of his arm, he used<br />the edge of the blade to slice into his palm. Blood welled, black in the moonlight. He slid<br />the knife back into his belt and held his bleeding hand over the Cup, still chanting in<br />Latin.<br />It was now or never. “Jace,” Clary whispered. “I know this isn’t really you. I know<br />there’s a part of you that can’t be all right with this. Try to remember who you are, Jace<br />Lightwood.”<br />His head whipped around, and he looked at her in astonishment. “What are you talking<br />about?”<br />“Please try to remember, Jace. I love you. You love me—”<br />“I do love you, Clary,” he said, an edge to his voice. “But you said you understood. This<br />is it. The culmination of everything we’ve worked toward.”<br />Sebastian flung the contents of the Cup into the center of the pentagram. “Hic est enim<br />calix sanguinis mei.”<br />“Not we,” Clary whispered. “I’m not part of this. Neither are you—”<br />Jace inhaled sharply. For a moment Clary thought it was because of what she’d said—<br />that maybe, somehow, she was breaking through his shell—but she followed his gaze and<br />saw that a spinning ball of fire had appeared in the center of the pentagram. It was about<br />the size of a baseball, but as she gazed, it grew, elongating and shaping itself, until at<br />last it was the outline of a woman, made all of flames.<br />“Lilith,” Sebastian said in a ringing voice. “As you called me forth, now I call you. As you<br />gave me life, so I give life to you.”<br />Slowly the flames darkened. She stood before them all now, Lilith, half again the height<br />of an ordinary human, stripped naked with her black hair waterfalling down her back to<br />her ankles. Her body was as gray as ash, fissured with black lines like volcanic lava. She<br />turned her eyes to Sebastian, and they were writhing black snakes.<br />“My child,” she breathed.<br />Sebastian seemed to glow, like witchlight himself—pale skin, pale hair, and his clothes<br />looked black in the moonlight. “Mother, I have called you up as you wished of me.<br />Tonight you will not just be my mother but mother to a new race.” He indicated the<br />waiting Shadowhunters, who were motionless, probably with shock. It was one thing to<br />know a Greater Demon was going to be called, another to see one in the flesh. “The<br />Cup,” he said, and held it out to her, its pale white rim stained with his blood.<br />Lilith chuckled. It sounded like massive stones grinding against one another. She took<br />the Cup and, as casually as one might pick an insect off a leaf, tore a gash in her ashy<br />gray wrist with her teeth. Very slowly, sludgy black blood trickled forth, spattering into<br />the Cup, which seemed to change, darkening under her touch, its clear translucence<br />turning to mud. “As the Mortal Cup has been to the Shadowhunters, both a talisman and<br />a means of transformation, so shall this Infernal Cup be to you,” she said in her charred,<br />windblown voice. She knelt, holding out the Cup to Sebastian. “Take of my blood and<br />drink.”<br />Sebastian took the Cup from her hands. It had turned black now, a shimmering black<br />like hematite.<br />“As your army grows, so shall my strength,” Lilith hissed. “Soon I will be strong enough<br />to truly return—and we shall share the fire of power, my son.”<br />Sebastian inclined his head. “We proclaim you Death, my mother, and profess your<br />resurrection.”<br />Lilith laughed, raising her arms. Fire licked up her body, and she launched herself into<br />the air, exploding into a dozen spinning particles of light that faded like the embers of a<br />dying fire. When they were gone completely, Sebastian kicked at the pentagram,<br />breaking its continuity, and raised his head. There was an awful smile on his face.<br />“Cartwright,” he said. “Bring forth the first.”<br />The crowd parted, and a robed man pushed forward, a stumbling woman at his side. A<br />chain bound her to his arm, and long, tangled hair hid her face from view. Clary tensed all<br />over. “Jace, what is this? What’s going on?”<br />“Nothing,” he said, looking ahead absently. “No one’s going to be hurt. Just changed.<br />Watch.”<br />Cartwright, whose name Clary dimly remembered from her time in Idris, put his hand<br />on his captive’s head and forced her to their knees. Then he bent and took hold of her<br />hair, jerking her head up. She looked up at Sebastian, blinking in terror and defiance, her<br />face clearly outlined by the moon.<br />Clary sucked in her breath. “Amatis.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-7005284673333001722013-02-20T06:34:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.129-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 19<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Methodically and carefully Clary was tearing Jace’s room apart. She was still in her<br />tank top, though she’d pulled on a pair of jeans; her hair was scraped behind her head in<br />a messy bun, and her nails were powdered with dust. She had searched under his bed, in<br />all the drawers and cabinets, crawled under the wardrobe and desk, and looked in the<br />pockets of all his clothes for a second stele, but she had found nothing.<br />She had told Sebastian she was exhausted, that she needed to go upstairs and lie<br />down; he had seemed distracted and had waved her away. Images of Jace’s face kept<br />flashing behind her eyelids every time she shut her eyes—the way he had looked at her,<br />betrayed, as if he didn’t know her anymore.<br />But there was no point dwelling on that. She could sit on the edge of the bed and cry<br />into her hands, thinking about what she had done, but it would do no one any good. She<br />owed it to Jace, to herself, to keep moving. Searching. If she could just find a stele—<br />She was lifting the mattress off the bed, searching the space between it and the box<br />springs, when a knock came on the door.<br />She dropped the mattress, though not before discerning that there was nothing under<br />it. She tightened her hands into fists, took a deep breath, stalked to the door and threw it<br />open.<br />Sebastian stood on the threshold. For the first time he was wearing something other<br />than black and white. The same black trousers and boots, admittedly, but he also wore a<br />scarlet leather tunic, intricately worked with gold and silver runes, and held together by a<br />row of metal clasps across the front. There were hammered silver bracelets on each of his<br />wrists, and he wore the Morgenstern ring.<br />She blinked at him. “Red?”<br />“Ceremonial,” he replied. “Colors mean different things to Shadowhunters than they do<br />to humans.” He said the word “humans” with contempt. “You know the old Nephilim<br />children’s rhyme, don’t you?<br />Black for hunting through the night<br />For death and sorrow, the color’s white.<br />Gold for a bride in her wedding gown,<br />And red to call enchantment down.”<br />“Shadowhunters get married in gold?” Clary said. Not that she cared particularly, but<br />she was trying to wedge her body into the gap between the door and the frame so that<br />he couldn’t look behind her and see the mess she’d made out of Jace’s normally neat<br />room.<br />“Sorry to crush your dreams of a white wedding.” He grinned at her. “Speaking of<br />which, I brought you something to wear.”<br />He drew his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a folded item of clothing.<br />She took it from him and let it unroll. It was a long, drifting column of scarlet fabric with<br />an odd golden sheen to the material, like the edge of a flame. The straps were gold.<br />“Our mother used to wear this to Circle ceremonies before she betrayed our father,” he<br />said. “Put it on. I want you to wear it tonight.”<br />“Tonight?”<br />“Well, you can hardly go to the ceremony in what you’re wearing now.” His eyes raked<br />her, from her bare feet to the tank top clinging to her body with sweat, to her dusty<br />jeans. “How you look tonight—the impression you make on our new acolytes—is<br />important. Put it on.”<br />Her mind was whirling. The ceremony tonight. Our new acolytes. “How much time do I<br />have—to get ready?” she asked.<br />“An hour perhaps,” he said. “We should be at the sacred site by midnight. The others<br />will be gathering there. It wouldn’t do to be late.”<br />An hour. Heart hammering, Clary threw the garment across the bed, where it<br />glimmered like chain mail. When she turned back, he was still in the doorway, a half<br />smile on his face, as if he intended to wait there while she changed.<br />She moved to shut the door. He caught her wrist. “Tonight,” he said, “you call me<br />Jonathan. Jonathan Morgenstern. Your brother.”<br />A shudder ran over her whole body, and she dropped her eyes, hoping he couldn’t see<br />the hatred in them. “Whatever you say.”<br />The moment he was gone she reached for one of Jace’s leather jackets. She slipped it<br />on, taking comfort in the warmth and the familiar smell of him. She slid her feet into<br />shoes and crept out into the hallway, wishing for a stele and a new Soundless rune. She<br />could hear water running downstairs and Sebastian’s off-key whistling, but her own<br />footsteps still sounded like cannon explosions in her ears. She crept along, keeping close<br />to the wall, until she reached Sebastian’s door and slid inside.<br />It was dim, the only illumination the ambient city light coming from the windows,<br />whose curtains were pulled back. It was a mess, just as it had been the first time she’d<br />been in it. She started with his closet, stuffed full of expensive clothes—silk shirts, leather<br />jackets, Armani suits, Bruno Magli shoes. On the floor of the closet was a white shirt,<br />wadded up and stained with blood—blood old enough to have dried to brown. Clary<br />looked at it for a long moment and shut the closet door.<br />She set herself to the desk next, pulling out drawers, rifling through papers. She’d<br />rather hoped for something simple, like a lined piece of notebook paper with MY EVIL PLAN<br />written across the top, but no luck. There were dozens of papers with complex numerical<br />and alchemical figuring on them, and even a piece of stationery that began My beautiful<br />one in Sebastian’s cramped handwriting. She spared a moment to wonder who on earth<br />Sebastian’s beautiful one could be—she hadn’t thought of him as someone who ever had<br />romantic feelings about anyone—before turning to the nightstand by his bed.<br />She pulled open the drawer. Inside was a stack of notes. On top of them, something<br />glimmered. Something circular and metallic.<br />Her faerie ring.<br />Isabelle sat with her arm around Simon as they drove back toward Brooklyn. He was<br />exhausted, his head throbbing, his body pierced with aches. Though Magnus had given<br />him back his ring at the lake, he had been unable to reach Clary with it. Worst of all, he<br />was hungry. He liked how close Isabelle was sitting to him, the way she rested her hand<br />just above the crook of his elbow, tracing patterns there, sometimes sliding her fingers<br />down to his wrist. But the scent of her—perfume and blood—made his stomach growl.<br />It was starting to grow dark outside, the late-autumn sunset coming soon on the heels<br />of the day, dimming the interior of the truck’s cab. Alec’s and Magnus’s voices were<br />murmurs in the shadows. Simon let his eyes flutter closed, seeing the Angel printed<br />against the back of his lids, a burst of white light.<br />Simon! Clary’s voice exploded inside his head, jerking him instantly awake. Are you<br />there?<br />A sharp gasp escaped his lips. Clary? I was so worried—<br />Sebastian took my ring away from me. Simon, there may not be much time. I have to<br />tell you. They have a second Mortal Cup. They plan to raise Lilith and create an army of<br />dark Shadowhunters—ones with the same power as the Nephilim but allied to the demon<br />world.<br />“You’re kidding me,” Simon said. It took him a moment to realize he’d spoken aloud;<br />Isabelle stirred against him, and Magnus looked over curiously.<br />“You all right there, vampire?”<br />“It’s Clary,” Simon said. All three of them looked at him with identical astonished<br />expressions. “She’s trying to talk to me.” He slapped his hands over his ears, slumping<br />down in his seat and trying to concentrate on her words. When are they going to do it?<br />Tonight. Soon. I don’t know where we are exactly—but it’s about ten p.m. here.<br />Then you’re about five hours ahead of us. Are you in Europe?<br />I can’t even guess. Sebastian mentioned something called the Seventh Sacred Site. I<br />don’t know what that is, but I’ve found some of his notes and apparently it’s an ancient<br />tomb. It looks like a sort of doorway, and demons can be summoned through it.<br />Clary, I’ve never heard of anything like that—<br />But Magnus or the others might. Please, Simon. Tell them as quickly as you can.<br />Sebastian’s going to ressurrect Lilith. He wants war, a total war with the Shadowhunters.<br />He has about forty or fifty Nephilim ready to follow him. They’ll be there. Simon, he wants<br />to burn the world down. We have to do anything we can to stop him.<br />If things are that dangerous, you need to get yourself out of there.<br />She sounded tired. I’m trying. But it might be too late.<br />Simon was dimly aware that everyone else in the truck was staring at him, concern on<br />their faces. He didn’t care. Clary’s voice in his mind was like a rope tossed over a chasm,<br />and if he could grip his end of it, maybe he could pull her to safety, or at least keep her<br />from slipping away.<br />Clary, listen. I can’t tell you how, it’s too long a story, but we have a weapon. It can be<br />used on either Jace or Sebastian without hurting the other, and according to the… person<br />who gave it to us, it might be able to cut them apart.<br />Cut them apart? How?<br />He said it would burn all the evil out of the one we used it on. So if we used it on<br />Sebastian, I’m guessing, it would burn away the bond between them because the bond is<br />evil. Simon felt his head throb, and hoped he sounded more confident than he did. I’m not<br />sure. It’s very powerful, anyway. It’s called Glorious.<br />And you’d use it on Sebastian? It would burn them apart without killing them?<br />Well, that’s the idea. I mean, there is some chance it would destroy Sebastian. It would<br />depend on if there’s any good left in him. “If he’s more Hell’s than Heaven’s” I think is<br />what the Angel said—<br />The Angel? Her alarm was palpable. Simon, what have you—<br />Her voice broke off, and Simon was suddenly filled with a clamor of emotion—surprise,<br />anger, terror. Pain. He cried out, sitting bolt upright.<br />Clary?<br />But there was only silence, ringing in his head.<br />Clary! he cried out, and then, aloud, he said: “Damn. She’s gone again.”<br />“What happened?” Isabelle demanded. “Is she all right? What’s going on?”<br />“I think we have a lot less time than we thought,” Simon said in a voice much calmer<br />than he felt. “Magnus, pull the truck over. We have to talk.”<br />“So,” Sebastian said, filling the doorway as he looked down at Clary. “Would it be déjà vu<br />if I asked you what you were doing in my room, little sister?”<br />Clary swallowed against her suddenly dry throat. The light in the hallway was bright<br />behind Sebastian, turning him into a silhouette. She couldn’t see the expression on his<br />face. “Looking for you?” she hazarded.<br />“You’re sitting on my bed,” he said. “Did you think I was under it?”<br />“I…”<br />He walked into the room—sauntered, really, as if he knew something she didn’t.<br />Something no one else knew. “So why were you looking for me? And why haven’t you<br />changed for the ceremony?”<br />“The dress,” she said. “It—doesn’t fit.”<br />“Of course it fits,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her. He turned to face her,<br />his back to the headboard. “Everything else in that room fits you. This should fit you too.”<br />“It’s silk and chiffon. It doesn’t stretch.”<br />“You’re a skinny little thing. It shouldn’t have to.” He took her right wrist, and she<br />curled her fingers in, desperately trying to hide the ring. “Look, my fingers go right around<br />your wrist.”<br />His skin felt hot against hers, sending sharp prickles through her nerves. She<br />remembered the way, in Idris, his touch had burned her like acid. “The Seventh Sacred<br />Site,” she said, not looking at him. “Is that where Jace went?”<br />“Yes. I sent him ahead. He’s readying things for our arrival. We’ll meet him there.”<br />Her heart dived inside her chest. “He’s not coming back?”<br />“Not before the ceremony.” She caught the curling edge of Sebastian’s smile. “Which is<br />good, because he’d be so disappointed when I told him about this.” He slid his hand<br />swiftly over hers, uncurling her fingers. The gold ring blazed there, like a signal fire. “Did<br />you think I wouldn’t recognize faerie work? Do you think the Queen is such a fool that she<br />would send you off to retrieve these for her without knowing you would keep them for<br />yourself? She wanted you to bring this here, where I would find it.” He jerked the ring off<br />her finger with a smirk.<br />“You’ve been in contact with the Queen?” Clary demanded. “How?”<br />“With this ring,” Sebastian purred, and Clary remembered the Queen saying in her high<br />sweet voice, Jonathan Morgenstern could be a powerful ally. The Fair Folk are an old<br />people; we do not make hasty decisions but wait to see in what direction the wind blows<br />first. “Do you really think she’d let you get your hands on something that would let you<br />communicate with your little friends without her being able to listen in? Since I took it<br />from you, I’ve spoken to her, she’s spoken to me—you were a fool to trust her, little<br />sister. She likes to be on the winning side of things, the Seelie Queen. And that side will<br />be ours, Clary. Ours.” His voice was low and soft. “Forget them, your Shadowhunter<br />friends. Your place is with us. With me. Your blood cries out for power, like mine does.<br />Whatever your mother may have done to twist your conscience, you know who you are.”<br />His hand caught at her wrist again, pulling her toward him. “Jocelyn made all the wrong<br />decisions. She sided with the Clave against her family. This is your chance to rectify her<br />mistake.”<br />She tried to pull her arm back. “Let me go, Sebastian. I mean it.”<br />His hand slid up from her wrist, encircling her upper arm with his fingers. “You’re such a<br />little thing. Who’d think you were such a spitfire? Especially in bed.”<br />She leaped to her feet, jerking away from him. “What did you just say?”<br />He rose as well, his lips curving up at the corners. He was so much taller than she was,<br />almost exactly as much taller as Jace was. He leaned in close to her when he spoke, and<br />his voice was low and rough. “Everything that marks Jace, marks me,” he said. “Down to<br />your fingernails.” He was grinning. “Eight parallel scratches on my back, little sister. Are<br />you saying you didn’t put them there?”<br />A soft explosion went off in her head, like a dull firework of rage. She looked at his<br />laughing face, and she thought of Jace, and of Simon, and the words they’d just<br />exchanged. If the Queen really could eavesdrop on her conversations, then she might<br />know about Glorious already. But Sebastian didn’t know. Couldn’t know.<br />She snatched the ring from his hand, and threw it to the ground. She heard him give a<br />shout, but she’d already brought her foot down on it, feeling it give way, the gold<br />smashing to powder.<br />He looked at her incredulously as she drew her foot back. “You—”<br />She drew back her right hand, the strongest one, and drove her fist into his stomach.<br />He was taller, broader, and stronger than she was, but she had the element of surprise.<br />He doubled over, choking, and she snatched the stele from his weapons belt. Then she<br />ran.<br />Magnus jerked the wheel to the side so fast that the tires screeched. Isabelle shrieked.<br />They bumped up onto the shoulder of the road, under the shadow of a copse of partly<br />leafless trees.<br />The next thing Simon knew, the doors were open and everyone was tumbling out onto<br />the blacktop. The sun was going down, and the headlights of the truck were on, lighting<br />them all with an eerie glow.<br />“All right, vampire boy,” said Magnus, shaking his head hard enough to shed glitter.<br />“What the hell is going on?”<br />Alec leaned against the truck as Simon explained, repeating the conversation with Clary<br />as accurately as he could before the whole thing flew out of his head.<br />“Did she say anything about getting her and Jace out of there?” Isabelle asked when he<br />was done, her face pale in the yellowish glow from the headlights.<br />“No,” said Simon. “And Iz—I don’t think Jace wants to get out. He wants to be where<br />he is.”<br />Isabelle crossed her arms and looked down at her boots, her black hair sweeping<br />across her face.<br />“What’s this Seventh Sacred Site business?” said Alec. “I know about the seven<br />wonders of the world, but seven sacred sites?”<br />“They’re more in the interest of warlocks than Nephilim,” said Magnus. “Each is a place<br />where ley lines converge, forming a matrix—a sort of net within which magical spells are<br />amplified. The seventh is a stone tomb in Ireland, at Poll na mBrón; the name means ‘the<br />cavern of sorrows.’ It’s in a very bleak, uninhabited area called the Burren. A good place<br />to raise a demon, if it’s a big one.” He tugged at a spike of hair. “This is bad. Really bad.”<br />“You think he could do it? Make—dark Shadowhunters?” Simon asked.<br />“Everything has an alliance, Simon. The alliance of the Nephilim is seraphic, but if it<br />were demonic, they’d still be as strong, as powerful as they are now. But they would be<br />dedicated to the eradication of mankind instead of its salvation.”<br />“We have to get there,” Isabelle said. “We have to stop them.”<br />“‘Him,’ you mean,” said Alec. “We have to stop him. Sebastian.”<br />“Jace is his ally now. You have to accept that, Alec,” Magnus said. A light misty drizzle<br />had begun to fall. The drops gleamed like gold in the headlights’ glow. “Ireland is five<br />hours ahead. They’re doing the ceremony at midnight. It’s five o’clock here. We have an<br />hour and a half—two hours, at most—to stop them.”<br />“Then, we shouldn’t be waiting. We should be going,” Isabelle said, a tinge of panic in<br />her voice. “If we’re going to stop him—”<br />“Iz, there are only four of us,” Alec said. “We don’t even know what kind of numbers<br />we’re up against—”<br />Simon glanced at Magnus, who was watching Alec and Isabelle argue with a peculiarly<br />detached expression. “Magnus,” Simon said. “Why didn’t we just Portal to the farm? You<br />Portaled half of Idris to Brocelind Plain.”<br />“I wanted to give you enough time to change your mind,” said Magnus, not taking his<br />eyes off his boyfriend.<br />“But we can Portal from here,” Simon said. “I mean, you could do that for us.”<br />“Yeah,” Magnus said. “But like Alec says, we don’t know what we’re up against in terms<br />of numbers. I’m a pretty powerful warlock, but Jonathan Morgenstern is no ordinary<br />Shadowhunter, and neither is Jace, for that matter. And if they succeed in raising Lilith—<br />she’ll be a lot weaker than she was, but she’s still Lilith.”<br />“But she’s dead,” said Isabelle. “Simon killed her.”<br />“Greater Demons don’t die,” said Magnus. “Simon… scattered her between worlds. It<br />will take a long time for her to re-form and she will be weak for years. Unless Sebastian<br />calls her up again.” He pushed a hand through his wet, spiked hair.<br />“We have the sword,” Isabelle said. “We can take out Sebastian. We have Magnus, and<br />Simon—”<br />“We don’t even know if the sword will work,” said Alec. “And it won’t do us much good<br />if we can’t get to Sebastian. And Simon isn’t even Mr. Indestructible anymore. He can be<br />killed just like the rest of us.”<br />They all looked at Simon. “We have to try,” he said. “Look—we don’t know how many<br />are going to be there, no. We have a little time. Not a lot, but enough—if we Portal—to<br />grab some reinforcements.”<br />“Reinforcements from where?” Isabelle demanded.<br />“I’ll go to Maia and Jordan back at the apartment,” said Simon, his mind quickly ticking<br />over possibilities. “See if Jordan can get any assistance from the Praetor Lupus. Magnus,<br />go to the downtown police station, see about enlisting whatever members of the pack are<br />around. Isabelle and Alec—”<br />“You’re splitting us up?” Isabelle demanded, her voice rising. “What about firemessages,<br />or—”<br />“No one’s going to trust a fire-message about something like this,” said Magnus. “And<br />besides, fire-messages are for Shadowhunters. Do you really want to communicate this<br />information to the Clave via fire-message instead of going to the Institute yourself?”<br />“Fine.” Isabelle stalked around to the side of the car. She yanked the door open, but<br />didn’t get inside: instead she reached in, and drew out Glorious. It shone in the dim light<br />like a bolt of dark lightning, the words carved on the blade flickering in the car light: Quis<br />ut Deus?<br />The rain was starting to paste Isabelle’s black hair to her neck. She looked formidable<br />as she walked back to rejoin the group. “Then we leave the car here. We split up, but we<br />meet back at the Institute in an hour. That’s when we leave, whoever we have with us.”<br />She met each of her companion’s eyes, one by one, daring them to challenge her.<br />“Simon, take this.”<br />She held out Glorious to him, hilt-forward.<br />“Me?” Simon was startled. “But I don’t—I haven’t really used a sword before.”<br />“You called it down,” Isabelle said, her dark eyes glossy in the rain. “The Angel gave it<br />to you, Simon, and you will be the one who carries it.”<br />Clary dashed down the hallway and hit the steps with a clatter, racing for the downstairs<br />and for the spot on the wall that Jace had told her was the only entrance and exit from<br />the apartment.<br />She had no illusions that she could escape. She needed only a few moments to do what<br />had to be done. She heard Sebastian’s boots loud on the glass staircase behind her, and<br />put on a burst of speed, almost slamming into the wall. She jammed the stele into it<br />point-first, drawing frantically: a pattern as simple as a cross, new to the world—<br />Sebastian’s fist closed on the back of her jacket, jerking her backward, the stele flying<br />out of her hand. She gasped as he swung her up off her feet and slammed her into the<br />wall, knocking the breath out of her. He glanced at the mark she had made on the wall,<br />and his lips curled into a sneer.<br />“The Opening rune?” he said. He leaned forward and hissed into her ear. “And you<br />didn’t even finish it. Not that it matters. Do you really think there’s a place on this earth<br />you could go where I couldn’t find you?”<br />Clary responded with an epithet that would have gotten her kicked out of class at St.<br />Xavier’s. Just as he started to laugh, she raised her hand and slapped him across the face<br />so hard, her fingers stung. In his surprise he loosened his grip on her, and she jerked<br />away from him and flipped herself over the table, making for the downstairs bedroom,<br />which at least had a lock on the door—<br />And he was in front of her, grabbing the lapels of her jacket and swinging her around.<br />Her feet went out from under her, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t pinned her to<br />the wall with his body, his arms to either side, making a cage around her.<br />His grin was diabolical. Gone was the stylish boy who’d strolled by the Seine with her<br />and drunk hot chocolate and talked about belonging. His eyes were all black, no pupil,<br />like tunnels. “What’s wrong, little sis? You look upset.”<br />She could barely catch her breath. “Cracked… my… nail polish slapping your… worthless<br />face. See?” She showed him her finger—just one of them.<br />“Cute.” He snorted. “You know how I knew you’d betray us? How I knew you wouldn’t<br />be able to help it? Because you’re too much like me.”<br />He pressed her back harder against the wall. She could feel his chest rise and fall<br />against hers. She was at eye level with the straight, sharp line of his collarbone. His body<br />felt like a prison around hers, pinning her in place. “I’m nothing like you. Let me go—”<br />“You’re everything like me,” he growled into her ear. “You infiltrated us. You faked<br />friendship, faked caring.”<br />“I never had to fake caring about Jace.”<br />She saw something flash in his eyes then, a dark jealousy, and she wasn’t even sure<br />who he was jealous of. He put his lips against her cheek, close enough that she felt them<br />move against her skin when he spoke. “You screwed us over,” he murmured. His hand<br />was around her left arm like a vise; slowly he began to move it down. “Probably literally<br />screwed Jace over—”<br />She couldn’t help it, she flinched. She felt him inhale sharply. “You did,” he said. “You<br />slept with him.” He sounded almost betrayed.<br />“It’s none of your business.”<br />He caught at her face, turning her to look at him, fingers digging into her chin. “You<br />can’t screw someone into being good. Nicely heartless move, though.” His lovely mouth<br />curved into a cold smile. “You know he doesn’t remember any of it, right? Did he show<br />you a good time, at least? Because I would have.”<br />She tasted bile in her throat. “You’re my brother.”<br />“Those words don’t mean anything where we’re concerned. We aren’t human. Their<br />rules don’t apply to us. Stupid laws about what DNA can be mixed with what. Hypocritical,<br />really, considering. We’re already experiments. The rulers of ancient Egypt used to marry<br />their siblings, you know. Cleopatra married her brother. Strengthens the bloodline.”<br />She looked at him with loathing. “I knew you were crazy,” she said. “But I didn’t realize<br />you were absolutely, spectactularly out of your goddamned mind.”<br />“Oh, I don’t think there’s anything crazy about it. Who do we belong with but each<br />other?”<br />“Jace,” she said. “I belong with Jace.”<br />He made a dismissive noise. “You can have Jace.”<br />“I thought you needed him.”<br />“I do. But not for what you need him for.” His hands were suddenly on her waist. “We<br />can share him. I don’t care what you do. As long as you know you belong to me.”<br />She raised her hands, meaning to shove him away. “I don’t belong to you. I belong to<br />me.”<br />The look in his eyes froze her in place. “I think you know better than that,” he said, and<br />brought his mouth down on hers, hard.<br />For a moment she was back in Idris, standing in front of the burned Fairchild manor,<br />and Sebastian was kissing her, and she felt as if she were falling into darkness, into a<br />tunnel that had no end. At the time she’d thought there was something wrong with her.<br />That she couldn’t kiss anyone but Jace. That she was broken.<br />Now she knew better. Sebastian’s mouth moved on hers, as hard and cold as a razorslice<br />in the dark, and she raised herself up on the tips of her toes, and bit down hard on<br />his lip.<br />He yelled and spun away from her, his hand to his mouth. She could taste his blood,<br />bitter copper; it dripped down his chin as he stared at her with incredulous eyes. “You—”<br />She whirled and kicked him, hard, in the stomach, hoping it was still sore from where<br />she’d punched him before. As he doubled up, she shot by him, running for the stairs. She<br />was halfway there when she felt him grab her by the back of her collar. He swung her<br />around as if he were swinging a baseball bat, and flung her at the wall. She hit it hard<br />and sank to her knees, the breath knocked out of her.<br />Sebastian started toward her, his hands flexing at his sides, his eyes shimmering black<br />like a shark’s. He looked terrifying; Clary knew she ought to be frightened, but a cold,<br />glassy detachment had come over her. Time seemed to have slowed. She remembered<br />the fight in the junk shop in Prague, how she had disappeared into her own world where<br />each movement was as precise as the movement of a watch. Sebastian reached down<br />toward her, and she pushed up, off the ground, sweeping her legs sideways, knocking his<br />feet out from under him.<br />He fell forward, and she rolled out of the way, bouncing to her feet. She didn’t bother<br />trying to run this time. Instead she grabbed the porcelain vase off the table and, as<br />Sebastian rose to his feet, swung it at his head. It shattered, spraying water and leaves,<br />and he staggered back, blood blooming against his white-silver hair.<br />He snarled and sprang at her. It was like being slammed by a wrecking ball. Clary flew<br />backward, smashing through the glass tabletop, and hit the ground in an explosion of<br />shards and agony. She screamed as Sebastian landed on top of her, driving her body<br />down into the shattered glass, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He brought his arm down<br />backhanded and cracked her across the face. Blood blinded her; she choked on the taste<br />of it in her mouth, and its salt stung her eyes. She jerked up her knee, catching him in the<br />stomach, but it was like kicking a wall. He grabbed her hands, forcing them down by her<br />sides.<br />“Clary, Clary, Clary,” he said. He was gasping. At least she’d winded him. Blood ran in a<br />slow trickle from a gash on the side of his head, staining his hair scarlet. “Not bad. You<br />weren’t much of a fighter back in Idris.”<br />“Get off me—”<br />He moved his face close to hers. His tongue darted out. She tried to jerk away but<br />couldn’t move fast enough as he licked the blood off the side of her face, and grinned.<br />The grin split his lip, and more blood ran in a trickle down his chin. “You asked me who I<br />belong to,” he whispered. “I belong to you. Your blood is my blood, your bones my bones.<br />The first time you saw me, I looked familiar, didn’t I? Just like you looked familiar to me.”<br />She gaped at him. “You’re out of your mind.”<br />“It’s in the Bible,” he said. “The Song of Solomon. ‘Thou hast ravished my heart, my<br />sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of<br />thy neck.’” His fingers brushed her throat, looping into the chain there, the chain that had<br />held the Morgenstern ring. She wondered if he would crush her windpipe. “‘I sleep, but<br />my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my<br />sister, my love.’” His blood dripped onto her face. She held herself still, her body<br />humming with the effort, as his hand slipped from her throat, along her side, to her waist.<br />His fingers slid inside the waistband of her jeans. His skin was hot, burning; she could feel<br />that he wanted her.<br />“You don’t love me,” she said. Her voice was thin; he was crushing the air from her<br />lungs. She remembered what her mother had said, that every emotion Sebastian showed<br />was a pretense. Her thoughts were clear as crystal; she silently thanked the battle<br />euphoria for doing what it had to do and keeping her focused while Sebastian sickened<br />her with his touch.<br />“And you don’t care that I’m your brother,” he said. “I know how you felt about Jace,<br />even when you thought he was your brother. You can’t lie to me.”<br />“Jace is better than you.”<br />“No one’s better than me.” He grinned, all white teeth and blood. “‘A garden enclosed<br />is my sister,’” he said. “‘A spring shut up, a fountain sealed.’ But not anymore, right? Jace<br />took care of that.” He fumbled at the button on her jeans, and she took advantage of his<br />distraction to seize up a good-size triangular piece of glass from the ground and slam the<br />jagged edge of it into his shoulder.<br />The glass slid along her fingers, slicing them open. He yelled, jerking back, but more in<br />surprise than pain; the gear protected him. She slashed the glass down harder, this time<br />into his thigh, and when he reared back, she drove her other elbow into his throat. He<br />went sideways, choking, and she rolled, pinning him under her as she yanked the bloody<br />glass free of his leg. She drove the shard down toward the pulsing vein in his neck—and<br />stopped.<br />He was laughing. He lay under her, and he was laughing, his laughter vibrating up<br />through her own body. His skin was spattered with blood—her blood, dripping down on<br />him, his own blood where she had cut him, his silver-white hair matted with it. He let his<br />arms fall to either side of him, outstretched like wings, a broken angel, fallen out of the<br />sky.<br />He said, “Kill me, little sister. Kill me, and you kill Jace, too.”<br />She brought the glass shard down.<br /><div><br /></div>Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-12235208314998205122013-02-20T06:32:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.141-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 18<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />“Clary?”<br />Simon sat on the back porch steps of the farmhouse, looking down the path that led<br />through the apple orchard and down to the lake. Isabelle and Magnus were on the path,<br />Magnus glancing toward the lake and then up at the low mountains ringing the area. He<br />was making notes in a small book with a pen whose end glowed a sparkling blue-green.<br />Alec stood a little distance away, looking up at the trees lining the ridge of hills that<br />separated the farmhouse from the road. He seemed to be standing as far from Magnus as<br />he could while remaining in earshot. It seemed to Simon—the first to admit that he was<br />not that observant about these things—that despite the joking around in the car, a<br />perceptible distance had come between Magnus and Alec recently, one he couldn’t quite<br />put a finger on, but he knew it was there.<br />Simon’s right hand was cradled in his left, his fingers circling the gold ring on his finger.<br />Clary, please.<br />He’d been trying to reach her every hour since he’d gotten the message from Maia<br />about Luke. He’d gotten nothing. Not a flicker of response.<br />Clary, I’m at the farmhouse. I’m remembering you here, with me.<br />It was an unseasonably warm day, and a faint wind rustled the last of the leaves in the<br />tree branches. After spending too long wondering what sort of clothes you were supposed<br />to wear to meet angels in—a suit seemed excessive, even if he did have one left over<br />from Jocelyn and Luke’s engagement party—he was in jeans and a T-shirt, his arms bare<br />in the sunlight. He had so many happy sunlit memories attached to this place, this house.<br />He and Clary had come up here with Jocelyn almost every summer for as long as he could<br />remember. They would swim in the lake. Simon would tan brown, and Clary’s fair skin<br />would burn over and over. She’d get a million more freckles on her shoulders and arms.<br />They’d play “apple baseball” in the orchard, which was messy and fun, and Scrabble and<br />poker in the farmhouse, which Luke always won.<br />Clary, I’m about to do something stupid and dangerous and maybe suicidal. Is it so bad<br />I want to talk to you one last time? I’m doing this to keep you safe, and I don’t even<br />know if you’re alive for me to help you. But if you were dead, I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel<br />it.<br />“All right. Let’s go,” Magnus said, appearing at the foot of the steps. He eyed the ring<br />on Simon’s hand, but made no comment.<br />Simon stood up and brushed off his jeans, then led the way down the wandering path<br />through the orchard. The lake sparkled up ahead like a cold blue coin. As they neared it,<br />Simon could see the old dock sticking out into the water, where once they had tied up<br />kayaks before a big piece of the dock had broken off and drifted away. He thought he<br />could almost hear the lazy hum of bees and feel the weight of summer on his shoulders.<br />As they reached the lake’s edge, he twisted around and looked up at the farmhouse,<br />white-painted clapboard with green shutters and an old covered sunporch with tired white<br />wicker furniture on it.<br />“You really liked it here, huh?” Isabelle said. Her black hair snapped like a banner in<br />the breeze off the lake.<br />“How can you tell?”<br />“Your expression,” she said. “Like you’re remembering something good.”<br />“It was good,” Simon said. He reached up to push his glasses up his nose, remembered<br />he no longer wore them, and lowered his hand. “I was lucky.”<br />She looked down at the lake. She was wearing small gold hoop earrings; one was<br />tangled in a bit of her hair, and Simon wanted to reach over and free it, to touch the side<br />of her face with his fingers. “And now you’re not?”<br />He shrugged. He was watching Magnus, who was holding what looked like a long,<br />flexible rod and drawing in the wet sand at the lake’s edge. He had the spell book open<br />and was chanting as he drew. Alec was watching him, with the expression of someone<br />watching a stranger.<br />“Are you scared?” Isabelle asked, moving slightly closer to Simon. He could feel the<br />warmth of her arm against his.<br />“I don’t know. So much of being scared is the physical feeling of it. Your heart speeding<br />up, sweating, your pulse racing. I don’t get any of that.”<br />“That’s too bad,” Isabelle murmured, looking at the water. “Guys getting all sweaty is<br />hot.”<br />He shot her a half smile; it was harder than he thought it would be. Maybe he was<br />scared. “That’s enough of your sass and back talk, missy.”<br />Isabelle’s lip quivered as if she were about to smile. Then she sighed. “You know what<br />it never even crossed my mind I wanted?” she said. “A guy who could make me laugh.”<br />Simon turned toward her, reaching for her hand, not caring for the moment that her<br />brother was watching. “Izzy…”<br />“All right,” Magnus called out. “I’m done. Simon, over here.”<br />They turned. Magnus was standing inside the circle, which was glowing with a faint<br />white light. It was really two circles, a slightly smaller one inside a larger one, and in the<br />space between the circles, dozens of symbols had been scrawled. They, too, glowed, a<br />steely blue-white like the reflection off the lake.<br />Simon heard Isabelle’s soft intake of breath, and he stepped away before he could look<br />at her. It would just make it all harder. He moved forward, over the border of the circle,<br />into its center, beside Magnus. Looking out from the center of the circle was like looking<br />through water. The rest of the world seemed wavering and indistinct.<br />“Here.” Magnus shoved the book into his hands. The paper was thin, covered in<br />scrawled runes, but Magnus had taped a printout of the words, spelled out phonetically,<br />over the incantation itself. “Just sound these out,” he muttered. “It should work.”<br />Holding the book against his chest, Simon slipped off the gold ring that connected him<br />to Clary, and handed it to Magnus. “If it doesn’t,” he said, wondering where his strange<br />calm was coming from, “someone should take this. It’s our only link to Clary, and what<br />she knows.”<br />Magnus nodded and slid the ring onto his finger. “Ready, Simon?”<br />“Hey,” said Simon. “You remembered my name.”<br />Magnus shot him an unreadable glance from his green-gold eyes, and stepped outside<br />the circle. Immediately he was blurry and indistinct too. Alec joined him on one side,<br />Isabelle on the other; Isabelle was hugging her elbows, and even through the wavering<br />air Simon could tell how unhappy she looked.<br />Simon cleared his throat. “I guess you guys had better go.”<br />But they didn’t move. They seemed to be waiting for him to say something else.<br />“Thanks for coming here with me,” he said finally, having racked his brain for<br />something meaningful to say; they seemed to be expecting it. He wasn’t the sort who<br />made big farewell speeches or bid people dramatic good-byes. He looked at Alec first.<br />“Um, Alec. I always liked you better than I liked Jace.” He turned to Magnus. “Magnus, I<br />wish I had the nerve to wear the kind of pants you do.”<br />And last, Izzy. He could see her watching him through the haze, her eyes as black as<br />obsidian.<br />“Isabelle,” Simon said. He looked at her. He saw the question in her eyes, but there<br />seemed nothing he could say in front of Alec and Magnus, nothing that would encompass<br />what he felt. He moved back, toward the center of the circle, bowing his head. “Goodbye,<br />I guess.”<br />He thought they spoke back to him, but the wavering haze between them blurred their<br />words. He watched as they turned, retreating up the path through the orchard, back<br />toward the house, until they had become dark specks. Until he could no longer see them<br />at all.<br />He couldn’t quite fathom not talking to Clary one last time before he died—he couldn’t<br />even remember the last words they’d exchanged. And yet if he closed his eyes, he could<br />hear her laughter drifting over the orchard; he could remember what it had been like,<br />before they had grown up and everything had changed. If he died here, perhaps it would<br />be appropriate. Some of his best memories were here, after all. If the Angel struck him<br />down with fire, his ashes could sift through the apple orchard and over the lake.<br />Something about the idea seemed peaceful.<br />He thought of Isabelle. Then of his family—his mother, his father, and Becky. Clary, he<br />thought lastly. Wherever you are, you’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend.<br />He raised the spell book and began to chant.<br />“No!” Clary stood up, dropping the wet towel. “Jace, you can’t. They’ll kill you.”<br />He reached for a fresh shirt and shrugged it on, not looking at her as he did up the<br />buttons. “They’ll try to separate me from Sebastian first,” he said, though he didn’t sound<br />as if he quite believed it. “If that doesn’t work, then they’ll kill me.”<br />“Not good enough.” She reached for him, but he turned away from her, jamming his<br />feet into boots. When he turned back, his expression was grim.<br />“I don’t have a choice, Clary. This is the right thing to do.”<br />“It’s insane. You’re safe here. You can’t throw away your life—”<br />“Saving myself is treason. It’s putting a weapon into the hands of the enemy.”<br />“Who cares about treason? Or the Law?” she demanded. “I care about you. We’ll figure<br />this out together—”<br />“We can’t figure this out.” Jace pocketed the stele on the nightstand, then caught up<br />the Mortal Cup. “Because I’m only going to be me for a little while longer. I love you,<br />Clary.” He tilted her face up and kissed her, lingeringly. “Do this for me,” he whispered.<br />“I absolutely will not,” she said. “I will not try to help you get yourself killed.”<br />But he was already striding toward the door. He drew her with him, and they stumbled<br />down the corridor, speaking in whispers.<br />“This is crazy,” Clary hissed. “Putting yourself in the path of danger—”<br />He blew out an exasperated breath. “As if you don’t.”<br />“Right, and it makes you furious,” she whispered as she raced after him down the<br />staircase. “Remember what you said to me in Alicante—”<br />They had reached the kitchen. He put the Cup down on the counter, reaching for his<br />stele. “I had no right to say that,” he told her. “Clary, this is what we are. We’re<br />Shadowhunters. This is what we do. There are risks we take that aren’t just the risks you<br />find in battle.”<br />Clary shook her head, clutching both his wrists. “I won’t let you.”<br />A look of pain crossed his face. “Clarissa—”<br />She drew a deep breath, barely able to believe what she was about to do. But in her<br />mind was the image of the morgue in the Silent City, of Shadowhunter bodies stretched<br />out on marble slabs, and she could not bear for Jace to be one of them. Everything she<br />had done—coming here, enduring everything she had endured, had been to save his life,<br />and not just for herself. She thought of Alec and Isabelle, who had helped her, and<br />Maryse, who loved him, and almost without knowing she was about to do it, she raised<br />her voice and called out:<br />“Jonathan!” she screamed. “Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!”<br />Jace’s eyes widened into circles. “Clary—” he began, but it was too late already. She<br />had let go of him and was backing away. Sebastian might already be coming; there was<br />no way to tell Jace that it wasn’t that she trusted Sebastian but that Sebastian was the<br />only weapon she had at her disposal that could possibly make him stay.<br />There was a flash of movement, and Sebastian was there. He hadn’t bothered with<br />running down the stairs, just flipped himself over the side and landed between them. His<br />hair was sleep-mussed; he wore a dark T-shirt and black pants, and Clary wondered<br />distractedly if he slept in his clothes. He glanced between Clary and Jace, his black eyes<br />taking in the situation. “Lovers’ spat?” he inquired. Something glinted in his hand. A knife?<br />Clary’s voice shook. “His rune’s damaged. Here.” She put her hand over her heart. “He’s<br />trying to go back, to give himself up to the Clave—”<br />Sebastian’s hand shot out and grabbed the Cup out of Jace’s hand. He slammed it down<br />on the kitchen counter. Jace, still white with shock, watched him; he didn’t move a<br />muscle as Sebastian stepped close and took Jace by the front of the shirt. The top<br />buttons on the shirt popped open, baring his collar, and Sebastian slashed the point of his<br />stele across it, gashing an iratze into the skin. Jace bit down on his lip, his eyes full of<br />hatred as Sebastian released him and took a step back, stele in hand.<br />“Honestly, Jace,” he said. “The idea that you thought you could get away with<br />something like this just knocks me out.”<br />Jace’s hands tightened into fists as the iratze, black as charcoal, began to sink into his<br />skin. His words were eked out, breathless: “Next time… you want to be knocked out… I’d<br />be happy to help you. Maybe with a brick.”<br />Sebastian made a tsk noise. “You’ll thank me later. Even you have to admit this death<br />wish of yours is a little extreme.”<br />Clary expected Jace to snap back at him again. But he didn’t. His gaze traveled slowly<br />across Sebastian’s face. For that moment there was only the two of them in the room,<br />and when Jace spoke, his words came cold and clear. “I won’t remember this later,” he<br />said. “But you will. That person who acts like your friend—” He took a step forward,<br />closing the space between himself and Sebastian. “That person who acts like they like<br />you. That person isn’t real. This is real. This is me. And I hate you. I will always hate you.<br />And there is no magic and no spell in this world or any other that will ever change that.”<br />For a moment the grin on Sebastian’s face wavered. But Jace didn’t. Instead, he tore<br />his gaze from Sebastian and looked at Clary. “I need you to know,” he said, “the truth—I<br />didn’t tell you all the truth.”<br />“The truth is dangerous,” said Sebastian, holding the stele before him like a knife. “Be<br />careful what you say.”<br />Jace winced. His chest was rising and falling rapidly; it was clear that the healing of the<br />rune on his chest was causing him physical pain. “The plan,” he said. “To raise Lilith, to<br />make a new Cup, to create a dark army—that wasn’t Sebastian’s plan. It was mine.”<br />Clary froze. “What?”<br />“Sebastian knew what he wanted,” said Jace. “But I figured out how he could do it. A<br />new Mortal Cup—I gave him that idea.” He jerked in pain; she could imagine what was<br />happening under the cloth of his shirt: the skin knitting together, healing, Lilith’s rune<br />whole and shining once again. “Or, should I say, he did. That thing that looks like me but<br />isn’t? He’ll burn down the world if Sebastian wants him to, and laugh while he’s doing it.<br />That’s what you’re saving, Clary. That. Don’t you understand? I’d rather be dead—”<br />His voice choked off as he doubled over. The muscles in his shoulders tightened as<br />ripples of what looked like pain went through him. Clary remembered holding him in the<br />Silent City as the Brothers rooted through his mind for answers—Now he looked up, his<br />expression bewildered.<br />His eyes shifted first not to her but to Sebastian. She felt her heart plummet, though<br />she knew this was only her own doing.<br />“What’s going on?” Jace said.<br />Sebastian grinned at him. “Welcome back.”<br />Jace blinked, looking momentarily confused—and then his gaze seemed to slide inward,<br />the way it did whenever Clary tried to bring up something that he couldn’t process—Max’s<br />murder, the war in Alicante, the pain he was causing his family.<br />“Is it time?” he said.<br />Sebastian made a show of looking at his watch. “Just about. Why don’t you go on<br />ahead and we’ll follow? You can start getting things ready.”<br />Jace glanced around. “The Cup—where is it?”<br />Sebastian took it off the kitchen counter. “Right here. Feeling a little absentminded?”<br />Jace’s mouth curled at the corner, and he grabbed the Cup back. Good-naturedly. There<br />was no sign of the boy who had stood in front of Sebastian moments ago and told him he<br />hated him. “All right. I’ll meet you there.” He turned to Clary, who was still frozen in<br />shock, and kissed her cheek. “And you.”<br />He drew back and winked at her. There was affection in his eyes, but it didn’t matter.<br />This was not her Jace, very clearly not her Jace, and she watched numbly as he crossed<br />the room. His stele flashed, and a door opened in the wall; she caught a glimpse of sky<br />and rocky plain, and then he stepped through it and was gone.<br />She dug her nails into her palms.<br />That thing that looks like me but isn’t? He’ll burn down the world if Sebastian wants<br />him to, and laugh while he’s doing it. That’s what you’re saving, Clary. That. Don’t you<br />understand? I’d rather be dead.<br />Tears burned at the back of her throat, and it was all she could do to hold them off as<br />her brother turned to her, his black eyes very bright. “You called for me,” he said.<br />“He wanted to give himself up to the Clave,” she whispered, not sure who she was<br />defending herself to. She had done what she’d had to, used the only weapon at hand,<br />even if it was one she despised. “They would have killed him.”<br />“You called for me,” he said again, and took a step toward her. He reached out and<br />lifted a long lock of her hair away from her face, tucking it back behind her ear. “He told<br />you, then? The plan? All of it?”<br />She fought back a shiver of revulsion. “Not all of it. I don’t know what’s happening<br />tonight. What did Jace mean ‘It’s time’?”<br />He leaned down and kissed her forehead; she felt the kiss burn, like a brand between<br />her eyes. “You’ll find out,” he said. “You’ve earned the right to be there, Clarissa. You can<br />watch it all from your place at my side, tonight, at the Seventh Sacred Site. Both of<br />Valentine’s children, together… at last.”<br />Simon kept his eyes on the paper, chanting out the words Magnus had written for him.<br />They had a rhythm to them that was like music, light and sharp and fine. He was<br />reminded of reading aloud his haftarah portion during his bar mitzvah, though he had<br />known what the words meant then, and now he didn’t.<br />As the chant went on, he felt a tightening around him, as if the air were becoming<br />denser and heavier. It pressed down on his chest and shoulders. The air was growing<br />warmer as well. If he were human, the heat might have been unbearable. As it was, he<br />could feel the burn of it on his skin, singeing his eyelashes, his shirt. He kept his eyes<br />fixed on the paper in front of him as a bead of blood ran from his hairline to drip onto the<br />paper.<br />And then he was done. The last of the words—“Raziel”—was spoken, and he lifted his<br />head. He could feel blood running down his face. The haze around him had cleared, and<br />in front of him he saw the water of the lake, blue and sparkling, as untroubled as glass.<br />And then it exploded.<br />The center of the lake turned gold, then black. Water rushed away from it, pouring<br />toward the edges of the lake, flying into the air until Simon was staring at a ring of water,<br />like a circle of unbroken waterfalls, all shimmering and pouring upward and downward,<br />the effect bizarre and strangely beautiful. Water droplets shivered down onto him, cooling<br />his burning skin. He tipped his head back, just as the sky went black—all the blue of it<br />gone, eaten up in a sudden shock of darkness and clamoring gray clouds. The water<br />splashed back down into the lake, and from its center, the greatest density of its silver,<br />rose a figure all of gold.<br />Simon’s mouth went dry. He had seen countless paintings of angels, believed in them,<br />had heard Magnus’s warning. And still he felt as if he had been struck through with a<br />spear as before him a pair of wings unfolded. They seemed to span the sky. They were<br />vast, white and gold and silver, the feathers of them set with burning golden eyes. The<br />eyes regarded him with scorn. Then the wings lifted, scattering clouds before them, and<br />folded back, and a man—or the shape of a man, towering and many stories tall, unfolded<br />itself and rose.<br />Simon’s teeth had started to chatter. He wasn’t sure why. But waves of power, of<br />something more than power—of the elemental force of the universe—seemed to roll off<br />the Angel as he rose to his full height. Simon’s first and rather bizarre thought was that it<br />looked as if someone had taken Jace and blown him up to the size of a billboard. Only he<br />didn’t quite look like Jace at all. He was gold all over, from his wings to his skin to his<br />eyes, which had no whites at all, only a sheen of gold like a membrane. His hair was gold<br />and looked cut from pieces of metal that curled like wrought ironwork. He was alien and<br />terrifying. Too much of anything could destroy you, Simon thought. Too much darkness<br />could kill, but too much light could blind.<br />Who dares to summon me? The Angel spoke in Simon’s mind, in a voice like great bells<br />sounding.<br />Tricky question, Simon thought. If he were Jace, he could say “one of the Nephilim,”<br />and if he were Magnus, he could say he was one of Lilith’s children and a High Warlock.<br />Clary and the Angel had already met, so he supposed they’d just chum it up. But he was<br />Simon, without any titles to his name or any great deeds in his past. “Simon Lewis,” he<br />said finally, setting the spell book down and straightening up. “Night’s Child, and… your<br />servant.”<br />My servant? Raziel’s voice was frozen with icy disapproval. You summon me like a dog<br />and dare to call yourself my servant? You shall be blasted from this world, that your fate<br />may serve as a warning to others not to do likewise. It is forbidden for my own Nephilim<br />to summon me. Why should it be different for you, Daylighter?<br />Simon supposed he should not be shocked that the Angel knew what he was, but it was<br />startling nevertheless, as startling as the Angel’s size. Somehow he had thought Raziel<br />would be more human. “I—”<br />Do you think because you carry the blood of one of my descendants, I must show you<br />mercy? If so, you have gambled and lost. The mercy of Heaven is for the deserving. Not<br />for those who break our Covenant Laws.<br />The Angel raised a hand, his finger pointed directly at Simon.<br />Simon braced himself. This time he did not try to say the words, only thought them.<br />Hear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is one—<br />What Mark is that? Raziel’s voice was confounded. On your forehead, child.<br />“It is the Mark,” Simon stammered. “The first Mark. The Mark of Cain.”<br />Raziel’s great arm lowered slowly. I would kill you, but the Mark prevents it. That Mark<br />was meant to be set between your brows by Heaven’s hand, yet I know it was not. How<br />can this be?<br />The Angel’s obvious bafflement emboldened Simon. “One of your children, the<br />Nephilim,” he said. “One especially gifted. She set it there, to protect me.” He took a step<br />closer to the edge of the circle. “Raziel, I came to ask a favor of you, in the name of those<br />Nephilim. They face a grave danger. One of their own has—has been turned to darkness,<br />and he threatens all the rest. They need your help.”<br />I do not intervene.<br />“But you did intervene,” Simon said. “When Jace was dead, you brought him back. Not<br />that we’re not all really happy about that, but if you hadn’t, none of this would be<br />happening. So in a way it rests on you to set it right.”<br />I may not be able to kill you, Raziel mused. But there is no reason I should give you<br />what you want.<br />“I haven’t even said what I want,” said Simon.<br />You want a weapon. Something that can sever Jonathan Morgenstern from Jonathan<br />Herondale. You would kill the one and preserve the other. Easiest of course to simply kill<br />both. Your Jonathan was dead, and perhaps death longs for him still, and he for it. Has<br />that ever crossed your mind?<br />“No,” said Simon. “I know we’re not much compared to you, but we don’t kill our<br />friends. We try to save them. If Heaven didn’t want it that way, we ought never have<br />been given the ability to love.” He shoved his hair back, baring the Mark more fully. “No,<br />you don’t need to help me. But if you don’t, there’s nothing stopping me from calling you<br />up again and again, now that I know you can’t kill me. Think of it as me leaning against<br />your Heavenly doorbell… forever.”<br />Raziel, incredibly, seemed to chuckle at that. You are stubborn, he said. A veritable<br />warrior of your people, like him whose name you bear, Simon Maccabeus. And as he gave<br />everything for his brother Jonathan, so shall you give everything for your Jonathan. Or are<br />you not willing?<br />“It’s not just for him,” said Simon, a little dazed. “But, yes, whatever you want. I will<br />give it to you.”<br />If I give you what you want, will you also vow never to bother me again?<br />“I don’t think,” said Simon, “that that will be a problem.”<br />Very well, said the Angel. I will tell you what I desire. I desire that blasphemous Mark<br />on your forehead. I would take the Mark of Cain from you, for it was never your place to<br />carry it.<br />“I—but if you take the Mark, then you can kill me,” Simon said. “Isn’t it the only thing<br />standing between me and your Heavenly wrath?”<br />The Angel paused to consider for a moment. I shall swear not to harm you. Whether<br />you bear the Mark or not.<br />Simon hesitated. The Angel’s expression turned thunderous. The vow of an Angel of<br />Heaven is the most sacred there is. Do you dare to distrust me, Downworlder?<br />“I…” Simon paused for an excruciating moment. His eyes were filled with the memory<br />of Clary standing on her tiptoes as she pressed the stele to his forehead; the first time he<br />had seen the Mark work, when he had felt like the conductor for a lightning bolt, sheer<br />energy passing through him with deadly force. It was a curse, one that had terrified him<br />and made him an object of desire and fear. He had hated it. And yet now, faced with<br />giving it up, the thing that made him special…<br />He swallowed hard. “Fine. Yes. I agree.”<br />The Angel smiled, and his smile was terrible, like looking directly into the sun. Then I<br />swear not to harm you, Simon Maccabeus.<br />“Lewis,” Simon said. “My last name is Lewis.”<br />But you are of the blood and faith of the Maccabees. Some say the Maccabees were<br />Marked by the hand of God. In either case you are a warrior of Heaven, Daylighter,<br />whether you like it or not.<br />The Angel moved. Simon’s eyes watered, for Raziel seemed to draw the sky with him<br />like a cloth, in swirls of black and silver and cloud-white. The air around him shuddered.<br />Something flashed overhead like the glint of light off metal, and an object struck the sand<br />and rocks beside Simon with a metallic clatter.<br />It was a sword—nothing special to look at either, a beaten-up-looking old iron sword<br />with a blackened hilt. The edges were ragged, as if acid had eaten at them, though the<br />tip was sharp. It looked like something that an archeological dig might have turned up,<br />that hadn’t been properly cleaned yet.<br />The Angel spoke. Once when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man<br />standing before him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went to him and said, “Are<br />you one of us, or one of our adversaries?” He replied, “Neither, but as commander of the<br />army of the Lord, I have now come.”<br />Simon glanced down at the unprepossesing object at his feet. “And that’s this sword?”<br />It is the sword of the Archangel Michael, commander of the armies of Heaven. It<br />possesses the power of Heaven’s fire. Strike your enemy with this, and it will burn the evil<br />out of him. If he is more evil than good, more Hell’s than Heaven’s, it will also burn the<br />life from him. It will most certainly sever his bond with your friend—and it can harm only<br />one of them at a time.<br />Simon bent down and picked the sword up. It sent a shock through his hand, up his<br />arm, into his motionless heart. Instinctively he raised it, and the clouds above seemed to<br />part for a moment, a ray of light arcing down to strike the dull metal of the sword and<br />make it sing.<br />The Angel looked down upon him with cold eyes. The name of the sword cannot be<br />spoken by your meager human tongue. You may call it Glorious.<br />“I… ,” Simon began. “Thank you.”<br />Do not thank me. I would have killed you, Daylighter, but your Mark, and now my vow,<br />prevent it. The Mark of Cain was meant to be placed upon you by God, and it was not. It<br />shall be wiped from your brow, its protection removed. And if you call upon me again, I<br />will not help you.<br />Instantly the beam of light shining down from the clouds intensified, striking the sword<br />like a whip of fire, surrounding Simon in a cage of brilliant light and heat. The sword<br />burned; he cried out and fell to the ground, pain lancing through his head. It felt as if<br />someone were jabbing a red hot needle between his eyes. He covered his face, burying<br />his head in his arms, letting the pain wash over him. It was the worst agony he had felt<br />since the night he had died.<br />It faded slowly, ebbing like the tide. He rolled onto his back, staring up, his head still<br />aching. The black clouds were beginning to roll back, showing a widening strip of blue;<br />the Angel was gone, the lake surging under the growing light as if the water were boiling.<br />Simon began to sit up slowly, his eyes squinted painfully against the sun. He could see<br />someone racing down the path from the farmhouse to the lake. Someone with long black<br />hair, and a purple jacket that flew out behind her like wings. She hit the end of the path<br />and leaped onto the lakeside, her boots kicking up puffs of sand behind her. She reached<br />him and threw herself down, wrapping her arms around him. “Simon,” she whispered.<br />He could feel the strong, steady beat of Isabelle’s heart.<br />“I thought you were dead,” she went on. “I saw you fall down, and—I thought you were<br />dead.”<br />Simon let her hold him, propping himself up on his hands. He realized he was listing<br />like a ship with a hole in the side, and tried not to move. He was afraid that if he did, he<br />would fall over. “I am dead.”<br />“I know,” Izzy snapped. “I mean more dead than usual.”<br />“Iz.” He raised his face to hers. She was kneeling over him, her legs around his, her<br />arms around his neck. It looked uncomfortable. He let himself fall back into the sand,<br />taking her with him. He thumped down onto his back in the cold sand with her on top of<br />him and stared up into her black eyes. They seemed to take up the whole sky.<br />She touched his forehead in wonder. “Your Mark’s gone.”<br />“Raziel took it away. In exchange for the sword.” He gestured toward the blade. Up at<br />the farmhouse, he could see two dark specks standing in front of the sunporch, watching<br />them. Alec and Magnus. “It’s the Archangel Michael’s sword. It’s called Glorious.”<br />“Simon…” She kissed his cheek. “You did it. You got the Angel. You got the sword.”<br />Magnus and Alec had started down the path to the lake. Simon closed his eyes,<br />exhausted. Isabelle leaned over him, her hair brushing the sides of his face. “Don’t try to<br />talk.” She smelled like tears. “You’re not cursed anymore,” she whispered. “You’re not<br />cursed.”<br />Simon linked his fingers with hers. He felt as if he were floating on a dark river, the<br />shadows closing in around him. Only her hand anchored him to earth. “I know.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-34060034430605814262013-02-20T06:30:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.149-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 17<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />As I strolled down along the quay<br />All in the lateness of the day<br />I heard a lovely maiden say:<br />“Alack, for I can get no play.”<br />A minstrel boy heard what she said<br />And straight he rushed to her aid…<br />“Do we have to keep listening to this wail-ey music?” Isabelle demanded, her booted foot<br />tapping against the dashboard of Jordan’s truck.<br />“I happen to like this wail-ey music, my girl, and since I’m driving, I get to choose,”<br />Magnus said loftily. He was indeed driving. Simon had been surprised that he knew how,<br />though he wasn’t sure why. Magnus had been alive for ages. Surely he had found time to<br />squeeze in a few weeks of driver’s ed. Although Simon couldn’t help wondering what birth<br />date was on his license.<br />Isabelle rolled her eyes, probably because there wasn’t enough room to do much else<br />in the cab of the truck, with all four of them crammed together on the bench seat. Simon<br />honestly hadn’t expected her to come. He hadn’t expected anyone to come to the farm<br />with him but Magnus, though Alec had insisted on coming as well (much to Magnus’s<br />annoyance, as he considered the whole enterprise “too dangerous”), and then, just as<br />Magnus had revved up the engine on the truck, Isabelle had come banging down the<br />stairs of his apartment building and thrown herself through the front door, panting and<br />out of breath. “I’m coming too,” she’d announced.<br />And that was that. No one could budge or dissuade her. She wouldn’t look at Simon as<br />she insisted, or explain why she wanted to come, but she did, and here she was. She was<br />wearing jeans and a purple suede jacket she must have stolen out of Magnus’s closet.<br />Her weapons belt was slung around her slim hips. She was mashed up against Simon,<br />whose other side was crushed against the car door. A strand of her hair was flying free<br />and tickling his face.<br />“What is this, anyway?” Alec said, frowning at the CD player, which was playing music,<br />although without a CD in it. Magnus had simply tapped the sound system with a blueflashing<br />finger, and it had started playing. “Some faerie band?”<br />Magnus didn’t answer, but the music swelled louder.<br />To mirror went she straightaway<br />And did her ebon hair array<br />And for her gown she much did pay.<br />Then down she walked along the street,<br />A handsome lad she chanced to meet,<br />And sore by dawn were her dainty feet,<br />But all the boys were gay.<br />Isabelle snorted. “All the boys are gay. In this truck, anyway. Well, not you, Simon.”<br />“You noticed,” said Simon.<br />“I think of myself as a freewheeling bisexual,” added Magnus.<br />“Please never say those words in front of my parents,” said Alec. “Especially my father.”<br />“I thought your parents were okay with you, you know, coming out,” Simon said,<br />leaning around Isabelle to look at Alec, who was—as he often was—scowling, and<br />pushing his floppy dark hair out of his eyes. Aside from the occasional exchange, Simon<br />had never talked to Alec much. He wasn’t an easy person to get to know. But, Simon<br />admitted to himself, his own recent estrangement from his mother made him more<br />curious about Alec’s answer than he would have been otherwise.<br />“My mother seems to have accepted it,” Alec said. “But my father—no, not really. Once<br />he asked me what I thought had turned me gay.”<br />Simon felt Isabelle tense next to him. “Turned you gay?” She sounded incredulous.<br />“Alec, you didn’t tell me that.”<br />“I hope you told him you were bitten by a gay spider,” said Simon.<br />Magnus snorted; Isabelle looked confused. “I’ve read Magnus’s stash of comics,” said<br />Alec, “so I actually know what you’re talking about.” A small smile played around his<br />mouth. “So would that give me the proportional gayness of a spider?”<br />“Only if it was a really gay spider,” said Magnus, and he yelled as Alec punched him in<br />the arm. “Ow, okay, never mind.”<br />“Well, whatever,” said Isabelle, obviously annoyed not to get the joke. “It’s not like<br />Dad’s ever coming back from Idris, anyway.”<br />Alec sighed. “Sorry to wreck your vision of our happy family. I know you want to think<br />Dad’s fine with me being gay, but he’s not.”<br />“But if you don’t tell me when people say things like that to you, or do things to hurt<br />you, then how can I help you?” Simon could feel Isabelle’s agitation vibrating through her<br />body. “How can I—”<br />“Iz,” Alec said tiredly. “It’s not like it’s one big bad thing. It’s a lot of little invisible<br />things. When Magnus and I were traveling, and I’d call from the road, Dad never asked<br />how he was. When I get up to talk in Clave meetings, no one listens, and I don’t know if<br />that’s because I’m young or if it’s because of something else. I saw Mom talking to a<br />friend about her grandchildren and the second I walked into the room they shut up. Irina<br />Cartwright told me it was a pity no one would ever inherit my blue eyes now.” He<br />shrugged and looked toward Magnus, who took a hand off the wheel for a moment to<br />place it on Alec’s. “It’s not like a stab wound you can protect me from. It’s a million little<br />paper cuts every day.”<br />“Alec,” Isabelle began, but before she could say anything more, the sign for the turnoff<br />loomed up ahead: a wooden placard in the shape of an arrow with the words THREE ARROWS<br />FARM painted on it in block lettering. Simon remembered Luke kneeling on the farmhouse<br />floor, painstakingly spelling out the words in black paint, while Clary added the—now<br />weather-faded and almost invisible—pattern of flowers along the bottom.<br />“Turn left,” he said, flinging his arm out and nearly hitting Alec. “Magnus, we’re here.”<br />It had taken several chapters of Dickens before Clary had finally succumbed to exhaustion<br />and fallen asleep against Jace’s shoulder. Half in dream and half in reality, she recalled<br />him carrying her downstairs and laying her down in the bedroom she’d woken up in her<br />first day in the apartment. He had drawn the curtains and closed the door after him as he<br />left, shutting the room into darkness, and she had fallen asleep to the sound of his voice<br />in the hallway, calling for Sebastian.<br />She dreamed of the frozen lake again, and of Simon crying out for her, and of a city like<br />Alicante, but the demon towers were made of human bones and the canals ran with<br />blood. She woke twisted in her sheets, her hair a mass of tangles and the light outside<br />the window dimmed to a twilight darkness. At first she thought that the voices outside<br />her door were part of the dream, but as they grew louder, she raised her head to listen,<br />still groggy and half-tangled in the webbing of sleep.<br />“Hey, little brother.” It was Sebastian’s voice, floating under her door from the living<br />room. “Is it done?”<br />There was a long silence. Then Jace’s voice, oddly flat and colorless. “It’s done.”<br />Sebastian’s breath drew in sharply. “And the old lady—she did as we asked? Made the<br />Cup?”<br />“Yes.”<br />“Show it to me.”<br />A rustle. Silence. Jace said, “Look, take it if you want it.”<br />“No.” There was a curious thoughtfulness in Sebastian’s tone. “You hold on to it for the<br />moment. You did the work of getting it back, after all. Didn’t you?”<br />“But it was your plan.” There was something in Jace’s voice, something that made Clary<br />lean forward and press her ear to the wall, suddenly desperate to hear more. “And I<br />executed it, just as you wanted. Now, if you don’t mind—”<br />“I do mind.” There was a rustle. Clary imagined Sebastian standing up, looking down at<br />Jace from the inch or so that divided them in height. “There’s something wrong. I can tell.<br />I can read you, you know.”<br />“I’m tired. And there was a lot of blood. Look, I just need to clean myself off, and to<br />sleep. And…” Jace’s voice died.<br />“And to see my sister.”<br />“I’d like to see her, yes.”<br />“She’s asleep. Has been for hours.”<br />“Do I need to ask your permission?” There was a razored edge to Jace’s voice,<br />something that reminded Clary of the way he had once spoken to Valentine. Something<br />she had not heard in the way he spoke to Sebastian in a long time.<br />“No.” Sebastian sounded surprised, almost caught off guard. “I suppose if you want to<br />barge in there and gaze wistfully at her sleeping face, go right ahead. I’ll never<br />understand why—”<br />“No,” Jace said. “You never will.”<br />There was silence. Clary could so clearly picture Sebastian staring after Jace, a quizzical<br />look on his face, that it took her a moment before she realized that Jace must be coming<br />to her room. She had only time to throw herself flat on the bed and shut her eyes before<br />the door opened, letting in a slice of yellow-white light that momentarily blinded her. She<br />made what she hoped was a realistic waking-up noise and rolled over, her hand over her<br />face. “What… ?”<br />The door shut. The room was in darkness again. She could see Jace only as a shape<br />that moved slowly toward her bed, until he was standing over her, and she couldn’t help<br />remembering another night when he had come to her room while she slept. Jace standing<br />by the head of her bed, still wearing his white mourning clothes, and there was nothing<br />light or sarcastic or distant in the way he was looking down at her. “I’ve been wandering<br />around all night—I couldn’t sleep—and I kept finding myself walking here. To you.”<br />He was only an outline now, an outline with bright hair that shone in the faint light that<br />filtered from beneath the door. “Clary,” he whispered. There was a thump, and she<br />realized he had fallen to his knees by the side of her bed. She didn’t move, but her body<br />tightened. His voice was a whisper. “Clary, it’s me. It’s me.”<br />Her eyelids fluttered open, wide, and their gazes met. She was staring at Jace.<br />Kneeling beside her bed, his eyes were level with hers. He wore a long dark woolen coat,<br />buttoned all the way to the throat, where she could see black Marks—Soundless, Agility,<br />Accuracy—like a sort of necklace against his skin. His eyes were very gold and very wide,<br />and as if she could see through them, she saw Jace—her Jace. The Jace who had lifted<br />her in his arms when she was dying of Ravener poison; the Jace who had watched her<br />hold Simon against the rising daylight over the East River; the Jace who had told her<br />about a little boy and the falcon his father had killed. The Jace she loved.<br />Her heart seemed to stop altogether. She couldn’t even gasp.<br />His eyes were full of urgency and pain. “Please,” he murmured. “Please believe me.”<br />She believed him. They carried the same blood, loved the same way; this was her Jace,<br />as much as her hands were her own hands, her heart her own heart. But—“How?”<br />“Clary, shh—”<br />She began to struggle into a sitting position, but he reached out and pushed her back<br />against the bed by her shoulders. “We can’t talk now. I have to go.”<br />She grabbed for his sleeve, felt him wince. “Don’t leave me.”<br />He dropped his head for just a moment; when he looked up again, his eyes were dry<br />but the expression in them silenced her. “Wait a few moments after I go,” he whispered.<br />“Then slip out and up to my room. Sebastian can’t know we’re together. Not tonight.” He<br />dragged himself to his feet, his eyes pleading. “Don’t let him hear you.”<br />She sat up. “Your stele. Leave me your stele.”<br />Doubt flickered in his eyes; she held his gaze steadily, then put her hand out. After a<br />moment he reached into his pocket and took out the dully glowing implement; he laid it<br />in her palm. For a moment their skin touched, and she shuddered—just a brush of the<br />hand from this Jace was almost as powerful as all the kissing and tearing at each other<br />they had done in the club the other night. She knew he felt it too, for he jerked his hand<br />away and began to back toward the door. She could hear his breath, ragged and swift. He<br />fumbled behind himself for the knob and let himself out, his eyes on her face until the<br />very last moment, when the door closed between them with a decided click.<br />Clary sat in the darkness, stunned. Her blood felt as if it had thickened in her veins and<br />her heart was having to work double time to keep beating. Jace. My Jace.<br />Her hand tightened on the stele. Something about it, its cold hardness, seemed to<br />focus and sharpen her thoughts. She looked down at herself. She was wearing a tank top<br />and pajama shorts; there were goose bumps on her arms, but not because it was cold.<br />She set the tip of the stele to her inner arm and drew it slowly down the skin, watching as<br />a Soundless rune spiraled across her pale, blue-veined skin.<br />She opened the door just a crack. Sebastian was gone, off to sleep most likely. There<br />was music playing faintly from the television set—something classical, the sort of piano<br />music Jace liked. She wondered if Sebastian appreciated music, or any sort of art. It<br />seemed such a human capacity.<br />Despite her concern about where he’d gone, her feet were carrying her toward the<br />passage that led to the kitchen—and then she was through the living room and dashing<br />up the glass steps, her feet making no noise as she reached the top and sprinted down<br />the hall to Jace’s room. Then she was jerking open the door and sliding inside, the door<br />clicking shut behind her.<br />The windows were open, and through them she could see rooftops and a curving slice<br />of moon, a perfect Paris night. Jace’s witchlight rune-stone sat on the nightstand beside<br />his bed. It glowed with a dull energy that cast further illumination through the room. It<br />was enough light for Clary to see Jace, standing between the two long windows. He had<br />shrugged off the long black coat, which lay in a crumpled heap at his feet. She realized<br />immediately why he had not taken it off when he’d come into the house, why he had kept<br />it buttoned all the way to his throat. Because beneath it he wore only a gray button-down<br />shirt, and jeans—and they were sticky and soaked with blood. Parts of the shirt were in<br />ribbons, as if they had been slashed with a very sharp blade. His left sleeve was rolled<br />up, and there was a white bandage wrapped around his forearm—he must have just done<br />it—already darkening at the edges with blood. His feet were bare, his shoes kicked off,<br />and the floor where he stood was splattered with blood, like scarlet tears. She set the<br />stele down on his bedside table with a click.<br />“Jace,” she said softly.<br />It suddenly seemed insane that there was this much space between them, that she<br />was standing across the room from Jace, and that they weren’t touching. She started<br />toward him, but he held up a hand to ward her off.<br />“Don’t.” His voice cracked. Then his fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, undoing<br />them, one by one. He shrugged the bloodstained garment off his shoulders and let it fall<br />to the ground.<br />Clary stared. Lilith’s rune was still in place, over his heart, but instead of shimmering<br />red-silver it looked as if the hot tip of a poker had been dragged across the skin, charring<br />it. She put her hand up to her own chest involuntarily, her fingers splaying over her heart.<br />She could feel its beating, hard and fast. “Oh.”<br />“Yeah. Oh,” Jace said flatly. “This won’t last, Clary. Me being myself again, I mean.<br />Only as long as this hasn’t healed.”<br />“I—I wondered,” Clary stammered. “Before—while you were sleeping—I thought about<br />cutting the rune like I did when we fought Lilith. But I was afraid Sebastian would feel it.”<br />“He would have.” Jace’s golden eyes were as flat as his voice. “He didn’t feel this<br />because it was made with a pugio—a dagger seethed in angel blood. They’re incredibly<br />rare; I’ve never even seen one in real life before.” He ran his fingers through his hair.<br />“The blade turned to hot ash after it touched me, but it did the damage it needed to do.”<br />“You were in a fight. Was it a demon? Why didn’t Sebastian go with—”<br />“Clary.” Jace’s voice was barely a whisper. “This—it’ll take longer than an ordinary cut<br />to heal… but not forever. And then I’ll be him again.”<br />“How much time? Before you go back to the way you were?”<br />“I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I wanted—I needed to be with you, like this, like<br />myself, for as long as I could.” He held out a hand to her stiffly, as if unsure of its<br />reception. “Do you think you could—”<br />She was already running across the room to him. She threw her arms around his neck.<br />He caught her and swung her up, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She breathed<br />him in like air. He smelled of blood and sweat and ashes and Marks.<br />“It’s you,” she whispered. “It’s really you.”<br />He drew back to look at her. With his free hand he traced her cheekbone gently. She<br />had missed that, his gentleness. It was one of the things that had made her fall in love<br />with him in the first place—realizing that this scarred, sarcastic boy was gentle with the<br />things he loved.<br />“I missed you,” she said. “I missed you so much.”<br />He closed his eyes as if the words hurt. She put her hand to his cheek. He leaned his<br />head into her palm, his hair tickling her knuckles, and she realized his face was wet too.<br />The boy never cried again.<br />“It’s not your fault,” she said. She kissed his cheek with the same tenderness he had<br />showed her. She tasted salt—blood and tears. He still hadn’t spoken, but she could feel<br />the wild beat of his heart against her chest. His arms were tight around her, as if he<br />never meant to let go. She kissed his cheekbone, his jaw, and finally his mouth, a light<br />press of lips on lips.<br />There was none of the frenzy there had been in the nightclub. It was a kiss meant to<br />give solace, to say everything there was no time to say. He kissed her back, hesitant at<br />first, then with greater urgency, his hand stealing up into her hair, winding the tresses<br />between his fingers. Their kisses deepened slowly, softly, the intensity growing between<br />them as it always did, like a blaze that started with a single match and flared into<br />wildfire.<br />She knew how strong he was, but she still felt a shock as he carried her to the bed and<br />laid her down gently among the scattered pillows, sliding his body over hers, one smooth<br />gesture that reminded her what all those Marks on his body were for. Strength. Grace.<br />Lightness of touch. She breathed his breath as they kissed, each kiss drawn out now,<br />lingering, exploratory. Her hands drifted over him, his shoulders, the muscles of his arms,<br />his back. His bare skin felt like hot silk under her palms.<br />When his hands found the hem of her tank top, she stretched her arms out, arching her<br />back, wanting every barrier between them gone. The moment it was off, she pulled him<br />back against her, their kisses fiercer now, as if they were struggling to reach some hidden<br />place inside each other. She wouldn’t have thought they could get any closer, but<br />somehow as they kissed, they wound themselves into each other like intricate thread,<br />each kiss hungrier, deeper than the last.<br />Their hands moved quickly over each other, and then more slowly, uncovering and<br />unhurried. She dug her fingers into his shoulders when he kissed her throat, her<br />collarbones, the star-shaped mark on her shoulder. She grazed his scar too, with the<br />backs of her knuckles, and kissed the wounded Mark Lilith had made on his chest. She felt<br />him shudder, wanting her, and she knew she was on the very brink of where there was no<br />going back, and she didn’t care. She knew what it was like to lose him now. She knew the<br />black empty days that came after. And she knew that if she lost him again, she wanted<br />this to remember. To hold on to. That she had been as close to him once as you could be<br />to another person. She locked her ankles around the small of his back, and he groaned<br />against her mouth, a soft, low, helpless sound. His fingers dug into her hips.<br />“Clary.” He pulled away. He was shaking. “I can’t… If we don’t stop now, we won’t be<br />able to.”<br />“Don’t you want to?” She looked up at him in surprise. He was flushed, tousled, his fair<br />hair a darker gold where sweat had pasted it to his forehead and temples. She could feel<br />his heart stuttering inside his chest.<br />“Yes, it’s just I’ve never—”<br />“You haven’t?” She was surprised. “Done this before?”<br />He took a deep breath. “I have.” His eyes searched her face, as if he were looking for<br />judgment, disapprobation, even disgust. Clary looked back at him evenly. It was what she<br />had assumed, anyway. “But not when it mattered.” He touched her cheek with his<br />fingers, feather-light. “I don’t even know how…”<br />Clary laughed softly. “I think it’s just been established that you do.”<br />“That’s not what I meant.” He caught her hand and brought it to his face. “I want you,”<br />he said, “more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But I…” He swallowed.<br />“Name of the Angel. I’m going to kick myself for this later.”<br />“Don’t say you’re trying to protect me,” she said fiercely. “Because I—”<br />“It’s not that,” he said. “I’m not being self-sacrificing. I’m… jealous.”<br />“You’re—jealous? Of who?”<br />“Myself.” His face twisted. “I hate the thought of him being with you. Him. That other<br />me. The one Sebastian controls.”<br />She felt her face start to burn. “At the club… last night…”<br />He dropped his head to her shoulder. A little bewildered, she stroked his back, feeling<br />the scratches where her fingernails had torn his skin at the nightclub. The specific<br />memory made her blush even harder. So did the knowledge that he could have gotten rid<br />of the scratches with an iratze if he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t. “I remember everything<br />about last night,” he said. “And it makes me crazy, because it was me but it wasn’t. When<br />we’re together, I want it to be the real you. The real me.”<br />“Isn’t that what we are now?”<br />“Yes.” He raised his head, kissed her mouth. “But for how long? I could turn back into<br />him any minute. I couldn’t do that to you. To us.” His voice was bitter. “I don’t even know<br />how you can stand it, being around this thing that isn’t me—”<br />“Even if you go back to being that in five minutes,” she said, “it would have been worth<br />it, just to be with you like this again. Not to have it end on that rooftop. Because this is<br />you, and even that other you—there’s pieces of the real you in there. It’s like I’m looking<br />through a blurred window at you, but it’s not the real you. And at least I know now.”<br />“What do you mean?” His hands tightened on her shoulders. “What do you mean at<br />least you know?”<br />She took a deep breath. “Jace, when we were first together, like really together, you<br />were so happy for that first month. And everything we did together was funny and fun<br />and amazing. And then it was like it just started draining out of you, all that happiness.<br />You didn’t want to be with me or look at me—”<br />“I was afraid I was going to hurt you. I thought I was losing my mind.”<br />“You didn’t smile or laugh or joke. And I’m not blaming you. Lilith was creeping into<br />your mind, controlling you. Changing you. But you have to remember—I know how stupid<br />this sounds—I never had a boyfriend before. I thought maybe it was normal. That maybe<br />you were just getting tired of me.”<br />“I couldn’t—”<br />“I’m not asking for reassurance,” she said. “I’m telling you. When you’re—like you are,<br />controlled—you seem happy. I came here because I wanted to save you.” Her voice<br />dropped. “But I started to wonder what I was saving you from. How I could bring you<br />back to a life you seemed so unhappy with.”<br />“Unhappy?” He shook his head. “I was lucky. So, so lucky. And I couldn’t see it.” His<br />eyes met hers. “I love you,” he said. “And you make me happier than I ever thought I<br />could be. And now that I know what it’s like to be someone else—to lose myself—I want<br />my life back. My family. You. All of it.” His eyes darkened. “I want it back.”<br />His mouth came down on hers, with bruising pressure, their lips open, hot and hungry,<br />and his hands gripped her waist—and then the sheets on either side of her, almost<br />tearing them. He pulled back, panting. “We can’t—”<br />“Then quit kissing me!” she gasped. “In fact—” She ducked out from under his grip,<br />grabbing for her tank top. “I’ll be right back.”<br />She pushed past him and darted into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She<br />flicked on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked wild-eyed, her hair<br />tangled, her lips swollen from kisses. She blushed and pulled her top back on, splashing<br />cold water on her face, twisting her hair back into a knot. When she had convinced herself<br />she no longer looked like the ravished maiden from the cover of a romance novel, she<br />went for the hand towels—nothing romantic about that—grabbing one and wetting it<br />down, then rubbing it with soap.<br />She came back out into the bedroom. Jace was sitting on the edge of the bed, in jeans<br />and a clean, unbuttoned shirt, his tousled hair outlined by moonlight. He looked like a<br />statue of an angel. Only, angels weren’t usually streaked with blood.<br />She moved to stand in front of him. “All right,” she said. “Take off your shirt.”<br />Jace raised his eyebrows.<br />“I’m not going to attack you,” she said impatiently. “I can take the sight of your naked<br />chest without swooning.”<br />“Are you sure?” he asked, obediently sliding the shirt off his shoulders. “Because<br />viewing my naked chest has caused many women to seriously injure themselves<br />stampeding to get to me.”<br />“Yeah, well, I don’t see anyone here but me. And I just want to clean the blood off<br />you.” He leaned back obediently on his hands. Blood had soaked through the shirt he’d<br />been wearing and streaked his chest and the flat planes of his stomach, but as she ran<br />her fingers carefully over him, she could feel that most of his cuts were shallow. The<br />iratze he’d put on himself earlier was already causing them to fade.<br />He turned his face up to her, eyes shut, as she ran the damp washcloth over his skin,<br />blood pinking the white cotton. She scrubbed at the dried streaks on his neck, wrung out<br />the cloth, dunked it in the glass of water on the nightstand, and went to work on his<br />chest. He sat with his head tilted back, watching her as the cloth glided over the muscles<br />of his shoulders, the smooth line of arms, forearms, hard chest scarred with white lines,<br />the black of permanent Marks.<br />“Clary,” he said.<br />“Yes?”<br />The humor had gone from his voice. “I won’t remember this,” he said. “When I’m back<br />—like I was, under his control, I won’t remember being myself. I won’t remember being<br />with you, or talking to you like this. So just tell me—are they all right? My family? Do they<br />know—”<br />“What’s happened to you? A little. And no, they’re not all right.” His eyes closed. “I<br />could lie to you,” she said. “But you should know. They love you so much, and they want<br />you back.”<br />“Not like this,” he said.<br />She touched his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what happened? How you got<br />these cuts?”<br />He took a deep breath, and the scar on his chest stood out, livid and dark. “I killed<br />someone.”<br />She felt the shock of his words go through her body like the recoil of a gun. She<br />dropped the bloody towel, then bent down to retrieve it. When she looked up, he was<br />staring down at her. In the moonlight the lines of his face were fine and sharp and sad.<br />“Who?” she asked.<br />“You met her,” Jace went on, each word like a weight. “The woman you went to visit<br />with Sebastian. The Iron Sister. Magdalena.” He twisted away from her and reached back<br />to retrieve something tangled among the blankets of the bed. The muscles in his arms<br />and back moved under the skin as he took hold of it and turned back to Clary, the object<br />gleaming in his hand.<br />It was a clear, glassine chalice—an exact replica of the Mortal Cup, except that instead<br />of being gold, it was carved of silvery-white adamas.<br />“Sebastian sent me—sent him—to get this from her tonight,” Jace said. “And he also<br />gave me the order to kill her. She wasn’t expecting it. She wasn’t expecting any violence,<br />just payment and exchange. She thought we were on the same side. I let her hand me<br />the Cup, and then I took my dagger and I—” He inhaled sharply, as if the memory hurt. “I<br />stabbed her. I meant it to be through the heart, but she turned and I missed by inches.<br />She staggered back and grabbed for her worktable—there was powdered adamas on it—<br />she threw it at me. I think she meant to blind me. I turned my head away, and when I<br />looked back she had an aegis in her hand. I think I knew what it was. The light of it<br />seared my eyes. I cried out as she drove it toward my chest—I felt a searing pain in the<br />Mark, and then the blade shattered.” He looked down and gave a mirthless laugh. “The<br />funny thing is, if I’d been wearing gear, this wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t because I<br />didn’t think it was worth the bother. I didn’t think she could hurt me. But the aegis burned<br />the Mark—Lilith’s Mark—and suddenly I was back in myself, standing there over this dead<br />woman with a bloody dagger in my hand and the Cup in the other.”<br />“I don’t understand. Why did Sebastian tell you to kill her? She was going to give the<br />Cup to you. To Sebastian. She said—”<br />Jace expelled a ragged breath. “Do you remember what Sebastian said about that clock<br />in Old Town Square? In Prague?”<br />“That the king had the clock maker’s eyes put out after he made it, so he could never<br />make anything as beautiful again,” Clary said. “But I don’t see—”<br />“Sebastian wanted Magdalena dead so she could never make anything like this again,”<br />said Jace. “And so she could never tell.”<br />“Tell what?” She put her hand up, took hold of Jace’s chin, and drew his face down so<br />that he was looking at her. “Jace, what is Sebastian really planning on doing? The story<br />he told in the training room, about wanting to raise demons so he could destroy them—”<br />“Sebastian wants to raise demons all right.” Jace’s voice was grim. “One demon in<br />particular. Lilith.”<br />“But Lilith’s dead. Simon destroyed her.”<br />“Greater Demons don’t die. Not really. Greater Demons inhabit the spaces between<br />worlds, the great Void, the emptiness. What Simon did was shatter her power, send her<br />in shreds back to the nothingness she came from. But she’ll slowly reform there. Be<br />reborn. It would take centuries, but not if Sebastian helps her.”<br />A cold feeling was growing in the pit of Clary’s stomach. “Helps her how?”<br />“By summoning her back to this world. He wants to mix her blood and his in a cup and<br />create an army of dark Nephilim. He wants to be Jonathan Shadowhunter reincarnated,<br />but on the side of the demons, not the angels.”<br />“An army of dark Nephilim? The two of you are tough, but you’re not exactly an army.”<br />“There are about forty or fifty Nephilim who either were once loyal to Valentine, or hate<br />the current direction of the Clave and are open to hearing what Sebastian has to say.<br />He’s been in contact with them. When he raises Lilith, they’ll be there.” Jace took a deep<br />breath. “And after that? With the power of Lilith behind him? Who knows who else will<br />join his cause? He wants a war. He’s convinced he’ll win it, and I’m not sure he won’t. For<br />every dark Nephilim he makes, he will grow in power. Add that to the demons he’s<br />already made allegiances with, and I don’t know if the Clave is prepared to withstand<br />him.”<br />Clary dropped her hand. “Sebastian never changed. Your blood never changed him.<br />He’s exactly like he always was.” Her eyes flicked up to Jace’s. “But you. You lied to me,<br />too.”<br />“He lied to you.”<br />Her mind was whirling. “I know. I know that Jace isn’t you—”<br />“He thinks it’s for your good and you’ll be happier in the end, but he did lie to you. And<br />I would never do that.”<br />“The aegis,” Clary said. “If it can hurt you but Sebastian can’t feel it, could it kill him<br />but not hurt you?”<br />Jace shook his head. “I don’t think so. If I had an aegis, I might be willing to try, but—<br />no. Our life forces are tied together. An injury is one thing. If he were to die…” His voice<br />hardened. “You know the easiest way to end this. Put a dagger in my heart. I’m surprised<br />you didn’t do it while I was sleeping.”<br />“Could you? If it were me?” Her voice shook. “I believed there was a way to make this<br />right. I still believe it. Give me your stele, and I’ll make a Portal.”<br />“You can’t make a Portal from inside here,” said Jace. “It won’t work. The only way in<br />and out of this apartment is through the wall downstairs, by the kitchen. It’s the only<br />place you can move the apartment from, too.”<br />“Can you move us to the Silent City? If we go back, the Silent Brothers can figure out a<br />way to separate you from Sebastian. We’ll tell the Clave his plan so they’ll be prepared—”<br />“I could move us to one of the entrances,” Jace said. “And I will. I’ll go. We’ll go<br />together. But just so there won’t be any untruth between us, Clary, you have to know<br />that they’ll kill me. After I tell them what I know, they’ll kill me.”<br />“Kill you? No, they wouldn’t—”<br />“Clary.” His voice was gentle. “As a good Shadowhunter I ought to volunteer to die to<br />stop what Sebastian is going to do. As a good Shadowhunter, I would.”<br />“But none of this is your fault.” Her voice rose, and she forced it back down, not<br />wanting Sebastian, downstairs, to hear. “You can’t help what’s been done to you. You’re a<br />victim in this. It’s not you, Jace; it’s someone else, someone wearing your face. You<br />shouldn’t be punished—”<br />“It’s not a matter of punishment. It’s practicality. Kill me, Sebastian dies. It’s no<br />different from sacrificing myself in battle. It’s all well and good to say I didn’t choose this.<br />It has happened. And what I am now, myself, will be gone again soon enough. And,<br />Clary, I know it doesn’t make sense, but I remember it—I remember all of it. I remember<br />walking with you in Venice, and that night at the club, and sleeping in this bed with you,<br />and don’t you get it? I wanted this. This is all I ever wanted, to live with you like this, be<br />with you like this. What am I supposed to think, when the worst thing that has ever<br />happened to me gives me exactly what I want? Maybe Jace Lightwood can see all the<br />ways this is wrong and messed-up, but Jace Wayland, Valentine’s son… loves this life.”<br />His eyes were wide and gold as he looked at her, and she was reminded of Raziel, of his<br />gaze that seemed to hold all the wisdom and all the sadness in the world. “And that’s<br />why I have to go,” he said. “Before this wears off. Before I’m him again.”<br />“Go where?”<br />“To the Silent City. I have to turn myself in—and the Cup, too.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-75140724327754578212013-02-20T06:29:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.158-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 16<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />When Clary and Sebastian returned to the apartment, the living room was empty, but<br />there were dishes in the sink where there hadn’t been before.<br />“I thought you said Jace was asleep,” she said to Sebastian, a note of accusation in her<br />voice.<br />Sebastian shrugged. “He was when I said it.” There was light mockery in his voice but<br />no serious unkindness. They had walked back from Magdalena’s together mostly in<br />silence, but not a bad sort of silence. Clary had let her mind wander, only jerked back to<br />reality on occasion by the realization that it was Sebastian she was walking beside. “I’m<br />pretty sure I know where he is.”<br />“In his room?” Clary started for the stairs.<br />“No.” He moved in front of her. “Come on. I’ll show you.”<br />He headed up the stairs at a rapid pace and into the master bedroom, Clary on his<br />heels. As she watched in puzzlement, he tapped the side of the wardrobe. It slid away,<br />revealing a set of stairs behind it. Sebastian cast a smirk over his shoulder at her as she<br />came up behind him. “You’re kidding,” she said. “Secret stairs?”<br />“Don’t tell me that’s the strangest thing you’ve seen today.” He took the stairs two at a<br />time, and Clary, though bone-weary, followed him. The stairs curved around and opened<br />out into a wide room with a polished wooden floor and high walls. All manner of weapons<br />hung from the walls, just as they did in the training room in the Institute—kindjals and<br />chakhrams, maces and swords and daggers, crossbows and brass knuckles, throwing stars<br />and axes and samurai swords.<br />Training circles were neatly painted on the floor. In the center of them stood Jace, his<br />back to the door. He was shirtless and barefoot, in black warm-up pants, a knife in each<br />of his hands. An image flashed in her head: Sebastian’s bare back, scarred with<br />unmistakeable whip stripes. Jace’s was smooth, pale gold skin over muscle, marked only<br />with the typical scars of a Shadowhunter—and the scratches her own nails had made last<br />night. She felt herself flush, but her mind was still on the question: why would Valentine<br />have whipped one boy but not the other?<br />“Jace,” she said.<br />He turned. He was clean. The silvery fluid was gone, and his gold hair was almost<br />bronze-dark, pasted damply to his head. His skin glistened with sweat. The expression on<br />his face was guarded. “Where were you?”<br />Sebastian went to the wall and began to examine the weapons there, running his bare<br />hand along the blades. “I thought Clary might want to see Paris.”<br />“You could have left me a note,” said Jace. “It isn’t as if our situation is the safest,<br />Jonathan. I’d rather not have to worry about Clary—”<br />“I followed him,” Clary said.<br />Jace turned and looked at her, and for a moment she caught a glimpse, in his eyes, of<br />the boy in Idris who had shouted at her for spoiling all his careful plans to keep her safe.<br />But this Jace was different. His hands didn’t shake when he looked at her, and the pulse<br />in his throat stayed steady. “You did what?”<br />“I followed Sebastian,” she said. “I was awake and I wanted to see where he was<br />going.” She put her hands into her jeans pockets and looked at him defiantly. His eyes<br />took her in, from her wind-mussed hair to her boots, and she felt the blood rise up in her<br />face. Sweat shone along his collarbones, and the ridges of his stomach muscles. His<br />workout pants were folded over at the waist, showing the V of his hip bones. She<br />remembered what it had felt like to have his arms around her, to be pressed close<br />enough against him that she could feel every detail of his bones and muscles against her<br />body—<br />She felt a wave of embarrassment so acute, it was dizzying. What made it worse was<br />that Jace didn’t seem in the least bit awkward, or as if the previous night had affected<br />him as much as it had her. He seemed only… annoyed. Annoyed, and sweaty, and hot.<br />“Yeah, well,” he said, “the next time you decide to sneak out of our magically warded<br />apartment through a door that shouldn’t really exist, leave a note.”<br />She raised her eyebrows. “Are you being sarcastic?”<br />He threw one of his knives into the air and caught it. “Possibly.”<br />“I took Clary to see Magdalena,” Sebastian said. He had taken a throwing star down<br />from the wall and was examining it. “We brought the adamas.”<br />Jace had tossed the second knife into the air; he missed catching it this time, and it<br />stuck point-down into the floor. “You did?”<br />“I did,” Sebastian said. “And I told Clary the plan. I told her that we were planning to<br />lure Greater Demons here so we could destroy them.”<br />“But not how you planned to accomplish that,” Clary said. “You never told me that<br />part.”<br />“I thought it would be better to tell you with Jace here,” said Sebastian. He snapped his<br />wrist forward suddenly, and the throwing star flew toward Jace, who blocked it with a<br />swift flick of his knife. It clattered to the ground. Sebastian whistled. “Fast,” he<br />commented.<br />Clary whirled on her brother. “You could have hurt him—”<br />“Anything that injures him injures me,” said Sebastian. “I was showing you how much I<br />trust him. Now I want you to trust us.” His black eyes bored into her. “Adamas,” he said.<br />“The stuff I brought to the Iron Sister today. Do you know what’s made out of it?”<br />“Of course. Seraph blades. The demon towers of Alicante. Steles…”<br />“And the Mortal Cup.”<br />Clary shook her head. “The Mortal Cup is gold. I’ve seen it.”<br />“Adamas dipped in gold. The Mortal Sword, too, has a hilt of the stuff. They say it’s the<br />material the palaces of Heaven are built from. And it isn’t easy to get hold of. Only the<br />Iron Sisters can work the stuff, and only they’re supposed to have access to it.”<br />“So why did you give some to Magdalena?”<br />“So she could make a second Cup,” said Jace.<br />“A second Mortal Cup?” Clary looked from one of them to the other, incredulous. “But<br />you can’t just do that. Just make another Mortal Cup. If you could, the Clave wouldn’t<br />have panicked so much when the original Mortal Cup went missing. Valentine wouldn’t<br />have needed it so badly—”<br />“It’s a cup,” said Jace. “However crafted, it will always be a cup until the Angel<br />voluntarily pours his blood into it. That’s what makes it what it is.”<br />“And you think you can get Raziel to voluntarily pour his blood into a second cup for<br />you?” Clary couldn’t keep the razor edge of disbelief from her voice. “Good luck.”<br />“It’s a trick, Clary,” said Sebastian. “You know how everything has an alliance? Seraphic<br />or demonic? What the demons believe is that we want the demonic equivalent of Raziel.<br />A demon great in power who will mix his blood with ours and create a new race of<br />Shadowhunters. Ones not bound by the Law, or the Covenant, or the rules of the Clave.”<br />“You told them you want to make… backward Shadowhunters?”<br />“Something like that.” Sebastian laughed, raking fingers through his fair hair. “Jace, do<br />you want to help me explain?”<br />“Valentine was a zealot,” said Jace. “He was wrong about a lot of things. He was wrong<br />to consider killing Shadowhunters. He was wrong about Downworlders. But he wasn’t<br />wrong about the Clave or the Council. Every Inquisitor we’ve had has been corrupt. The<br />Laws handed down by the Angel are arbitrary and nonsensical, and their punishments are<br />worse. ‘The Law is hard, but it is the Law.’ How many times have you heard that? How<br />many times have we had to duck and avoid the Clave and its Laws even when we were<br />trying to save them? Who put me in prison?—the Inquisitor. Who put Simon in prison?<br />The Clave. Who would have let him burn?”<br />Clary’s heart had started to pound. Jace’s voice, so familiar, saying these words, made<br />her bones feel weak. He was right and also wrong. As Valentine had been. But she<br />wanted to believe him in a way she hadn’t wanted to believe Valentine.<br />“Fine,” she said. “I understand the Clave is corrupt. But I don’t see what that has to do<br />with making deals with demons.”<br />“Our mandate is to destroy demons,” said Sebastian. “But the Clave has been pouring<br />all its energy into other tasks. The wards have been weakening, and more and more<br />demons have been spilling into earth, but the Clave turns a blind eye. We have opened a<br />gate in the far north, on Wrangel Island, and we will lure demons through it with the<br />promise of this Cup. Only, when they pour their blood into it, they will be destroyed. I<br />have made deals like this with several Greater Demons. When Jace and I have killed<br />them, the Clave will see we are a power to be reckoned with. They will have to listen to<br />us.”<br />Clary stared. “Killing Greater Demons isn’t that easy.”<br />“I did it earlier today,” said Sebastian. “Which is incidentally why neither of us is going<br />to get in trouble for killing all those bodyguard demons. I killed their master.”<br />Clary looked from Jace to Sebastian and back again. Jace’s eyes were cool, interested;<br />Sebastian’s gaze was more intense. It was as if he were trying to see into her head.<br />“Well,” she said slowly. “That’s a lot to take in. And I don’t like the idea of you putting<br />yourselves in that kind of danger. But I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”<br />“I told you,” Jace said. “I told you she’d understand.”<br />“I never said she wouldn’t.” Sebastian didn’t take his eyes off Clary’s face.<br />She swallowed hard. “I didn’t sleep much last night,” she said. “I need to rest.”<br />“Too bad,” said Sebastian. “I was going to ask if you wanted to climb the Eiffel Tower.”<br />His eyes were dark, unreadable; she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Before she could<br />say anything in reply, Jace’s hand slid into hers.<br />“I’ll go with you,” he said. “I didn’t sleep that well myself.” He nodded at Sebastian.<br />“See you for dinner.”<br />Sebastian made no reply. They were nearly to the steps when Sebastian called out:<br />“Clary.”<br />She turned around, drawing her hand out of Jace’s. “What?”<br />“My scarf.” He held out his hand for it.<br />“Oh. Right.” Taking a few steps toward him, she tugged with nervous fingers at the<br />knotted cloth around her throat. After a moment of watching her, Sebastian made an<br />impatient noise and stalked across the room toward her, his long legs covering the space<br />between them quickly. She stiffened as he put his hand to her throat and deftly undid the<br />knot with a few motions, then unwrapped the scarf. She thought for a moment that he<br />lingered before unwrapping it fully, his fingers brushing her throat—<br />She remembered him kissing her on the hill by the burned remains of the Fairchild<br />manor, and how she had felt as if she were falling, into a dark and abandoned place, lost<br />and terrified. She backed up hastily, and the scarf fell away from her neck as she turned.<br />“Thanks for lending it to me,” she said, and darted back to follow Jace down the stairs,<br />not looking behind to see her brother watch her go, holding the scarf, a quizzical<br />expression on his face.<br />Simon stood among the dead leaves and looked up the path; once more the human<br />impulse to take a deep breath came on him. He was in Central Park, near the<br />Shakespeare Garden. The trees had lost the last of their autumn luster, the gold and<br />green and red turning to brown and black. Most of the branches were bare.<br />He touched the ring on his finger again. Clary?<br />Again there was no reply. His muscles felt as tense as strung wires. It had been too<br />long since he had been able to raise her using the ring. He told himself over and over that<br />she could be sleeping, but nothing could untie the terrible knot of tension in his stomach.<br />The ring was his only connection to her, and right now it felt like nothing more than a<br />hunk of dead metal.<br />He dropped his hands to his sides and moved forward, up the path, past the statues<br />and the benches inscribed with verses from Shakespeare’s plays. The path turned a<br />curving right, and suddenly he could see her, sitting up ahead on a bench, looking away<br />from him, her dark hair in a long braid down her back. She was very still, waiting. Waiting<br />for him.<br />Simon straightened his back and walked toward her, even though every step felt as if it<br />were weighted with lead.<br />She heard him as he approached and turned around, her pale face going even paler as<br />he sat down beside her. “Simon,” she said on an exhale of breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d<br />come.”<br />“Hi, Rebecca,” he said.<br />She held out her hand, and he took it, silently thanking the forethought that had made<br />him put on gloves that morning, so that if he touched her she wouldn’t feel the chill of his<br />skin. It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her last—maybe four months—but already<br />she seemed like the photograph of someone he’d known a long time ago, even though<br />everything about her was familiar—her dark hair; her brown eyes, the same shape and<br />color as his own; the spatter of freckles across her nose. She wore jeans, a bright yellow<br />parka, and a green scarf with big yellow cotton flowers. Clary called Becky’s style “hippiechic”;<br />about half her clothes came from vintage stores, and the other half she sewed<br />herself.<br />As he squeezed her hand, her dark eyes filled with tears. “Si,” she said, and put her<br />arms around him and hugged him. He let her, patting her arms, her back, clumsily. When<br />she pulled back, wiping at her eyes, she frowned. “God, your face is cold,” she said. “You<br />should wear a scarf.” She looked at him accusingly. “Anyway, where have you been?”<br />“I told you,” he said. “I was staying with a friend.”<br />She gave a short bark of laughter. “Okay, Simon, that so doesn’t cut it,” she said.<br />“What the hell is going on?”<br />“Becks…”<br />“I called home about Thanksgiving,” Rebecca said, staring straight ahead at the trees.<br />“You know, what train I should take, that sort of thing. And you know what Mom said?<br />She said not to come home, there wasn’t going to be any Thanksgiving. So I called you.<br />You didn’t pick up. I called Mom to find out where you were. She hung up on me. Just—<br />hung up on me. So I came home. That’s when I saw the religious weirdness all over the<br />door. I freaked out on Mom, and she told me you were dead. Dead. My own brother. She<br />said you were dead and a monster took your place.”<br />“What did you do?”<br />“I got the hell out of there,” said Rebecca. Simon could tell she was trying to sound<br />tough, but there was a thin, frightened edge to her voice. “It was pretty clear Mom had<br />lost it.”<br />“Oh,” Simon said. Rebecca and his mother had always shared a fraught relationship.<br />Rebecca liked to refer to his mother as “nuts” or “the crazy lady.” But it was the first time<br />he’d had the sense she really meant it.<br />“Damn right, oh,” Rebecca snapped. “I was frantic. I texted you every five minutes.<br />Finally I get that crap text from you about staying with a friend. Now you want to meet<br />me here. What the hell, Simon? How long has this been going on?”<br />“How long has what been going on?”<br />“What do you think? Mom being totally mental.” Rebecca’s small fingers picked at her<br />scarf. “We have to do something. Talk to someone. Doctors. Get her on meds or<br />something. I didn’t know what to do. Not without you. You’re my brother.”<br />“I can’t,” Simon said. “I mean, I can’t help you.”<br />Her voice softened. “I know it sucks and you’re just in high school, but, Simon, we have<br />to make these decisions together.”<br />“I mean I can’t help you get her on meds,” he said. “Or take her to the doctor. Because<br />she’s right. I am a monster.”<br />Rebecca’s mouth dropped open. “Has she brainwashed you?”<br />“No—”<br />Her voice wobbled. “You know, I thought maybe she’d hurt you—the way she was<br />talking—but then I thought, No, she’d never do that, no matter what. But if she did—if<br />she laid a finger on you, Simon, so help me—”<br />Simon couldn’t take it anymore. He stripped off his glove and held his hand out to his<br />sister. His sister, who’d held his hand on the beach when he was too small to toddle into<br />the ocean unassisted. Who’d mopped blood off him after soccer practice, and tears off<br />him after their father had died and their mother was a zombie lying in her room staring at<br />the ceiling. Who’d read to him in his race-car-shaped bed when he still wore footie<br />pajamas. I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees. Who once accidentally shrunk all his<br />clothes in the wash so they were doll-size, when she was trying to be domestic. Who<br />packed his lunch when their mother didn’t have time. Rebecca, he thought. The last tie he<br />had to cut.<br />“Take my hand,” he said.<br />She took it, and winced. “You’re so cold. Have you been sick?”<br />“You could say that.” He looked at her, willing her to sense something wrong with him,<br />really wrong, but she only looked back at him with trusting brown eyes. He bit back a<br />flare of impatience. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. “Take my pulse,” he said.<br />“I don’t know how to take someone’s pulse, Simon. I’m an art history major.”<br />He reached over and moved her fingers up to his wrist. “Press down. Do you feel<br />anything?”<br />For a moment she was still, her bangs swinging over her forehead. “No. Am I supposed<br />to?”<br />“Becky—” He pulled his wrist back in frustration. There was nothing else for it. There<br />was only one way. “Look at me,” he said, and when her eyes swung up to his face, he let<br />his fangs snap out.<br />She screamed.<br />She screamed, and fell off the bench onto the hard-packed dirt and leaves. Several<br />passersby looked at them curiously, but it was New York, and they didn’t stop or stare,<br />just kept moving.<br />Simon felt wretched. This was what he’d wanted, but it was different actually looking at<br />her crouching there, so pale that her freckles stood out like ink blots, her hand over her<br />mouth. Just like it had been with his mother. He remembered telling Clary there was no<br />worse feeling than not trusting the people you loved; he’d been wrong. Having the people<br />you loved be afraid of you was worse. “Rebecca,” he said, and his voice broke. “Becky—”<br />She shook her head, her hand still over her mouth. She was sitting in the dirt, her scarf<br />trailing in the leaves. Under other circumstances it might have been funny.<br />Simon got down off the bench and knelt down next to her. His fangs were gone, but<br />she was looking at him as if they were still there. Very hesitantly he reached out and<br />touched her on the shoulder. “Becks,” he said. “I would never hurt you. I would never hurt<br />Mom, either. I just wanted to see you one last time to tell you I’m going away and you<br />won’t need to see me again. I’ll leave you both alone. You can have Thanksgiving. I won’t<br />show up. I won’t try to stay in touch. I won’t—”<br />“Simon.” She grabbed his arm, and then she was pulling him toward her, like a fish on<br />a line. He half-fell against her, and she hugged him, her arms around him, and the last<br />time she’d hugged him like this was the day of their father’s funeral, when he’d cried in<br />that way one cried when it didn’t seem like it was ever going to stop. “I don’t want to<br />never see you again.”<br />“Oh,” Simon said. He sat back in the dirt, so surprised that his mind had gone blank.<br />Rebecca put her arms around him again, and he let himself lean against her, even though<br />she was slighter than he was. She had held him up when they’d been children, and she<br />could do it again. “I thought you wouldn’t.”<br />“Why?” she said.<br />“I’m a vampire,” he said. It was weird, hearing it like that, out loud.<br />“So there are vampires?”<br />“And werewolves. And other, weirder stuff. This just—happened. I mean, I got<br />attacked. I didn’t choose it, but it doesn’t matter. This is me now.”<br />“Do you…” Rebecca hesitated, and Simon sensed that this was the big question, the<br />one that really mattered. “Bite people?”<br />He thought about Isabelle, then pushed the mental image hastily away. And I bit a<br />thirteen-year-old girl. And a dude. It’s not as weird as it sounds. No. Some things were<br />not his sister’s business. “I drink blood out of bottles. Animal blood. I don’t hurt people.”<br />“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Okay.”<br />“Is it? Okay, I mean?”<br />“Yeah. I love you,” she said. She rubbed his back awkwardly. He felt something damp<br />on his hand and looked down. She was crying. One of her tears had splashed onto his<br />fingers. Another one followed, and he closed his hand around it. He was shivering, but not<br />from cold; still, she pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around them both. “We’ll figure it<br />out,” she said. “You’re my little brother, you dumb idiot. I love you no matter what.”<br />They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, looking off into the shadowy spaces between<br />the trees.<br />It was bright in Jace’s bedroom, midday sunlight pouring through the open windows. The<br />moment Clary walked in, the heels of her boots clicking on the hardwood floor, Jace<br />closed the door and locked it behind her. There was a clatter as he dropped the knives<br />onto his bedside table. She began to turn, to ask him if he was all right, when he caught<br />her around the waist and pulled her against him.<br />The boots gave her extra height, but he still had to bend down to kiss her. His hands,<br />on her waist, lifted her up and against him—a second later his mouth was on hers and<br />she forgot all issues of height and awkwardness. He tasted like salt and fire. She tried to<br />shut out everything but sensation—the familiar smell of his skin and sweat, the chill of his<br />damp hair against her cheek, the shape of his shoulders and back under her hands, the<br />way her body fit to his.<br />He pulled her sweater over her head. Her T-shirt was short-sleeved, and she felt the<br />heat coming off him against her skin. His lips parted hers, and she felt herself coming<br />apart as his hand slid down to the top button on her jeans.<br />It took all the self-control she had to catch at his wrist with her hand, and hold it still.<br />“Jace,” she said. “Don’t.”<br />He drew away, enough for her to see his face. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. His<br />heart pounded against hers. “Why?”<br />She squeezed her eyes shut. “Last night—if we hadn’t—if I hadn’t fainted, then I don’t<br />know what would have happened, and we were in the middle of a room full of people. Do<br />you really think I want my first time with you—or any time with you—to be in front of a<br />bunch of strangers?”<br />“That wasn’t our fault,” he said, pushing his fingers softly through her hair. The scarred<br />palm of his hand scratched her cheek lightly. “That silver stuff was faerie drugs, I told<br />you. We were high. But I’m sober now, and you’re sober now…”<br />“And Sebastian’s upstairs, and I’m exhausted, and…” And this would be a terrible,<br />terrible idea that both of us would regret. “And I don’t feel like it,” she lied.<br />“You don’t feel like it?” Disbelief colored his voice.<br />“I’m sorry if no one’s ever said that to you before, Jace, but, no. I don’t feel like it.” She<br />looked pointedly down at his hand, still at the waistband of her jeans. “And now I feel like<br />it even less.”<br />He raised both eyebrows, but instead of saying anything he simply let go of her.<br />“Jace…”<br />“I’m going to go take a cold shower,” he said, backing away from her. His face was<br />blank, unreadable. When the bathroom door slammed shut behind him, she walked over<br />to the bed—neatly made up, no residual silver on the coverlet—and sank down, putting<br />her head in her hands. It wasn’t as if she and Jace never fought; she’d always thought<br />they argued about as much as normal couples did, usually good-naturedly, and they’d<br />never been angry with each other in any significant way. But there was something about<br />the coldness at the back of this Jace’s eyes that shook her, something far off and<br />unreachable that made it harder than ever to push away the question always at the back<br />of her mind: Is any of the real Jace still in there? Is there anything left to save?<br />* * *<br />Now this is the Law of the Jungle,<br />as old and as true as the sky,<br />And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper,<br />but the Wolf that shall break it must die.<br />As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk,<br />the Law runneth forward and back;<br />For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,<br />and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.<br />Jordan stared blindly at the poem tacked to the wall of his bedroom. It was an old print<br />that he’d found in a used-book store, the words surrounded by an elaborate border of<br />leaves. The poem was by Rudyard Kipling, and it so neatly encapsulated the rules by<br />which werewolves lived, the Law that bound their actions, that he wondered if Kipling<br />hadn’t been a Downworlder himself, or at least known about the Accords. Jordan had felt<br />compelled to buy the print and stick it up on his wall, though he’d never been one for<br />poetry.<br />He’d been pacing his apartment for the last hour, sometimes taking his phone out to<br />see if Maia had texted, in between bouts of opening the refrigerator and staring into it to<br />see if anything worth eating had appeared. It hadn’t, but he didn’t want to go out to get<br />food in case she came to the apartment while he was out. He also took a shower,<br />cleaned up the kitchen, tried to watch TV and failed, and started the process of<br />organizing all his DVDs by color.<br />He was restless. Restless in the way he sometimes got before the full moon, knowing<br />the Change was coming, feeling the pull of the tides in his blood. But the moon was<br />waning, not waxing, and it wasn’t the Change making him feel like crawling out of his<br />skin. It was Maia. It was being without her, after almost two solid days in her company,<br />never more than a few feet away from her.<br />She’d gone without him to the police station, saying that now wasn’t the time to upset<br />the pack with a nonmember, even though Luke was healing. There was no need for<br />Jordan to come, she’d argued, since all she had to do was ask Luke if it was all right for<br />Simon and Magnus to visit the farm tomorrow, and then she’d call up to the farm and<br />warn any of the pack who might be staying up there to clear off the property. She was<br />right, Jordan knew. There was no reason for him to go with her, but the moment she was<br />gone, the restlessness kicked up inside him. Was she leaving because she was sick of<br />being with him? Had she rethought and decided she’d been right about him before? And<br />what was going on between them? Were they dating? Maybe you should have asked her<br />before you slept together, genius, he told himself, and realized he was standing in front<br />of the refrigerator again. Its contents hadn’t changed—bottles of blood, a defrosting<br />pound of ground beef, and a dented apple.<br />The key turned in the front door lock, and he jumped away from the refrigerator,<br />spinning around. He looked down at himself. He was barefoot, in jeans and an old T-shirt.<br />Why hadn’t he taken the time while she’d been away to shave, look better, put on some<br />cologne or something? He ran his hands quickly through his hair as Maia came into the<br />living room, dropping his spare set of keys onto the coffee table. She had changed<br />clothes, into a soft pink sweater and jeans. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her lips<br />red and her eyes bright. He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.<br />Instead he swallowed. “So—how did it go?”<br />“Fine. Magnus can use the farm. I already texted him.” She strolled over to him and<br />leaned her elbows on the counter. “I also told Luke what Raphael said about Maureen. I<br />hope that’s okay.”<br />Jordan was puzzled. “Why’d you think he needed to know?”<br />She seemed to deflate. “Oh, God. Don’t tell me I was supposed to keep it a secret.”<br />“No—I was just wondering—”<br />“Well, if there really is a rogue vampire cutting her way through Lower Manhattan, the<br />pack should know. It’s their territory. Besides, I wanted his advice about whether we<br />should tell Simon or not.”<br />“What about my advice?” He was playing at sounding hurt, but there was a little part of<br />him that meant it. They’d discussed it before, whether Jordan should tell his assignment<br />that Maureen was out there and killing, or whether it would just be another burden to add<br />to everything Simon was dealing with now. Jordan had come down on the side of not<br />telling him—what could he do about it, anyway?—but Maia hadn’t been so sure.<br />She jumped up on top of the counter and swung around to face him. Even sitting down,<br />she was taller than him this way, her brown eyes sparkling down into his. “I wanted<br />grown-up advice.”<br />He grabbed hold of her swinging legs and ran his hands up the seams of her jeans. “I’m<br />eighteen—not grown-up enough for you?”<br />She put her hands on his shoulders and flexed them, as if testing his muscles. “Well,<br />you’ve definitely grown…”<br />He pulled her down from the counter, catching her around the waist and kissing her.<br />Fire sizzled up and down his veins as she kissed him back, her body melting against his.<br />He slid his hands up into her hair, knocking her knitted cap off and letting her curls spring<br />free. He kissed her neck as she pulled his shirt up over his head and ran her hands all<br />over him—shoulders, back, arms, purring in her throat like a cat. He felt like a helium<br />balloon—high from kissing her, and light with relief. So she wasn’t done with him after all.<br />“Jordy,” she said. “Wait.”<br />She almost never called him that, unless it was serious. His heartbeat, already wild,<br />speeded up further. “What’s wrong?”<br />“It’s just—if every time we see each other, we fall into bed—and I know I started it, I’m<br />not blaming you or anything—It’s just that maybe we should talk.”<br />He stared at her, at her big dark eyes, the fluttery pulse in her throat, the flush on her<br />cheeks. With an effort he spoke evenly. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”<br />She just looked at him. After a moment she shook her head and said, “Nothing.” She<br />locked her hands behind his head and pulled him close, kissing him hard, fitting her body<br />against his. “Nothing at all.”<br />Clary didn’t know how long it was before Jace came out of the bathroom, toweling off his<br />wet hair. She looked up at him from where she was still sitting on the edge of the bed.<br />He was sliding a blue cotton T-shirt on over smooth golden skin marked with white scars.<br />She darted her eyes away as he came across the room and sat down next to her on the<br />bed, smelling strongly of soap.<br />“I’m sorry,” he said.<br />Now she did look at him, in surprise. She had wondered if he were capable of being<br />sorry, in his current state. His expression was grave, a little curious, but not insincere.<br />“Wow,” she said. “That cold shower must have been brutal.”<br />His lips quirked up at the side, but his expression grew serious again almost<br />immediately. He put his hand under her chin. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. It’s just—ten<br />weeks ago, just holding each other would have been unthinkable.”<br />“I know.”<br />He cupped her face in his hands, his long fingers cool against her cheeks, tilting her<br />face up. He was looking down at her, and everything about him was so familiar—the pale<br />gold irises of his eyes, the scar on his cheek, the full lower lip, the slight chip in his tooth<br />that saved his looks from being so perfect that they were annoying—and yet somehow it<br />was like coming back to a house she had lived in as a child, and knowing that though the<br />exterior might look the same, a different family lived there now. “I never cared,” he said.<br />“I wanted you anyway. I always wanted you. Nothing mattered to me but you. Not ever.”<br />Clary swallowed. Her stomach fluttered, not just with the usual butterflies she felt<br />around Jace but with real uneasiness.<br />“But Jace. That’s not true. You cared about your family. And—I always thought you<br />were proud of being Nephilim. One of the angels.”<br />“Proud?” he said. “To be half angel, half human—you’re always conscious of your own<br />inadequacy. You’re not an angel. You’re not beloved of Heaven. Raziel doesn’t care about<br />us. We can’t even pray to him. We pray to nothing. We pray for nothing. Remember when<br />I told you I thought I had demon blood, because it explained why I felt the way I did<br />about you? It was a relief in a way, thinking that. I’ve never been an angel, never even<br />close. Well,” he added. “Maybe the fallen kind.”<br />“Fallen angels are demons.”<br />“I don’t want to be Nephilim,” said Jace. “I want to be something else. Stronger, faster,<br />better than human. But different. Not subservient to the Laws of an angel who couldn’t<br />care less about us. Free.” He ran his hand through a curl of her hair. “I’m happy now,<br />Clary. Doesn’t that make a difference?”<br />“I thought we were happy together,” Clary said.<br />“I’ve always been happy with you,” he said. “But I never thought I deserved it.”<br />“And now you do?”<br />“And now that feeling’s gone,” he said. “All I know is that I love you. And for the first<br />time, that’s good enough.”<br />She closed her eyes. A moment later he was kissing her again, very softly this time, his<br />mouth tracing the shape of hers. She felt herself go pliant under his hands. She sensed it<br />as his breathing quickened and her own pulse jumped. His hands stroked down through<br />her hair, over her back, to her waist. His touch was comforting—the feel of his heartbeat<br />against hers like familiar music—and if the key was slightly different, with her eyes<br />closed, she couldn’t tell. Their blood was the same, under the skin, she thought, as the<br />Seelie Queen had said; her heart raced when his did, had nearly stopped when his had. If<br />she had to do it all again, she thought, under the pitiless gaze of Raziel, she would have<br />done the same thing.<br />This time he drew back, letting his fingers linger on her cheek, her lips. “I want what<br />you want,” he said. “Whenever you want it.”<br />Clary felt a shudder go down her spine. The words were simple, but there was a<br />dangerous and seductive invitation to the fall of his voice: Whatever you want, whenever<br />you want it. His hand smoothed down her hair, to her back, lingering at her waist. She<br />swallowed. There was only so much that she was going to be able to hold back.<br />“Read to me,” she said suddenly.<br />He blinked down at her. “What?”<br />She was looking past him, at the books on his nightstand. “It’s a lot to process,” she<br />said. “What Sebastian said, what happened last night, everything. I need to sleep, but I’m<br />too keyed up. When I was young and I couldn’t sleep, my mother used to read to me to<br />relax me.”<br />“And I remind you of your mother now? I have got to look into a manlier cologne.”<br />“No, it’s just—I thought it would be nice.”<br />He scooted back against the pillows, reaching for the stack of books by the bed.<br />“Anything particular you want to hear?” With a flourish he picked up the book on top of<br />the stack. It looked old, leather-bound, the title stamped in gold on the front. A Tale of<br />Two Cities. “Dickens is always promising…”<br />“I’ve read that before. For school,” Clary recalled. She scooted up on the pillows beside<br />Jace. “But I don’t remember any of it, so I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”<br />“Excellent. I’ve been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice.” He flipped the book<br />open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a<br />long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the<br />signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.<br />“Some ancestor of yours,” Clary said, brushing her finger against the page.<br />“Yes. Odd that Valentine had it. My father must have given it to him.” Jace opened to a<br />random page and began to read:<br />“He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily. ‘Don’t be afraid to hear<br />me. Don’t shrink from anything I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might<br />have been.’<br />“‘No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am sure that you<br />might be much, much worthier of yourself.’”<br />“Oh, I do remember this story now,” Clary said. “Love triangle. She picks the boring<br />guy.”<br />Jace chuckled softly. “Boring to you. Who can say what got Victorian ladies hot beneath<br />the petticoats?”<br />“It’s true, you know.”<br />“What, about the petticoats?”<br />“No. That you have a lovely reading voice.” Clary turned her face against his shoulder.<br />It was times like this, more than when he was kissing her, that hurt—times when he<br />could have been her Jace. As long as she kept her eyes closed.<br />“All that, and abs of steel,” Jace said, turning another page. “What more could you ask<br />for?”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-83799204993472384392013-02-20T06:22:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.168-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 15<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Nausea and pain came and went in ever-tightening whirlpools. Clary could see only a<br />blur of colors around her: she was conscious that her brother was carrying her, every one<br />of his steps slamming into her skull like an ice pick. She was aware that she was clinging<br />to him and the strength of his arms a comfort—that it was bizarre that anything about<br />Sebastian would be a comfort, and that he seemed to be taking care not to jostle her too<br />much as he walked. Very distantly, she knew that she was gasping for breath, and she<br />heard her brother say her name.<br />Then everything went silent. For a moment she thought that was the end of it: she had<br />died, died battling demons, the way most Shadowhunters did. Then she felt another<br />pricking burn on the inside of her arm, and a surge of what felt like ice spilling through<br />her veins. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, but the cold of whatever<br />Sebastian had done to her was like having a glass of water dashed in her face. Slowly,<br />the world ceased its spinning, the whirlpools of nausea and pain lessening until they were<br />only ripples in the tide of her blood. She could breathe again.<br />With a gasp, she opened her eyes.<br />Blue sky.<br />She was lying on her back, staring up at an endlessly blue sky, touched with cottony<br />clouds, like the painted sky on the ceiling of the infirmary in the Institute. She stretched<br />out her aching arms. The right one still bore the marks of her bracelet of injuries, though<br />they were fading to a light pink. On her left arm was an iratze, paling to invisibility, and<br />there was a mendelin for pain in the crook of her elbow.<br />She took a deep breath. Autumn air, tinged with the smell of leaves. She could see the<br />tops of trees, hear the murmur of traffic, and—<br />Sebastian. She heard a low chuckle and realized she wasn’t just lying down, she was<br />lying propped against her brother. Sebastian, who was warm and breathing, and whose<br />arm cradled her head. The rest of her was stretched out along a slightly damp wooden<br />bench.<br />She jerked upright. Sebastian laughed again; he was sitting at the end of a park bench<br />with elaborate iron armrests. His scarf was folded up in his lap, where she’d been lying,<br />and the arm that hadn’t been cradling her head was stretched out along the back of the<br />bench. He had unbuttoned his white shirt to hide the ichor stains. Beneath it he wore a<br />plain gray T-shirt. The silver bracelet glittered on his wrist. His black eyes studied her<br />with amusement as she scooted as far away from him on the bench as she could get.<br />“Good thing you’re so short,” he said. “If you were much taller, carrying you would have<br />been extremely inconvenient.”<br />She kept her voice steady with an effort. “Where are we?”<br />“The Jardin du Luxembourg,” he said. “The Luxembourg Gardens. It’s a very nice park. I<br />had to take you somewhere you could lie down, and the middle of the street didn’t seem<br />like a good idea.”<br />“Yeah, there’s a word for leaving someone to die in the middle of the street. Vehicular<br />manslaughter.”<br />“That’s two words, and I think it’s only vehicular manslaughter, technically, if you run<br />them over yourself.” He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “Anyway, why<br />would I leave you to die in the middle of the street after I went through all that effort to<br />save your life?”<br />She swallowed, and looked down at her arm. The wounds were even more faded now.<br />If she hadn’t known to look for them, she probably wouldn’t have noticed them at all.<br />“Why did you?”<br />“Why did I what?”<br />“Save my life.”<br />“You’re my sister.”<br />She swallowed. In the morning light his face had some color in it. There were faint<br />burns along his neck where demon ichor had splashed him. “You never cared that I was<br />your sister before.”<br />“Didn’t I?” His black eyes flicked up and down her. She remembered when Jace had<br />come into her house after she’d fought the Ravener demon and she’d been dying of the<br />poison. He’d cured her just as Sebastian had, and carried her out the same way. Maybe<br />they were more alike than she had ever wanted to think, even before the spell that had<br />bound them. “Our father’s dead,” he said. “There are no other relatives. You and I, we<br />are the last. The last of the Morgensterns. You are my only chance for someone whose<br />blood runs in my veins too. Someone like me.”<br />“You knew I was following you,” she said.<br />“Of course I did.”<br />“And you let me.”<br />“I wanted to see what you would do. And I admit I didn’t think you would follow me<br />down there. You’re braver than I thought.” He picked up the scarf from his lap and drew it<br />around his neck. The park was beginning to fill up, with tourists clutching maps, parents<br />with children in hand, old men sitting on other benches like this one, smoking pipes. “You<br />would never have won that fight.”<br />“I might have.”<br />He grinned, a quick sideways grin, as if he couldn’t help it. “Maybe.”<br />She scuffed her boots in the grass, which was wet with dew. She wasn’t going to thank<br />Sebastian. Not for anything. “Why are you dealing with demons?” she demanded. “I<br />listened to them talking about you. I know what you’re doing—”<br />“No, you don’t.” The grin was gone, the superior tone back. “First, those weren’t the<br />demons I was dealing with. Those were their guards. That’s why they were in a separate<br />room and why I wasn’t there. Dahak demons aren’t that smart, though they are mean<br />and tough and defensive. So it’s not like they were really informed about what was going<br />on. They were just repeating gossip they’d heard from their masters. Greater Demons.<br />That was who I was meeting with.”<br />“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”<br />He leaned toward her across the bench. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m<br />trying to tell you the truth.”<br />“No wonder you look like you’re having an allergy attack,” she said, though it wasn’t<br />precisely true. Sebastian looked annoyingly tranquil, though the set of his jaw and the<br />pulse in his temple told her he wasn’t as calm as he pretended. “The Dahak said you<br />were going to give this world to the demons.”<br />“Now, does that sound like something I’d do?”<br />She just looked at him.<br />“I thought you said you were going to give me a chance,” he said. “I’m not who I was<br />when you met me in Alicante.” His gaze was clear. “Besides, I’m not the only person<br />you’ve ever met who believed in Valentine. He was my father. Our father. It’s not easy to<br />doubt the things you’ve grown up believing.”<br />Clary crossed her arms over her chest; the air was fresh but cold, with a wintery snap in<br />it. “Well, that’s true.”<br />“Valentine was wrong,” he said. “He was so obsessed with the wrongs he believed the<br />Clave had done to him that he could see nothing past proving himself right to them. He<br />wanted the Angel to rise and tell them that he was Jonathan Shadowhunter returned,<br />that he was their leader and his way was the right way.”<br />“It didn’t exactly happen like that.”<br />“I know what happened. Lilith spoke to me of it.” He said this offhandedly, as if<br />conversations with the mother of all warlocks were something everyone had every once<br />in a while. “Do not fool yourself into thinking that what happened was because the Angel<br />has great compassion, Clary. Angels are as cold as icicles. Raziel was angered because<br />Valentine had forgotten the mission of all Shadowhunters.”<br />“Which is?”<br />“To kill demons. That is our mandate. Surely you must have heard that more and more<br />demons have been spilling into our world in recent years? That we have no idea how to<br />keep them out?”<br />An echo of words came back to her, something Jace had said to her what seemed like a<br />lifetime ago, the first time they had ever visited the Silent City. We might be able to block<br />them from coming here, but nobody’s even been able to figure out how to do that. In<br />fact, more and more of them are coming through. There used to be only small demon<br />invasions into this world, easily contained. But even in my lifetime more and more of<br />them have spilled in through the wardings. The Clave is always having to dispatch<br />Shadowhunters, and a lot of times they don’t come back.<br />“A great war with demons is coming, and the Clave is woefully unprepared,” said<br />Sebastian. “That much my father was correct about. They are too set in their ways to<br />hear warnings or to change. I do not wish the destruction of Downworlders as Valentine<br />did, but I worry that the Clave’s blindness will doom this world that Shadowhunters<br />protect.”<br />“You want me to believe you care if this world is destroyed?”<br />“Well, I do live here,” Sebastian said, more mildly than she would have expected. “And<br />sometimes extreme situations call for extreme measures. To destroy the enemy it can be<br />necessary to understand him, even to treat with him. If I can make those Greater<br />Demons trust me, then I can lure them here, where they can be destroyed, and their<br />followers as well. That ought to turn back the tide. Demons will know that this world is<br />not as easy pickings as they imagined it.”<br />Clary shook her head. “And you’re going to do this with what, just you and Jace? You’re<br />pretty impressive, don’t get me wrong, but even the two of you—”<br />Sebastian stood up. “You really don’t imagine I could have thought this through, do<br />you?” He looked down at her, the fall wind blowing his white hair across his face. “Come<br />with me. I want to show you something.”<br />She hesitated. “Jace—”<br />“Is still asleep. Trust me, I know.” He held out his hand. “Come with me, Clary. If I<br />can’t make you believe I have a plan, maybe I can prove it to you.”<br />She stared at him. Images tumbled through her mind like shaken confetti: the junk<br />shop in Prague, her gold leaf-ring falling away into darkness, Jace holding her in the<br />alcove in the club, the glass tanks of dead bodies. Sebastian with a seraph blade in his<br />grip.<br />Prove it to you.<br />She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.<br />It was decided, though not without a great deal of arguing, that in order for the<br />summoning of Raziel to take place, Team Good would need to find a fairly secluded<br />location. “We can’t summon a sixty-foot angel in the middle of Central Park,” Magnus<br />observed dryly. “People might notice, even in New York.”<br />“Raziel’s sixty feet tall?” Isabelle said. She was slumped down in an armchair she had<br />pulled up to the table. There were rings under her dark eyes; she—like Alec, Magnus, and<br />Simon—was exhausted. They had all been awake for hours, poring through books of<br />Magnus’s so old that their pages were as thin as onionskin. Both Isabelle and Alec could<br />read Greek and Latin, and Alec had a better knowledge of demon languages than Izzy<br />did, but there were still many only Magnus could understand. Maia and Jordan, realizing<br />they could be more help elsewhere, had left for the police station to check on Luke.<br />Meanwhile, Simon had tried to make himself useful in other ways—getting food and<br />coffee, copying down symbols as Magnus instructed, fetching more paper and pencils, and<br />even feeding Chairman Meow, who had thanked him by coughing up a hair ball on the<br />floor of Magnus’s kitchen.<br />“Actually, he’s only fifty-nine feet tall, but he likes to exaggerate,” said Magnus.<br />Tiredness was not improving his temper. His hair was sticking straight up, and there were<br />smudges of glitter on the backs of his hands where he had rubbed his eyes. “He’s an<br />angel, Isabelle. Haven’t you ever studied anything?”<br />Isabelle clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Valentine raised an angel in his cellar. I<br />don’t see why you need all this space—”<br />“Because Valentine is just WAY MORE AWESOME than me,” snapped Magnus, dropping<br />his pen. “Look—”<br />“Don’t shout at my sister,” said Alec. He said it quietly, but with force behind the words.<br />Magnus looked at him in surprise. Alec continued, “Isabelle, the size of angels, when they<br />appear in the earthly dimension, varies depending on their power. The angel Valentine<br />summoned was of a lower rank than Raziel. And if you were to summon an angel of an<br />even higher rank, Michael, or Gabriel—”<br />“I couldn’t make a spell that would bind them, even momentarily,” said Magnus in a<br />subdued voice. “We’re summoning Raziel in part because we’re hoping that as the creator<br />of Shadowhunters, he will have a special compassion—or, really, any compassion—for<br />your situation. He’s also of about the right rank. A less powerful angel might not be able<br />to help us, but a more powerful angel… well, if something went wrong…”<br />“It might not just be me who dies,” said Simon.<br />Magnus looked pained, and Alec glanced down at the papers strewn across the table.<br />Isabelle put her hand on top of Simon’s. “I can’t believe we’re actually sitting here talking<br />about summoning an angel,” she said. “My whole life we’ve sworn on the Angel’s name.<br />We know our power comes from angels. But the idea of seeing one… I can’t really<br />imagine it. When I try to think about it, it’s too big an idea.”<br />A silence fell across the table. There was a darkness in Magnus’s eyes that made Simon<br />wonder if he had ever seen an angel. He wondered whether he ought to ask, but was<br />saved deciding by the buzzing of his cell phone.<br />“One second,” he muttered, and got to his feet. He flipped the phone open and leaned<br />against one of the loft’s pillars. It was a text—several—from Maia.<br />GOOD NEWS! LUKE IS AWAKE AND TALKING. IT LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOING TO BE OKAY.<br />Relief poured over Simon in a wave. Finally, good news. He flipped the phone shut and<br />reached for the ring on his hand. Clary?<br />Nothing.<br />He swallowed his nerves. She was probably asleep. He looked up to find all three of the<br />people at the table staring at him.<br />“Who called?” Isabelle asked.<br />“It was Maia. She says Luke’s up and talking. That he’s going to be okay.” There was a<br />chatter of relieved voices, but Simon was still staring down at the ring on his hand. “She<br />gave me an idea.”<br />Isabelle had been on her feet, heading toward him; at that, she paused, looking<br />worried. Simon supposed he didn’t blame her. His ideas had been downright suicidal of<br />late. “What is it?” she said.<br />“What do we need to summon Raziel? How much space?” Simon asked.<br />Magnus paused over a book. “A mile around at least. Water would be good. Like Lake<br />Lyn—”<br />“Luke’s farm,” Simon said. “Upstate. An hour or two away. It should be shut up now,<br />but I know how to get there. And there’s a lake. Not as big as Lyn, but…”<br />Magnus closed the book he was holding. “That’s not a bad idea, Seamus.”<br />“A few hours?” Isabelle said, looking up at the clock. “We could be there by—”<br />“Oh, no,” said Magnus. He pushed the book away from him. “While your enthusiasm is<br />boundless and impressive, Isabelle, I’m too exhausted to properly cast the summoning<br />spell at the moment. And this isn’t something I want to take risks with. I think we can all<br />agree.”<br />“So when?” Alec asked.<br />“We need a few hours sleep at least,” Magnus said. “I say we leave early afternoon.<br />Sherlock—sorry, Simon—call and see if you can borrow Jordan’s truck in the meantime.<br />And now…” He pushed his papers to the side. “I’m going to sleep. Isabelle, Simon, you’re<br />more than welcome to use the spare room again if you like.”<br />“Different spare rooms would be better,” Alec muttered.<br />Isabelle looked at Simon with questioning dark eyes, but he was already reaching into<br />his pocket for his phone. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back by noon, but for now there’s<br />something important I have to do.”<br />In the daylight Paris was a city of narrow, curving streets that opened out into wide<br />avenues, mellow golden buildings with slate-colored roofs, and a glittering river that<br />sliced across it like a dueling scar. Sebastian, despite his claim that he was going to prove<br />to Clary that he had a plan, didn’t say much as they made their way up a street lined with<br />art galleries and stores selling dusty old books, to reach the Quai des Grands Augustins by<br />the river’s edge.<br />There was a cool wind coming off the Seine, and she shivered. Sebastian unwound the<br />scarf from around his neck and handed it to her. It was a heathery black and white<br />tweed, still warm from being wrapped around his neck.<br />“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re cold. Put it on.”<br />Clary wound it around her neck. “Thanks,” she said reflexively, and winced.<br />There. She had thanked Sebastian. She waited for a bolt of lightning to shoot out of the<br />clouds and strike her dead. But nothing happened.<br />He gave her an odd look. “You all right? You look like you’re going to sneeze.”<br />“I’m fine.” The scarf smelled like citrusy cologne and boy. She wasn’t sure what she’d<br />thought it would smell like. They started to walk again. This time Sebastian slowed his<br />pace, walking alongside her, pausing to explain that neighborhoods in Paris were<br />numbered, and they were crossing from the sixth into the fifth, the Latin Quarter, and<br />that the bridge they could see spanning the river in the distance was the Pont Saint-<br />Michel. There were a lot of young people walking past them, Clary noticed; girls her age<br />or older, impossibly stylish in tight-fitting pants and sky-high heels, long hair blowing in<br />the wind off the Seine. Quite a few of them stopped to give Sebastian appreciative<br />glances, which he didn’t seem to notice.<br />Jace, she thought, would have noticed. Sebastian was striking, with his icy white hair<br />and black eyes. She had thought he was handsome the first time she’d met him, and he’d<br />had his hair dyed black then; it hadn’t suited him, really. He looked better like this. The<br />pallor of his hair gave his skin some color, drew your eyes to the flush along his high<br />cheekbones, the graceful shape of his face. His eyelashes were incredibly long, a shade<br />darker than his hair, and curled slightly, just like Jocelyn’s— so unfair. Why hadn’t she<br />gotten the curling lashes in the family? And why didn’t he have a single freckle? “So,” she<br />said abruptly, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence, “what are we?”<br />He gave her a sidelong look. “What do you mean, ‘What are we?’”<br />“You said we’re the last of the Morgensterns. Morgenstern is a German name,” said<br />Clary. “So, what are we, German? What’s the story? Why aren’t there any more but us?”<br />“You don’t know anything about Valentine’s family?” Incredulity tinged Sebastian’s<br />voice. He had stopped next to the wall that ran along the Seine, beside the pavement.<br />“Didn’t your mother ever tell you anything?”<br />“She’s your mother too, and no, she didn’t. Valentine’s not her favorite topic.”<br />“Shadowhunter names are compounded,” said Sebastian slowly, and he climbed up on<br />top of the wall. He reached a hand down, and after a moment she let him take hers and<br />pull her up onto the wall beside him. The Seine ran gray-green below them, fly-speck<br />tourist boats chugging by at a leisurely pace. “Fairchild, Light-wood, White-law.<br />‘Morgenstern’ means ‘morning star.’ It’s a German name, but the family was Swiss.”<br />“Was?”<br />“Valentine was an only child,” Sebastian said. “His father—our grandfather—was killed<br />by Downworlders, and our great-uncle died in a battle. He didn’t have any children.<br />This”—he reached out and touched her hair—“is from the Fairchild side. There’s English<br />blood there. I look more like the Swiss side. Like Valentine.”<br />“Do you know anything about our grandparents?” Clary asked, fascinated despite<br />herself.<br />Sebastian dropped his hand and leaped down off the wall. He held his hand up for her,<br />and she took it, balancing as she leaped down. For a moment she collided with his chest,<br />hard and warm beneath his shirt. A passing girl shot her an amused, jealous look, and<br />Clary pulled back hastily. She wanted to shout after the girl that Sebastian was her<br />brother, and that she hated him anyway. She didn’t.<br />“I know nothing about our maternal grandparents,” he said. “How could I?” His smile<br />was crooked. “Come. I want to show you a favorite place of mine.”<br />Clary hung back. “I thought you were going to prove to me that you had a plan.”<br />“All in due time.” Sebastian started to walk, and after a moment she followed him. Find<br />out his plan. Make nice until you do. “Valentine’s father was a lot like him,” Sebastian<br />went on. “He put his faith in strength. ‘We are God’s chosen warriors.’ That’s what he<br />believed. Pain made you strong. Loss made you powerful. When he died…”<br />“Valentine changed,” Clary said. “Luke told me.”<br />“He loved his father and he hated him. Something you might understand from knowing<br />Jace. Valentine raised us as his father had raised him. You always return to what you<br />know.”<br />“But Jace,” Clary said. “Valentine taught him more than just fighting. He taught him<br />languages, and how to play the piano—”<br />“That was Jocelyn’s influence.” Sebastian said her name unwillingly, as if he hated the<br />sound of it. “She thought Valentine ought to be able to talk about books, art, music—not<br />just killing things. He passed that on to Jace.”<br />A wrought iron blue gate rose to their left. Sebastian ducked under it and beckoned<br />Clary to follow him. She didn’t have to duck but went after him, her hands stuffed into her<br />pockets. “What about you?” she asked.<br />He held up his hands. They were unmistakably her mother’s hands—dexterous, longfingered,<br />meant for holding a brush or a pen. “I learned to play the instruments of war,”<br />he said, “and paint in blood. I am not like Jace.”<br />They were in a narrow alley between two rows of buildings made of the same golden<br />stone as many of the other buildings of Paris, their roofs sparkling copper-green in the<br />sunlight. The street underfoot was cobblestone, and there were no cars or motorcycles.<br />To her left was a café, a wooden sign dangling from a wrought iron pole the only clue<br />that there was any commercial business on this winding street.<br />“I like it here,” Sebastian said, following her gaze, “because it’s as if you were in a past<br />century. No noise of cars, no neon lights. Just—peaceful.”<br />Clary stared at him. He’s lying, she thought. Sebastian doesn’t have thoughts like this.<br />Sebastian, who tried to burn Alicante to the ground, doesn’t care about “peaceful.”<br />She thought then of where he’d grown up. She’d never seen it, but Jace had described<br />it to her. A small house—a cottage, really—in a valley outside Alicante. The nights would<br />have been silent there and the sky full of stars at night. But would he miss that? Could<br />he? Was that the sort of emotion you could have when you weren’t really even human?<br />It doesn’t bother you? she wanted to say. Being in the place the real Sebastian Verlac<br />grew up and lived, until you ended his life? Walking these streets, bearing his name,<br />knowing that somewhere, his aunt is grieving for him? And what did you mean when you<br />said he wasn’t supposed to fight back?<br />His black eyes regarded her thoughtfully. He had a sense of humor, she knew; there<br />was a streak of mordant wit in him that was sometimes not unlike Jace’s. But he didn’t<br />smile.<br />“Come on,” he said then, breaking off her reverie. “This place has the best hot<br />chocolate in Paris.”<br />Clary wasn’t sure how she’d know if this were true or not, given that this was the first<br />time she’d ever been to Paris, but once they sat down, she had to admit the hot<br />chocolate was excellent. They made it at your table—which was small and wooden, as<br />were the old-fashioned high-backed chairs—in a blue ceramic pot, using cream, chocolate<br />powder, and sugar. The result was a cocoa so thick your spoon could stand up in it. They<br />had croissants, too, and dunked them into the chocolate.<br />“You know, if you want another croissant, they’ll bring you one,” said Sebastian,<br />leaning back in his chair. They were the youngest people in the place by decades, Clary<br />noticed. “You’re attacking that one like a wolverine.”<br />“I’m hungry.” She shrugged. “Look, if you want to talk to me, talk. Convince me.”<br />He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. She was reminded of looking into his eyes<br />the night before, of noticing the silver ring around the iris of his eye. “I was thinking<br />about what you said last night.”<br />“I was hallucinating last night. I don’t remember what I said to you.”<br />“You asked me who I belonged to,” said Sebastian.<br />Clary paused with her cup of chocolate halfway to her mouth. “I did?”<br />“Yeah.” His eyes studied her face intently. “And I don’t have an answer.”<br />She set her cup down, feeling suddenly, intensely uncomfortable. “You don’t have to<br />belong to anyone,” she said. “It’s just a figure of speech.”<br />“Well, let me ask you something now,” Sebastian said. “Do you think you can forgive<br />me? I mean, do you think forgiveness is possible for someone like me?”<br />“I don’t know.” Clary gripped the edge of the table. “I—I mean, I don’t know much<br />about forgiveness as a religious concept, just your garden-variety kind of forgiving<br />people.” She took a deep breath, knowing she was babbling. It was something in the<br />steadiness of Sebastian’s dark gaze on her, as if he actually expected her to give him the<br />answers to questions no one else could answer. “I know you have to do things, to earn<br />forgiveness. Change yourself. Confess, repent—and make amends.”<br />“Amends,” Sebastian echoed.<br />“To make up for what you’ve done.” She looked down at her mug. There was no<br />making up for the things Sebastian had done, not in any way that made sense.<br />“Ave atque vale,” Sebastian said, looking down at his mug of chocolate.<br />Clary recognized the traditional words Shadowhunters spoke over their dead. “Why are<br />you saying that? I’m not dying.”<br />“You know it’s from a poem,” he said. “By Catullus. ‘Frater, ave atque vale.’ ‘Hail and<br />farewell, my brother.’ He speaks of ashes, of the rites of the dead, and his own grief for<br />his brother. I was taught the poem young, but I didn’t feel it—either his grief, or his loss,<br />or even the wondering what it would be like to die and to have no one grieve you.” He<br />looked up at her sharply. “What do you think it would have been like if Valentine had<br />brought you up along with me? Would you have loved me?”<br />Clary was very glad she had put her cup down, because if she hadn’t, she would have<br />dropped it. Sebastian was looking at her not with any shyness or the sort of natural<br />awkwardness that might be attendant on such a bizarre question, but as if she were a<br />curious, foreign life-form.<br />“Well,” she said. “You’re my brother. I would have loved you. I would have… had to.”<br />He kept looking at her with the same still, intent gaze. She wondered if she should ask<br />him if he thought that meant he would have loved her, too. Like a sister. But she had a<br />feeling he had no idea what that meant.<br />“But Valentine didn’t bring me up,” she said. “In fact, I killed him.”<br />She wasn’t sure why she said it. Maybe she wanted to see if it was possible to upset<br />him. After all, Jace had told her once that he thought Valentine might have been the only<br />thing Sebastian had ever cared about.<br />But he didn’t blanch. “Actually,” he said, “the Angel killed him. Though it was because<br />of you.” His fingers traced patterns on the worn tabletop. “You know, when I first met<br />you, in Idris, I had hopes—I had thought you would be like me. And when you were<br />nothing like me, I hated you. And then, when I was brought back, and Jace told me what<br />you did, I realized that I had been wrong. You are like me.”<br />“You said that last night,” Clary said. “But I’m not—”<br />“You killed our father,” he said. His voice was soft. “And you don’t care. Never given it a<br />second thought, have you? Valentine beat Jace bloody for the first ten years of his life,<br />and Jace still misses him. Grieved for him, though they share no blood at all. But he was<br />your father and you killed him and you’ve never missed a night of sleep over it.”<br />Clary stared at him with her mouth open. It was unfair. So unfair. Valentine had never<br />been a father to her—hadn’t loved her—had been a monster who’d had to die. She had<br />killed him because she’d had no choice.<br />Unbidden in her mind rose the image of Valentine, driving his blade into Jace’s chest,<br />then holding him as he died. Valentine had wept over the son he’d murdered. But she had<br />never cried for her father. Had never even considered it.<br />“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Sebastian. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not like me.”<br />Clary stared down at her cup of chocolate, now cold. She felt like a vortex had opened<br />up inside her head and was sucking away her thoughts and words. “I thought you thought<br />Jace was like you,” she said finally in a choked voice. “I thought that’s why you wanted<br />him with you.”<br />“I need Jace,” said Sebastian. “But in his heart he’s not like me. You are.” He stood up.<br />He must have paid the bill at some point; Clary couldn’t remember. “Come with me.”<br />He held his hand out. She stood up without taking it and retied his scarf mechanically;<br />the chocolate she had drunk felt like acid churning in her stomach. She followed<br />Sebastian out of the café and into the alley, where he stood looking up at the blue sky<br />overhead.<br />“I’m not like Valentine,” Clary said, stopping next to him. “Our mother—”<br />“Your mother,” he said, “hated me. Hates me. You saw her. She tried to kill me. You<br />want to tell me you take after your mother, fine. Jocelyn Fairchild is ruthless. She always<br />has been. She pretended to love our father for months, years maybe, so she could gather<br />enough information on him to betray him. She engineered the Uprising and watched all<br />her husband’s friends slaughtered. She stole your memories. Have you forgiven her? And<br />when she ran from Idris, do you honestly think she ever planned to take me with her? She<br />must have been relieved at the thought that I was dead—”<br />“She wasn’t!” Clary snapped. “She had a box that had your baby things in it. She used<br />to take it out and cry over it. Every year on your birthday. I know you have it in your<br />room.”<br />Sebastian’s thin, elegant lips twisted. He turned away from her and started walking<br />down the alley. “Sebastian!” Clary called after him. “Sebastian, wait.” She wasn’t sure<br />why she wanted him to come back. Admittedly, she had no idea where she was or how to<br />find her way back to the apartment, but it was more than that. She wanted to stand and<br />fight, to prove she wasn’t what he said she was. She raised her voice to a shout:<br />“Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern!”<br />He stopped and turned slowly, looking back over his shoulder at her.<br />She walked toward him, and he watched her walk, his head cocked to the side, his<br />black eyes narrow. “I bet you don’t even know my middle name,” she said.<br />“Adele.” There was a musicality to the way he said it, a familiarity that made her<br />uncomfortable. “Clarissa Adele.”<br />She reached his side. “Why Adele? I never knew.”<br />“I don’t know myself,” he said. “I know Valentine never wanted you to be called<br />Clarissa Adele. He wanted you to be called Seraphina, after his mother. Our<br />grandmother.” He turned around and started walking again, and this time she kept pace.<br />“After our grandfather was killed, she died—heart attack. Died of grief, Valentine always<br />said.”<br />Clary thought of Amatis, who had never gotten over her first love, Stephen; of<br />Stephen’s father, who had died of grief; of the Inquisitor, her whole life dedicated to<br />revenge. Of Jace’s mother, cutting her wrists when her husband died. “Before I met the<br />Nephilim, I would have said it was impossible to die of grief.”<br />Sebastian chuckled dryly. “We don’t form attachments like mundanes do,” he said.<br />“Well, sometimes, surely. Not everyone is the same. But the bonds between us tend to be<br />intense and unbreakable. That’s why we do so badly with others not of our kind.<br />Downworlders, mundanes—”<br />“My mother’s marrying a Downworlder,” Clary said, stung. They had paused in front of<br />a square stone building with blue painted shutters, almost at the end of the alley.<br />“He was Nephilim once,” said Sebastian. “And look at our father. Your mother betrayed<br />him and left him, and he still spent the rest of his life waiting to find her again and<br />convince her to come back to him. That whole closet full of clothes—” He shook his head.<br />“But Valentine told Jace that love is a weakness,” said Clary. “That it would destroy<br />you.”<br />“Wouldn’t you think that, if you spent half your life chasing a woman even though she<br />hated your guts, because you couldn’t forget about her? If you had to remember that the<br />person you loved best in the world stabbed you in the back and twisted the knife?” He<br />leaned in for a moment, close enough that when he spoke, his breath stirred her hair.<br />“Maybe you are more like your mother than our father. But what difference does it make?<br />You have ruthlessness in your bones and ice in your heart, Clarissa. Don’t tell me any<br />differently.”<br />He spun away before she could answer him, and mounted the front step of the blueshuttered<br />house. A strip of electric buzzers ran down the side of the wall beside the door,<br />each with a name hand-scrawled on a placard beside it. He pressed the button beside the<br />name Magdalena, and waited. Eventually a scratchy voice came through the speaker:<br />“Qui est là?”<br />“C’est le fils et la fille de Valentine,” he said. “Nous avions rendez-vous?”<br />There was a pause, and then the buzzer sounded. Sebastian yanked the door open—<br />and held it open, politely letting Clary go before him. The stairs were wooden, as worn<br />and smooth as the side of a ship. They trudged up them in silence to the top floor, where<br />the door was propped slightly open onto the landing. Sebastian went through first, and<br />Clary followed.<br />She found herself in a large, airy light space. The walls were white, as were the<br />curtains. Through one window she could see the street beyond, lined with restaurants<br />and boutiques. Cars whizzed by, but the sound of them didn’t seem to penetrate inside<br />the apartment. The floor was polished wood, the furniture white-painted wood or<br />upholstered couches with colorful throw pillows. A section of the apartment was set up as<br />a sort of studio. Light poured down from a skylight onto a long wooden table. There were<br />easels, cloths tossed over them to obscure their contents. A paint-stained smock hung<br />from a hook on the wall.<br />Standing by the table was a woman. Clary would have guessed her age at about<br />Jocelyn’s, if there had not been several factors obscuring her age. She wore a shapeless<br />black smock that hid her body; only her white hands and her face and throat were visible.<br />On each of her cheeks was carved a thick black rune, running from the outside corner of<br />her eye to her lips. Clary had not seen the runes before, but she could sense their<br />meaning—power, skill, workmanship. The woman had thick long auburn hair, falling in<br />waves to her waist, and her eyes, when she raised them, were a peculiar flat orange<br />color, like a dying flame.<br />The woman clasped her hands in front of her smock loosely. In a nervous, melodic<br />voice, she said, “Tu dois être Jonathan Morgenstern. Et elle, c’est ta soeur? Je pensais que<br />—”<br />“I am Jonathan Morgenstern,” Sebastian said. “And this is my sister, yes. Clarissa.<br />Please speak English in front of her. She doesn’t understand French.”<br />The woman cleared her throat. “My English is rusty. It has been years since I used it.”<br />“It seems good enough to me. Clarissa, this is Sister Magdalena. Of the Iron Sisters.”<br />Clary was startled into speech. “But I thought the Iron Sisters never left their fortress<br />—”<br />“They don’t,” said Sebastian. “Unless they are disgraced by having their part in the<br />Uprising discovered. Who do you think armed the Circle?” He smiled at Magdalena<br />mirthlessly. “The Iron Sisters are Makers, not fighters. But Magdalena fled the Fortress<br />before her part in the Uprising could be discovered.”<br />“I had not seen another Nephilim in fifteen years until your brother contacted me,” said<br />Magdalena. It was hard to tell who she was looking at while she spoke; her featureless<br />eyes seemed to wander, but she was clearly not blind. “Is it true? Do you have the…<br />material?”<br />Sebastian reached into a pouch hanging from his weapons belt and took from it a chunk<br />of what looked like quartz. He set it down on the long table, and a stray shaft of sunlight,<br />passing across the skylight, lit it seemingly from within. Clary caught her breath. It was<br />the adamas from the junk shop in Prague.<br />Magdalena drew in a hissing breath.<br />“Pure adamas,” said Sebastian. “No rune has ever touched it.”<br />The Iron Sister came around the table and laid her hands upon the adamas. Her hands,<br />also scarred with multiple runes, trembled. “Adamas pur,” she whispered. “It has been<br />years since I touched the holy material.”<br />“It is all yours to craft with,” said Sebastian. “When you are done, I shall pay you in<br />more of it. That is, if you believe you can create what I asked for.”<br />Magdalena drew herself up. “Am I not an Iron Sister? Did I not take the vows? Do my<br />hands not shape the stuff of Heaven? I can deliver what I promised, Valentine’s son.<br />Never doubt it.”<br />“Good to hear.” There was a trace of humor in Sebastian’s voice. “I will return tonight,<br />then. You know how to summon me if you need to.”<br />Magdalena shook her head. All her attention was back on the glassine substance, the<br />adamas. She stroked it with her fingers. “Yes. You may go.”<br />Sebastian nodded and took a step back. Clary hesitated. She wanted to seize the<br />woman, ask her what Sebastian had demanded she do, ask her why she would ever have<br />broken Covenant Law to work beside Valentine. Magdalena, as if sensing her hesitation,<br />looked up and smiled thinly.<br />“The two of you,” she said, and for a moment Clary thought she was going to say that<br />she did not understand why they were together, that she had heard that they hated each<br />other, that Jocelyn’s daughter was a Shadowhunter while Valentine’s son was a criminal.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-61719354807216488252013-02-20T06:20:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.179-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 14<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Clary came back to consciousness slowly, with the dizzy sensation she recalled from<br />that first morning in the Institute, when she had woken with no idea of where she was.<br />Her whole body ached, and her head felt as if someone had smashed an iron barbell into<br />it. She was lying on her side, her head pillowed on something rough, and there was a<br />weight around her shoulder. Glancing down, she saw a slim hand, pressed protectively<br />against her sternum. She recognized the Marks, the faint white scars, even the blue<br />mapping of veins across his forearm. The weight inside her chest eased, and she sat up<br />carefully, slipping out from under Jace’s arm.<br />They were in his bedroom. She recognized the incredible neatness, the carefully made<br />bed with its hospital corners. It still wasn’t disarranged. Jace was asleep, propped up<br />against the headboard, still in the same clothes he’d worn the night before. He even had<br />his shoes on. He had clearly fallen asleep holding her, though she had no recollection of<br />it. He was still splattered with the odd silvery substance from the club.<br />He stirred slightly, as if sensing that she was gone, and wrapped his free arm around<br />himself. He didn’t look injured or hurt, she thought, just exhausted, his long dark gold<br />eyelashes curled in the hollow of the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked vulnerable<br />asleep—a little boy. He could have been her Jace.<br />But he wasn’t. She remembered the nightclub, his hands on her in the dark, the bodies<br />and blood. Her stomach churned, and she put a hand over her mouth, swallowing down<br />nausea. She felt sickened by what she remembered, and underneath the sickness was a<br />nagging prickle, the sense that she was missing something.<br />Something important.<br />“Clary.”<br />She turned. Jace’s eyes were half-open; he was looking at her through his lashes, the<br />gold of his eyes dulled with exhaustion. “Why are you awake?” he said. “It’s barely<br />dawn.”<br />Her hands bunched in the tangle of blankets. “Last night,” she said, her voice uneven.<br />“The bodies—the blood—”<br />“The what?”<br />“That’s what I saw.”<br />“I didn’t.” He shook his head. “Faerie drugs,” he said. “You knew…”<br />“It seemed so real.”<br />“I’m sorry.” His eyes closed. “I wanted to have fun. It’s supposed to make you happy.<br />Make you see pretty things. I thought we would have fun together.”<br />“I saw blood,” she said. “And dead people floating in tanks—”<br />He shook his head, his lashes fluttering down. “None of it was real…”<br />“Even what happened with you and me—?” Clary broke off, because his eyes were<br />closed, his chest rising and falling steadily. He was asleep.<br />She rose to her feet, not looking at Jace, and went into the bathroom. She stood<br />looking at herself in the mirror, numbness spreading through her bones. She was covered<br />in smears of silvery residue. It reminded her of the time a metallic pen had burst inside<br />her backpack, ruining everything in it. One of her bra straps had snapped, probably where<br />Jace had yanked on it the night before. Her eyes were surrounded with smeared black<br />stripes of mascara, and her skin and hair were sticky with silver.<br />Feeling faint and sick, she stripped off the slip dress and her underwear, tossing them<br />into the wastebasket before crawling into the hot water.<br />She washed her hair over and over again, trying to get the dried silver gunk out. It was<br />like trying to wash out oil paint. The scent of it lingered too, like the water from a vase<br />after the flowers have rotted, faint and sweet and spoiled on her skin. No amount of soap<br />seemed to be able to get rid of it.<br />Finally convinced she was as clean as she was going to get, she dried off and went to<br />the master bedroom to get dressed. It was a relief to climb back into jeans and boots and<br />slip on a comfortable cotton sweater. It was only then, as she pulled on her second boot,<br />that the nagging feeling returned, the feeling that she was missing something. She froze.<br />Her ring. The gold ring that let her speak to Simon.<br />It was gone.<br />Frantically she searched for it, tearing through the wastebasket to see if the ring had<br />gotten caught on her dress, then searching every inch of Jace’s room while he slept<br />peacefully on. She combed through the carpet, the bedclothes, checking the nightstand<br />drawers.<br />At last she sat back, her heart slamming against her chest, a sick feeling in her<br />stomach.<br />The ring was gone. Lost, somewhere, somehow. She tried to remember the last time<br />she’d seen it. Surely it had flashed on her hand while she’d wielded that dagger against<br />the Elapid demons. Had it fallen off in the junk store? In the nightclub?<br />She dug her nails into her blue-jeaned thighs until the pain made her gasp. Focus, she<br />told herself. Focus.<br />Maybe the ring had fallen from her finger somewhere else in the apartment. Probably<br />Jace had carried her upstairs at some point. It was a small chance, but every chance had<br />to be explored.<br />She rose to her feet and went as soundlessly as she could out into the hallway. She<br />moved toward Sebastian’s room, and hesitated. She couldn’t imagine why the ring would<br />be in there, and waking him up would only be counterproductive. She turned around and<br />made her way down the stairs instead, walking carefully to mask the sound of her boots.<br />Her mind was racing. With no way to contact Simon, what was she going to do? She<br />needed to tell him about the antiques shop, the adamas. She should have talked to him<br />sooner. She wanted to punch the wall, but she forced her mind to slow down, to consider<br />her options. Sebastian and Jace were beginning to trust her; if she could get away from<br />them briefly, on a busy city street, she could use a pay phone to call Simon. She could<br />duck into an Internet café and e-mail him. She knew more about mundane technology<br />than they did. Losing the ring didn’t mean it was over.<br />She would not give up.<br />Her mind was so occupied with thoughts of what to do next that at first she didn’t see<br />Sebastian. Fortunately, he had his back to her. He stood in the living room, facing the<br />wall.<br />Already at the bottom of the staircase, Clary froze, then darted across the floor and<br />flattened herself against the half wall that separated the kitchen from the larger room.<br />There was no reason to panic, she told herself. She lived here. If Sebastian saw her, she<br />could say she had come downstairs for a glass of water.<br />But the chance to observe him without his knowledge was too tempting. She turned her<br />body slightly, peering over and around the kitchen counter.<br />Sebastian still had his back to her. He had changed his clothes since the nightclub. The<br />army jacket was gone; he wore a button-down shirt and jeans. As he turned, and his shirt<br />lifted, she could see that his weapon belt was slung around his waist. As he raised his<br />right hand, she saw that he held his stele—and there was something about the way he<br />held it, just for a moment, with a careful thoughtfulness, that reminded her of the way<br />her mother held a paintbrush.<br />She closed her eyes. It felt like fabric snagging on a hook, the jerk inside her heart<br />when she recognized something in Sebastian that reminded her of her mother or herself.<br />That reminded her that however much of his blood was poison, just as much was the<br />same blood that ran in her own veins.<br />She opened her eyes again, in time to see a doorway form in front of Sebastian. He<br />reached for a scarf that hung on a peg on the wall, and stepped out into darkness.<br />Clary had a split second to decide. Stay and search the rooms, or follow Sebastian and<br />see where he was going. Her feet made the choice before her mind did. Spinning away<br />from the wall, she darted through the dark opening of the door moments before it closed<br />behind her.<br />The room Luke was lying in was lit only by the streetlights’ glow, which came through the<br />slatted windows. Jocelyn knew she could have asked for a light, but she preferred it like<br />this. The darkness hid the extent of his injuries, the pallor of his face, the sunken<br />crescents beneath his eyes.<br />In fact, in the dimness he looked very like the boy she had known in Idris before the<br />Circle had been formed. She remembered him in the school yard, skinny and brownhaired,<br />with blue eyes and nervous hands. He’d been Valentine’s best friend, and because<br />of that, no one had ever really looked at him. Even she hadn’t, or she would not have<br />been so enormously blind as to miss his feelings for her.<br />She remembered the day of her wedding to Valentine, the sun bright and clear through<br />the crystal roof of the Accords Hall. She’d been nineteen and Valentine twenty, and she<br />remembered how unhappy her parents had been that she’d chosen to marry so young.<br />Their disapproval had seemed like nothing to her—they didn’t understand. She’d been so<br />sure there would never be anyone for her but Valentine.<br />Luke had been his best man. She remembered his face as she walked down the aisle—<br />she had looked at him only briefly before turning her full attention to Valentine. She<br />remembered thinking that he must not have been well, that he looked as if he were in<br />pain. And later, in Angel Square, as the guests milled about—most of the members of the<br />Circle were there, from Maryse and Robert Lightwood, already married, to barely fifteen<br />Jeremy Pontmercy—and she stood with Luke and Valentine, someone made the old joke<br />about how if the groom hadn’t showed up, the bride would have had to marry the best<br />man. Luke had been wearing evening clothes, with the gold runes for good luck in<br />marriage on them, and he had looked very handsome, but while everyone else had<br />laughed, he’d gone terribly white. He must really hate the idea of marrying me, she’d<br />thought. She remembered touching his shoulder with a laugh.<br />“Don’t look like that,” she’d teased. “I know we’ve known each other forever, but I<br />promise you’ll never have to marry me!”<br />And then Amatis had come up, dragging a laughing Stephen with her, and Jocelyn had<br />forgotten all about Luke, the way he had looked at her—and the odd way Valentine had<br />looked at him.<br />She glanced over at Luke now and started in her chair. His eyes were open, for the first<br />time in days, and fixed on her.<br />“Luke,” she breathed.<br />He looked puzzled. “How long—have I been asleep?”<br />She wanted to throw herself onto him, but the thick bandages still wrapped around his<br />chest held her back. She caught at his hand instead and put it against her cheek, her<br />fingers interlocking with his. She closed her eyes and, as she did, felt tears slip from<br />under her lids. “About three days.”<br />“Jocelyn,” he said, sounding really alarmed now. “Why are we at the station? Where’s<br />Clary? I really don’t remember—”<br />She lowered their interlaced hands and, in as steady a voice as she could manage, told<br />him what had happened—about Sebastian and Jace, and the demon metal embedded in<br />his side, and the help of the Praetor Lupus.<br />“Clary,” he said immediately, when she was finished. “We have to go after her.”<br />Drawing his hand from hers, he started to struggle into a sitting position. Even in the<br />dim light she could see his pallor deepen as he winced with pain.<br />“That’s not possible. Luke, lie back down, please. Don’t you think if there were any way<br />to go after her, I would have?”<br />He swung his legs over the side of the bed so he was sitting up; then, with a gasp, he<br />leaned back on his hands. He looked awful. “But the danger—”<br />“Do you think I haven’t thought about the danger?” Jocelyn put her hands on his<br />shoulders and pushed him gently back against the pillows. “Simon’s been in contact with<br />me every night. She’s all right. She is. And you’re in no shape to do anything about it.<br />Killing yourself won’t help her. Please trust me, Luke.”<br />“Jocelyn, I can’t just lie here.”<br />“You can,” she said, standing up. “And you will, if I have to sit on you myself. What on<br />earth is wrong with you, Lucian? Are you out of your mind? I’m terrified about Clary, and<br />I’ve been terrified about you, too. Please don’t do this—don’t do this to me. If anything<br />happened to you—”<br />He looked at her with surprise. There was already a red stain on the white bandages<br />that wrapped his chest, where his movements had pulled his wound open. “I…”<br />“What?”<br />“I’m not used to you loving me,” he said.<br />There was a meekness to his words that she didn’t associate with Luke, and she stared<br />at him for a moment before she said, “Luke. Lie back down, please.”<br />As a sort of compromise he leaned further back against the pillows. He was breathing<br />hard. Jocelyn darted to the nightstand, poured him a glass of water, and, returning, thrust<br />it into his hand. “Drink it,” she said. “Please.”<br />Luke took the glass, his blue eyes following her as she sat back down in the chair<br />beside his bed, from which she had barely moved for so many hours that she was<br />surprised she and the chair hadn’t become one. “You know what I was thinking about?”<br />she asked. “Just before you woke up?”<br />He took a sip of the water. “You looked very far away.”<br />“I was thinking about the day I married Valentine.”<br />Luke lowered the glass. “The worst day of my life.”<br />“Worse than the day you got bitten?” she asked, folding her legs up under her.<br />“Worse.”<br />“I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know how you felt. I wish I had. I think things would<br />have been different.”<br />He looked at her incredulously. “How?”<br />“I wouldn’t have married Valentine,” she said. “Not if I’d known.”<br />“You would—”<br />“I wouldn’t,” she said sharply. “I was too stupid to realize how you felt, but I was also<br />too stupid to realize how I felt. I’ve always loved you. Even if I didn’t know it.” She leaned<br />forward and kissed him gently, not wanting to hurt him; then she put her cheek against<br />his. “Promise me you won’t put yourself in danger. Promise.”<br />She felt his free hand in her hair. “I promise.”<br />She leaned back, partly satisfied. “I wish I could go back in time. Fix everything. Marry<br />the right guy.”<br />“But then we wouldn’t have Clary,” he reminded her. She loved the way he said “we,”<br />so casually, as if there were no doubt at all in his mind that Clary was his daughter.<br />“If you’d been there more while she was growing up…” Jocelyn sighed. “I just feel like I<br />did everything wrong. I was so focused on protecting her that I think I protected her too<br />much. She rushes headlong into danger without thinking. When we were growing up, we<br />saw our friends die in battle. She never has. And I wouldn’t want that for her, but<br />sometimes I worry that she doesn’t believe she can die.”<br />“Jocelyn.” Luke’s voice was soft. “You raised her to be a good person. Someone with<br />values, who believes in good and evil and strives to be good. Like you always have. You<br />can’t raise a child to believe the opposite of what you do. I don’t think she doesn’t believe<br />she can die. I think, just like you always did, she believes there are things worth dying<br />for.”<br />Clary crept after Sebastian through a network of narrow streets, keeping to the shadows<br />close beside the buildings. They were no longer in Prague—that much was immediately<br />clear. The roads were dark, the sky above was the hollow blue of very early morning, and<br />the signs hung above the shops and stores she passed were all in French. As were the<br />street signs: RUE DE LA SEINE, RUE JACOB, RUE DE L’ABBAYE.<br />As they moved through the city, people passed her like ghosts. The occasional car<br />rumbled by, trucks backed up to stores, making early-morning deliveries. The air smelled<br />like river water and trash. She was fairly sure where they were already, but then a turn<br />and an alley took them to a wide avenue, and a signpost loomed up out of the misty<br />darkness. Arrows pointed in different directions, showing the way to the Bastille, to Notre<br />Dame, and to the Latin Quarter.<br />Paris, Clary thought, slipping behind a parked car as Sebastian crossed the street.<br />We’re in Paris.<br />It was ironic. She’d always wanted to go to Paris with someone who knew the city. Had<br />always wanted to walk its streets, to see the river, to paint the buildings. She’d never<br />imagined this. Never imagined creeping after Sebastian, across the Boulevard Saint<br />Germain, past a bright yellow bureau de poste, up an avenue where the bars were closed<br />but the gutters were full of beer bottles and cigarette butts, and down a narrow street<br />lined with houses. Sebastian stopped before one, and Clary froze as well, flat against a<br />wall.<br />She watched as he raised a hand and punched a code into a box set beside the door,<br />her eyes following the movements of his fingers. There was a click; the door opened and<br />he slipped through. The moment it closed, she darted after him, pausing to key in the<br />same code—X235—and waiting to hear the soft sound that meant the door was unlocked.<br />When the sound came, she wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or surprised. It shouldn’t<br />be this easy.<br />A moment later she stood inside a courtyard. It was square, surrounded on all sides by<br />ordinary-looking buildings. Three staircases were viewable through open doors.<br />Sebastian, however, had disappeared.<br />So it wasn’t going to be that easy.<br />She moved forward into the courtyard, conscious as she did so that she was bringing<br />herself out of sheltering shadow and into the open, where she could be seen. The sky<br />was lightening with every passing moment. The knowledge that she was visible prickled<br />the back of her neck, and she ducked into the shadow of the first stairwell she<br />encountered.<br />It was plain, with wooden stairs leading up and down, and a cheap mirror on the wall in<br />which she could see her own pale face. There was a distinct smell of rotting garbage, and<br />she wondered for a moment if she were near where the trash bins were stored, before<br />her tired mind clicked over and she realized: The stink was the presence of demons.<br />Her tired muscles started to shake, but she tightened her hands into fists. She was<br />painfully conscious of her lack of weaponry. She took a deep breath of the stinking air and<br />began to make her way down the steps.<br />The smell grew stronger and the air darker as she made her way downstairs, and she<br />wished for a stele and a night-vision rune. But there was nothing to be done about it. She<br />kept going as the staircase curved around and around, and she was suddenly grateful for<br />the lack of light as she stepped in a patch of something sticky. She clutched for the<br />banister and tried to breathe through her mouth. The darkness thickened, until she was<br />walking blind, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure it must be announcing her<br />presence. The streets of Paris, the ordinary world, seemed eons away. There was only<br />the darkness and herself, going down and down and down.<br />And then—light flared in the distance, a tiny point, like the tip of a match bursting into<br />flame. She moved closer to the banister, almost crouching, as the light grew. She could<br />see her own hand now, and the outline of the steps below her. There were only a few<br />more. She reached the bottom of the stairs and glanced around.<br />Any resemblance to an ordinary apartment building was gone. Somewhere along the<br />way the wooden stairs had turned into stone, and she stood now in a small, stone-walled<br />room lit by a torch that gave off a sickly greenish light. The floor was rock, polished<br />smooth, and carved with multiple strange symbols. She edged around them as she<br />crossed the room to the only other exit, a curved stone arch, at the apex of which was set<br />a human skull between the V of two enormous ornamental crossed axes.<br />Through the archway she could hear voices. They were too distant for her to make out<br />what they were saying, but they were voices nonetheless. This way, they seemed to say.<br />Follow us.<br />She stared up at the skull, and its empty eyes gazed back at her mockingly. She<br />wondered where she was—if Paris was still above her or if she had stepped into another<br />world entirely, the way one did when one entered the Silent City. She thought of Jace,<br />whom she had left sleeping in what now seemed like another life.<br />She was doing this for him, she reminded herself. To get him back. She stepped<br />through the arch into the corridor beyond, instinctively flattening herself against the wall.<br />Soundlessly she crept along, the voices growing louder and louder. It was dim in the hall<br />but not lightless. Every few feet another greenish torch burned, giving off a charred odor.<br />A door opened suddenly in the wall to her left, and the voices grew louder.<br />“… not like his father,” one said, the words as raspy as sandpaper. “Valentine would not<br />deal with us at all. He would make slaves of us. This one will give us this world.”<br />Very slowly Clary peered around the edge of the doorway.<br />The room was bare, smooth-walled, and empty of all furniture. Inside it was a group of<br />demons. They were lizardlike, with hard green-brown skin, but each had a set of six<br />octopuslike legs that made a dry, skittering sound as they moved. Their heads were<br />bulbous, alien, set with faceted black eyes.<br />She swallowed bile. She was reminded of the Ravener that had been one of the first<br />demons she’d ever seen. Something about the grotesque combination of lizard, insect,<br />and alien made her stomach turn. She pressed closer to the wall, listening hard.<br />“That is, if you trust him.” It was hard to tell which of them was talking. Their legs<br />clenched and unclenched as they moved, raising and lowering their bulbous bodies. They<br />didn’t seem to have mouths but clusters of small tentacles that vibrated as they spoke.<br />“The Great Mother trusted him. He is her child.”<br />Sebastian. Of course they were talking about Sebastian.<br />“He is also Nephilim. They are our great enemies.”<br />“They are his enemies as well. He bears the blood of Lilith.”<br />“But the one he calls his companion bears the blood of our enemies. He is of the<br />angels.” The word was spat with such hate that Clary felt it like a slap.<br />“Lilith’s child assures us he has him well in hand, and indeed he seems obedient.”<br />A dry, insectile chuckle. “You young ones are too consumed with worry. The Nephilim<br />have long kept this world from us. Its riches are great. We will drink it dry and leave it as<br />ashes. As for the angel boy, he will be the last of his kind to die. We will burn him on a<br />pyre until he is only golden bones.”<br />Rage rose in Clary. She sucked in a breath—a tiny sound, but a sound. The demon<br />nearest her jerked its head up. For a moment Clary froze, trapped in the glare of its<br />mirrored black eyes.<br />Then she turned and ran. Ran, back toward the entryway and the stairs and their path<br />up into darkness. She could hear commotion behind her, the creatures screaming, and<br />then the slithering, skittering noise of them coming after her. She cast one glance over<br />her shoulder and realized she wasn’t going to make it. Despite her head start, they were<br />almost on her.<br />She could hear her own harsh breathing, sawing in and out, as she reached the<br />archway, spun, and leaped to catch hold of it with her hands. She swung herself forward<br />with all her force, her booted feet driving into the first of the demons, knocking it<br />backward as it shrilled loudly. Still dangling, she caught at the handle of one of the<br />crossed axes below the skull and yanked.<br />Stuck fast, it didn’t move.<br />She closed her eyes, gripped it tighter, and with all her strength, pulled.<br />The axe came away from the wall with a rending sound, showering down rocks and<br />mortar. Unbalanced, Clary fell, and landed in a crouch, the axe held out in front of her. It<br />was heavy, but she barely felt it. It was happening again, what had happened in the junk<br />shop. The slowing of time, the increased intensity of sensation. She could feel every<br />whisper of the air against her skin, every unevenness of the ground under her feet. She<br />braced herself as the first of the demons scuttled through the doorway and reared back<br />like a tarantula, its legs pawing the air above her. Beneath the tentacles on its face were<br />a pair of long, dripping fangs.<br />The axe in her hand seemed to swing forward of its own accord, sinking deep into the<br />creature’s chest. She immediately remembered Jace telling her not to go for the chest<br />wound but for the decapitation. Not all demons had hearts. But in this case she was<br />lucky. She had struck either the heart or some other vital organ. The creature thrashed<br />and squealed; blood bubbled up around the wound, and then it vanished, leaving her to<br />reel back a step, her ichor-slicked weapon in her hand. The demon’s blood was black and<br />stinking, like tar.<br />As the next one lunged for her, she ducked low, swinging out with the axe and slicing<br />through several of its legs. Howling, it tipped sideways like a broken chair; already the<br />next demon was trampling over its body, trying to get to her. She swung again, her axe<br />burying itself in the creature’s face. Ichor sprayed and she darted backward, pressing<br />herself up against the stairwell. If one of them got around behind her, she was dead.<br />Maddened, the demon whose face she’d slashed open lurched at her again; she swung<br />out with her axe, severing one of its legs, but another leg wrapped itself around her wrist.<br />Hot agony shot up her arm. She screamed and tried to wrench her hand back, but the<br />demon’s grip was too strong. It felt as if thousands of hot needles were stabbing into her<br />skin. Still screaming, she drove out with her left arm, slamming her fist into the creature’s<br />face, where her axe had already sliced it. The demon gave a hiss and loosed its grip<br />fractionally; she wrenched her hand free just as it reared back—<br />And out of nowhere a shimmering blade drove down, burying itself in the demon’s skull.<br />As she stared, the demon vanished, and she saw her brother, a blazing seraph blade in<br />his hand, ichor splattered across his white shirtfront. Behind him the room was empty<br />save for the body of one of the demons, still twitching, but with black fluid pouring from<br />its severed leg stumps like oil from a smashed car.<br />Sebastian. She stared at him in amazement. Had he just saved her life?<br />“Get away from me, Sebastian,” she hissed.<br />He didn’t seem to hear her. “Your arm.”<br />She glanced down at her right wrist, still throbbing in agony. A thick band of saucershaped<br />wounds encircled it where the demon’s suckers had fastened themselves to her<br />skin. Already the wounds were darkening, turning a sickening blue-black.<br />She looked back up at her brother. His white hair looked like a halo in the darkness. Or<br />it might have been the fact that her vision was going. Light was haloing around the green<br />torch on the wall too, and around the seraph blade burning in Sebastian’s hand. He was<br />talking, but his words were blurred, indistinct, as if he were speaking underwater.<br />“… deadly poison,” he was saying. “What the hell were you thinking, Clarissa?” His<br />voice faded out, and back in again. She struggled to focus. “… to fight off six Dahak<br />demons with an ornamental axe—”<br />“Poison,” she repeated, and for a moment his face came clear again, the lines of strain<br />around his mouth and eyes pronounced and startling. “So I guess you didn’t save my life<br />after all, did you?”<br />Her hand spasmed, and the axe slid out of her grip, clattering to the ground. She felt<br />her sweater catch on the rough wall as she began to slide down it, wanting nothing more<br />than to lie on the floor. But Sebastian wouldn’t let her rest. His arms were under hers,<br />lifting her up, and then he was carrying her, her good arm slung around his neck. She<br />wanted to struggle away from him, but her energy had deserted her. She felt a stinging<br />pain on the inside of her elbow, a burn—the touch of a stele. Numbness spread through<br />her veins. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the face of the skull in<br />the archway. She could have sworn its hollow eyes were full of laughter.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-6094648617120257582013-02-19T05:45:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.188-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 13<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />As the serpent’s head drove down toward Clary, a shining blur slashed across it, almost<br />blinding her. A seraph blade, its shimmering knife edge slicing the demon’s head cleanly<br />off. The head crumpled, spraying venom and ichor; Clary rolled to one side, but some of<br />the toxic substance splattered onto her torso. The demon vanished before its two halves<br />could strike the floor. Clary bit down on her cry of pain and moved to get to her feet. A<br />hand was suddenly thrust into her field of vision—an offer to pull her to her feet. Jace,<br />she thought, but as she looked up, she realized she was staring at her brother.<br />“Come on,” said Sebastian, his hand still out. “There are more of them.”<br />She grabbed his hand and let him lift her to her feet. He was splattered with demon<br />blood too—blackish-green stuff that burned where it touched, leaving scorched patches<br />on his clothing. As she stared at him, one of the snake-headed things—Elapid demons,<br />she realized belatedly, remembering an illustration in a book—reared up behind him, its<br />neck flattening out like a cobra’s. Without thinking, Clary grabbed his shoulder and<br />shoved him out of the way, hard; he staggered back as the demon struck, and Clary rose<br />to meet it with the dagger she had yanked from her belt. She turned her body aside as<br />she drove the dagger home, avoiding the creature’s fangs; its hiss turned to a gurgle as<br />the blade sank in and she dragged it down, gutting the creature open the way someone<br />might gut a fish. Burning demon blood exploded over her hand in a hot torrent. She<br />screamed but kept her grip on the dagger as the Elapid winked out of existence.<br />She whirled around. Sebastian was fighting another of the Elapids by the door of the<br />shop; Jace was fending off two next to a display of antique ceramics. Shards of pottery<br />littered the floor. Clary swung her arm back and threw the dagger, as Jace had taught her<br />to. It soared through the air and struck one of the creatures in the side, sending it<br />jittering and squeaking away from Jace. Jace whirled around and, seeing her, winked<br />before reaching up to scissor off the head of the remaining Elapid demon. Its body<br />collapsed as it vanished and Jace, splattered in black blood, grinned.<br />A surge of something went through Clary—a sense of buzzing elation. Both Jace and<br />Isabelle had spoken to her of the high of battle, but she’d never really experienced it<br />before. Now she did. She felt all-powerful, her veins humming, strength uncoiling from the<br />base of her spine. Everything seemed to have slowed down around her. She watched as<br />the injured Elapid demon spun and turned on her, racing toward her on its insectile feet,<br />lips already curling back from its fangs. She stepped back, yanked the antique flag from<br />its mounting place on the wall, and slammed the end of it into the Elapid’s open, gaping<br />mouth. The pole punched out through the back of the creature’s skull, and the Elapid<br />disappeared, taking the flag with it.<br />Clary laughed out loud. Sebastian, who had just finished off another demon, swung<br />around at the noise, and his eyes widened. “Clary! Stop him!” he shouted, and she spun<br />around to see Mirek, his hands fumbling at a door set into the back of the shop.<br />She broke into a run, yanking the seraph blade from her belt as she went. “Nakir!” she<br />cried, vaulting up onto the counter, and she flung herself from the top of it as her weapon<br />exploded into brightness. She landed on the Vetis demon, knocking him to the ground.<br />One of his eel-like arms snapped at her, and she sliced it off with a sawing motion of her<br />blade. More black blood sprayed. The demon looked at her with red, frightened eyes.<br />“Stop,” he wheezed. “I could give you whatever you want—”<br />“ I have everything I want,” she whispered, and drove her seraph blade down. It<br />plunged into the demon’s chest, and Mirek disappeared with a hollow cry. Clary thumped<br />to her knees on the carpet.<br />A moment later two heads appeared over the side of the counter, staring down at her—<br />one golden-blond and one silver-blond. Jace and Sebastian. Jace was wide-eyed;<br />Sebastian looked pale. “Name of the Angel, Clary,” he breathed. “The adamas—”<br />“Oh, that stuff you wanted? It’s right here.” It had rolled partly under the counter. Clary<br />held it up now, a luminous chunk of silver, smeared where her bloody hands had touched<br />it.<br />Sebastian swore with relief and grabbed the adamas out of her hands as Jace vaulted<br />over the counter in a single movement and landed beside Clary. He knelt down and<br />pulled her close, running his hands over her, his eyes dark with concern. She caught at his<br />wrists.<br />“I’m all right,” she said. Her heart was pounding, her blood still singing in her veins. He<br />opened his mouth to say something, but she leaned forward and put her hands on either<br />side of his face, her nails digging in. “I feel good.” She looked at him, rumpled and sweaty<br />and bloody as he was, and wanted to kiss him. She wanted—<br />“All right, you two,” said Sebastian. Clary pulled away from Jace and glanced up at her<br />brother. He was grinning down at them, lazily spinning the adamas in one hand.<br />“Tomorrow we use this,” he said, nodding toward it. “But tonight—once we’re cleaned up<br />a little—we celebrate.”<br />Simon padded barefoot out into the living room, Isabelle behind him, to find a surprising<br />tableau. The circle and the pentagram in the center of the floor were shining with a bright<br />silver light, like mercury. Smoke rose from the center of it, a tall black-red column, tipped<br />with white. The whole room smelled of burning. Magnus and Alec stood outside the circle,<br />and with them Jordan and Maia, who—given the coats and hats they were wearing—<br />looked as if they had just arrived.<br />“What’s going on?” Isabelle asked, stretching her long limbs with a yawn. “Why is<br />everyone watching the Pentagram Channel?”<br />“Just hang on a second,” Alec said grimly. “You’ll see.”<br />Isabelle shrugged and added her gaze to the others’. As everyone watched, the white<br />smoke began to swirl, fast and then faster, a mini-tornado that tore across the center of<br />the pentagram, leaving words behind it spelled out in scorch marks:<br />HAVE YOU MADE YOUR DECISION YET?<br />“Huh,” Simon said. “Has it been doing that all morning?”<br />Magnus threw his arms up. He was wearing leather pants and a shirt with a zigzag<br />metallic lightning bolt on it. “All night, too.”<br />“Just asking the same question over and over?”<br />“No, it says different things. Sometimes it swears. Azazel appears to be having some<br />fun.”<br />“Can it hear us?” Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Hey, there, demon guy.”<br />The fiery letters rearranged themselves. HELLO, WEREWOLF.<br />Jordan took a step back and looked at Magnus. “Is this… normal?”<br />Magnus seemed deeply unhappy. “It is most decidedly not normal. I have never called<br />up a demon as powerful as Azazel, but even so—I’ve been through the literature, and I<br />can’t find an example of this happening before. It’s getting out of control.”<br />“Azazel must be sent back,” Alec said. “Like, permanently sent back.” He shook his<br />head. “Maybe Jocelyn was right. No good can come from summoning demons.”<br />“I’m pretty sure I came from someone summoning a demon,” Magnus noted. “Alec, I’ve<br />done this hundreds of times. I don’t know why this time would be different.”<br />“Azazel can’t get out, can he?” said Isabelle. “Of the pentagram, I mean.”<br />“No,” said Magnus, “but he shouldn’t be able to be doing any of the other things he’s<br />doing either.”<br />Jordan leaned forward, his hands on his blue-jeaned knees. “What’s it like being in Hell,<br />dude?” he asked. “Hot or cold? I’ve heard both.”<br />There was no reply.<br />“Good job, Jordan,” said Maia. “I think you annoyed him.”<br />Jordan poked at the edge of the pentagram. “Can it tell the future? So, pentagram, is<br />our band going to make it big?”<br />“It’s a demon from Hell, not a Magic Eight Ball, Jordan,” said Magnus irritably. “And stay<br />away from the borders of the pentagram. Summon a demon and trap it in a pentagram,<br />and it can’t get out to harm you. But step into the pentagram, and you’ve put yourself in<br />the demon’s range of power—”<br />At that moment the pillar of smoke began to coalesce. Magnus’s head whipped up, and<br />Alec stood, almost knocking over his chair, as the smoke took on the form of Azazel. His<br />suit formed first—a gray and silver pinstripe, with elegant cuffs—and then he seemed to<br />fill it out, his flame eyes the last thing to appear. He looked around him in evident<br />pleasure. “The gang’s all here, I see,” he said. “So, have you come to a decision?”<br />“We have,” said Magnus. “I don’t believe we’ll be requiring your services. Thanks<br />anyway.”<br />There was a silence.<br />“You can go now.” Magnus wiggled his fingers in a goodbye wave. “Ta.”<br />“I don’t think so,” Azazel said pleasantly, whipping out his handkerchief and buffing his<br />nails with it. “I think I’ll stay. I like it here.”<br />Magnus sighed and said something to Alec, who went to the table and returned<br />carrying a book, which he handed to the warlock. Magnus flipped it open and began to<br />read. “Damned spirit, begone. Return thou to the realm of smoke and flame, of ash and<br />—”<br />“That won’t work on me,” said the demon in a bored voice. “Go ahead and try, if you<br />like. I’ll still be here.”<br />Magnus looked at him with eyes smoldering with rage. “You can’t force us to bargain<br />with you.”<br />“I can try. It’s hardly as if I have anything better to occupy—”<br />Azazel broke off as a familiar shape streaked through the room. It was Chairman Meow,<br />hot on the heels of what looked like a mouse. As everyone watched in surprise and<br />horror, the small cat dashed through the outline of the pentagram—and Simon, acting on<br />instinct rather than rational thought, jumped into the pentagram after him and scooped<br />him up into his arms.<br />“Simon!” He knew without turning around that it was Isabelle, her cry reflexive. He<br />turned to look at her as she clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at him with<br />wide eyes. They were all staring. Izzy’s face was drained white with horror, and even<br />Magnus looked unsettled.<br />Summon a demon and trap it in a pentagram, and it can’t get out to harm you. But step<br />into the pentagram, and you’ve put yourself in the demon’s range of power.<br />Simon felt a tap on his shoulder. He dropped Chairman Meow as he turned, and the<br />small cat streaked out of the pentagram and across the room to hide under a sofa. Simon<br />looked up. The massive face of Azazel loomed over him. This close, he could see the<br />cracks in the demon’s skin, like cracks in marble, and the flames deep in Azazel’s pitted<br />eyes. When Azazel smiled, Simon saw that each of his teeth was tipped with a needle of<br />iron.<br />Azazel exhaled. A cloud of hot sulfur spread around Simon. He was dimly aware of<br />Magnus’s voice, rising and falling in a chant, and Isabelle screaming something as the<br />demon’s hands clamped around his arms. Azazel lifted Simon off the ground so his feet<br />were dangling in the air—and threw him.<br />Or tried to. His hands slipped off Simon; Simon dropped to the ground in a crouch as<br />Azazel shot backward and seemed to hit an invisible barrier. There was a sound like stone<br />shattering. Azazel slid to his knees, then painfully rose to his feet. He looked up with a<br />roar, teeth flashing, and stalked toward Simon—who, realizing belatedly what was going<br />on, reached up with a shaking hand and pushed the hair back from his forehead.<br />Azazel stopped in his tracks. His hands, the nails tipped with the same sharp iron as his<br />teeth, curled in toward his sides. “Wanderer,” he breathed. “Is it you?”<br />Simon stayed frozen. Magnus was still chanting softly in the background, but everyone<br />else was silent. Simon was afraid to look around, to catch the eye of any of his friends.<br />Clary and Jace, he thought, had already seen the work of the Mark, its blazing fire. No<br />one else had. No wonder they were wordless.<br />“No,” Azazel said, his fiery eyes narrowing. “No, you are too young, and the world too<br />old. But who would dare place Heaven’s mark on a vampire? And why?”<br />Simon lowered his hand. “Touch me again and find out,” he said.<br />Azazel gave a rumbling sound—half laughter, half disgust. “I think not,” he said. “If you<br />have been dabbling in bending the will of Heaven, even my freedom is not worth<br />gambling for by allying my fate with yours.” He glanced around the room. “You are all<br />madmen. Good luck, human children. You will need it.”<br />And he vanished in a burst of flame, leaving searing black smoke—and the stink of<br />sulfur—behind.<br />“Hold still,” Jace said, taking the Herondale dagger in his hand and using the tip of it to<br />slice Clary’s shirt open from the collar to the hem. He took the two halves of it and<br />pushed them gingerly off her shoulders, leaving her sitting on the edge of the sink in just<br />her jeans and a camisole. Most of the ichor and venom had gotten on her jeans and coat,<br />but the fragile silk shirt was trashed. Jace dropped it into the sink, where it sizzled in the<br />water, and applied his stele to her shoulder, tracing the outlines of the healing rune<br />lightly.<br />She closed her eyes, feeling the burn of the rune, and then a rush as the relief from<br />pain spread up her arms and down her back. It was like Novocain, but without making her<br />numb.<br />“Better?” Jace asked.<br />She opened her eyes. “Much.” It wasn’t perfect—the irazte didn’t have much effect on<br />burns caused by demon venom, but those tended to heal quickly on Shadowhunter skin.<br />As it was, they stung only a little, and Clary, still feeling the high of the battle, barely<br />noticed it. “Your turn?”<br />He grinned and offered her the stele. They were in the back of the antiques store.<br />Sebastian had gone to lock up and dim the lights up front, lest they attract mundane<br />attention. He was excited about “celebrating” and when he had left them, had been<br />debating whether to go back to the apartment and change, or straight to the nightclub in<br />the Malá Strana.<br />If there was a part of Clary that felt the wrongness of it, the idea of celebrating<br />anything, it was lost in the humming of her blood. Amazing that it had taken fighting<br />alongside Sebastian of all people to flip the switch inside her that seemed to turn her<br />Shadowhunter instincts on. She wanted to leap tall buildings in a single bound, do a<br />hundred flips, learn to scissor her blades the way Jace did. Instead she took the stele<br />from him and said, “Take your shirt off, then.”<br />He pulled it over his head, and she tried to look unaffected. He had a long cut along his<br />side, angry purple-red along the edges, and the burns of demon blood across his<br />collarbone and right shoulder. Still, he was the most beautiful person she had ever<br />known. Pale gold skin, broad shoulders, narrow waist and hips, that thin line of golden<br />hair that ran from his navel to the waistband of his jeans. She pulled her eyes away from<br />him and set the stele to his shoulder, industriously carving into his skin what had to be<br />the millionth healing rune he’d ever gotten.<br />“Good?” she asked when she was finished.<br />“Mmm-hmm.” He leaned in, and she could smell the scent of him—blood and charcoal,<br />sweat, and the cheap soap they’d found by the sink. “I liked that,” he said. “Didn’t you?<br />Fighting together like that?”<br />“It was… intense.” He was standing between her legs already; he moved closer, fingers<br />looping into the waistband of her jeans. Her hands fluttered to his shoulders, and she saw<br />the gleam of the gold leaf-ring on her finger. It sobered her slightly. Don’t get distracted;<br />don’t get lost in this. This isn’t Jace, isn’t Jace, isn’t Jace.<br />His lips brushed hers. “I thought it was incredible. You were incredible.”<br />“Jace,” she whispered, and then there was a banging on the door. Jace let go of her in<br />surprise, and she slid backward, knocking into the faucet, which immediately turned on,<br />spraying them both with water. She yelped with surprise, and Jace burst out laughing,<br />turning to throw the door open as Clary twisted around to turn the faucet off.<br />It was Sebastian, of course. He looked remarkably clean, considering what they’d been<br />through. He’d discarded his stained leather jacket in favor of an antique military coat,<br />which, thrown over his T-shirt, lent him a look of thrift-store chic. He was carrying<br />something in his hands, something black and shiny.<br />He raised his eyebrows.<br />“Is there a reason you just threw my sister into the sink?”’<br />“I was sweeping her off her feet,” said Jace, bending down to grab his shirt. He yanked<br />it back on. Like Sebastian’s, his outerwear had sustained most of the damage, though<br />there was a rip down the side of the shirt where a demon’s claw had slashed through.<br />“I brought you something to wear,” said Sebastian, handing the shiny black thing to<br />Clary, who had wriggled out of the sink and was now standing, dripping soapy water onto<br />the tiled floor. “It’s vintage. It looks about your size.”<br />Startled, Clary handed Jace back his stele and took the proffered garment. It was a<br />dress—a slip, really—jet-black, with elaborately beaded straps and a lace hem. The<br />straps were adjustable, and the fabric was stretchy enough that she suspected Sebastian<br />was right, it probably would fit her. Part of her didn’t like the idea of wearing something<br />Sebastian had picked, but she couldn’t exactly go out to a club in an unraveling camisole<br />and a pair of soaking-wet jeans. “Thanks,” she said finally. “All right, both of you get out<br />of here while I change.”<br />They left, closing the door behind them. She could hear them, raised boys’ voices, and<br />though she couldn’t hear the words, she could tell they were joking with each other.<br />Comfortably. Familiarly. It was so strange, she thought as she shucked off her jeans and<br />cami and slipped the dress over her head. Jace, who hardly ever opened up to anyone,<br />was laughing and joking around with Sebastian.<br />She turned to look at herself in the mirror. The black washed the color out of her skin,<br />made her eyes look big and dark and her hair redder, her arms and legs long and thin and<br />pale. Her eyes were smudged with dark shadow. The boots she had been wearing under<br />her jeans added a certain toughness to the outfit. She wasn’t sure if she looked pretty<br />exactly, but she sure looked like she was someone who shouldn’t be messed with.<br />She wondered if Isabelle would approve.<br />She unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out. She was in the dim back of the<br />store, where all the junk that wasn’t housed up front had been tossed carelessly. A velvet<br />curtain separated it from the rest of the establishment. Jace and Sebastian were on the<br />other side of the curtain, talking, though she still couldn’t make out the words. She pulled<br />the curtain aside and stepped out.<br />The lights were on, though the metal awning had been lowered over the glass front of<br />the store, rendering the inside invisible to passersby. Sebastian was going through the<br />stuff on the shelves, his long careful hands taking down object after object, subjecting<br />them to a cursory inspection, and placing them back on the shelf.<br />Jace was the first one to see Clary. She saw his eyes spark, and remembered the first<br />time he had seen her dressed up, wearing Isabelle’s clothes, on her way to Magnus’s<br />party. As they had then, his eyes traveled slowly from the boots, up her legs, hips, waist,<br />chest, and came to rest on her face. He smiled lazily.<br />“I could point out that that’s not a dress, that’s underwear,” he said, “but I doubt it<br />would be in my best interest.”<br />“Need I remind you,” said Sebastian, “that that is my sister?”<br />“Most brothers would be delighted to see such a clean-cut gentleman as myself squiring<br />their sisters about town,” said Jace, grabbing an army jacket off one of the racks and<br />sliding his arms into it.<br />“Squiring?” Clary echoed. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a rogue and a rake.”<br />“And then it’s pistols at dawn,” said Sebastian, striding toward the velvet curtain. “I’ll<br />be right back. I’ve got to wash the blood out of my hair.”<br />“Fussy, fussy,” Jace called after him with a grin, then reached for Clary and pulled her<br />against him. His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Remember when we went to Magnus’s<br />party? You came out into the lobby with Isabelle, and Simon almost had an apoplectic<br />fit?”<br />“Funny, I was thinking about the same thing.” She tipped her head back to look up at<br />him. “I don’t remember you saying anything at the time about the way I looked.”<br />His fingers slid under the straps of her slip dress, the tips brushing her skin. “I didn’t<br />think you liked me much. And I didn’t think a detailed description of all the things I<br />wanted to do to you, delivered in front of an audience, would have been the thing to<br />change your mind.”<br />“You didn’t think I liked you?” Her voice rose incredulously. “Jace, when has a girl ever<br />not liked you?”<br />He shrugged. “Doubtless the lunatic asylums of the world are filled with unfortunate<br />women who have failed to see my charms.”<br />A question hovered on the tip of her tongue, one she had always wanted to ask him but<br />never had. After all, what did it really matter what he’d done before he met her? As if he<br />could read the expression on her face, his golden eyes softened slightly.<br />“I never cared what girls thought about me,” he said. “Not before you.”<br />Before you. Clary’s voice shook a little. “Jace, I wondered—”<br />“Your verbal foreplay is boring and annoying,” said Sebastian, reappearing around the<br />velvet curtain, his silver hair damp and tousled. “Ready to go?”<br />Clary stepped free of Jace, blushing; Jace looked unruffled. “We’re the ones who’ve<br />been waiting for you.”<br />“Looks like you found a way to pass the agonizing time. Now come on. Let’s go. I’m<br />telling you, you’re going to love this place.”<br />“I am never getting my security deposit back,” said Magnus glumly. He sat on top of the<br />table, among the pizza boxes and coffee mugs, watching as the rest of Team Good did<br />their best to clean up the destruction left by Azazel’s appearance—the smoking holes<br />pocked into the walls, the sulfurous black goo dripping from the ceiling pipes, the ash and<br />other grainy black substances ground into the floor. Chairman Meow was stretched across<br />the warlock’s lap, purring. Magnus was off cleaning duty because he’d allowed his<br />apartment to be half-destroyed; Simon was off cleaning duty because after the<br />pentagram incident no one seemed to know quite what to make of him. He’d tried to talk<br />to Isabelle, but she’d only shaken her mop at him in a threatening manner.<br />“I have an idea,” Simon said. He was sitting next to Magnus, his elbows on his knees.<br />“But you’re not going to like it.”<br />“I have a feeling you’re right, Sherwin.”<br />“Simon. My name is Simon.”<br />“Whatever.” Magnus waved a slender hand. “What’s your idea?”<br />“I’ve got the Mark of Cain,” said Simon. “That means nothing can kill me, right?”<br />“You can kill yourself,” Magnus said, somewhat unhelpfully. “As far as I know,<br />inanimate objects can accidentally kill you. So if you were planning on teaching yourself<br />the lambada on a greased platform over a pit full of knives, I wouldn’t.”<br />“There goes my Saturday.”<br />“But nothing else can kill you,” Magnus said. His eyes had drifted away from Simon,<br />and he was watching Alec, who appeared to be battling a Swiffer. “Why?”<br />“What happened in the pentagram, with Azazel, made me think,” said Simon. “You said<br />summoning angels is more dangerous than summoning demons, because they might<br />smite down the person who summoned them, or scorch them with heavenly fire. But if I<br />did it…” His voice trailed off. “Well, I’d be safe, wouldn’t I?”<br />That snapped Magnus’s attention back. “You? Summon an angel?”<br />“You could show me how,” said Simon. “I know I’m not a warlock, but Valentine did it.<br />If he did it, shouldn’t I be able to? I mean, there are humans who can do magic.”<br />“I couldn’t promise you’d live,” Magnus said, but there was a spark of interest in his<br />voice that belied the warning. “The Mark is Heaven’s protection, but does it protect you<br />against Heaven itself? I don’t know the answer.”<br />“I didn’t think you did. But you agree that out of all of us I probably have the best<br />chance, right?”<br />Magnus looked over at Maia, who was splashing dirty water at Jordan and laughing as<br />he twisted away, yelping. She pushed her curling hair back, leaving a dark streak of dirt<br />across her forehead. She looked young. “Yes,” Magnus said reluctantly. “Probably you<br />do.”<br />“Who is your father?” asked Simon.<br />Magnus’s eyes went back to Alec. They were gold-green, as unreadable as the eyes of<br />the cat he held on his lap. “Not my favorite topic, Smedley.”<br />“Simon,” said Simon. “If I’m going to die for you all, the least you could do is remember<br />my name.”<br />“You’re not dying for me,” said Magnus. “If it weren’t for Alec, I’d be…”<br />“You’d be where?”<br />“I had a dream,” Magnus said, his eyes distant. “I saw a city all of blood, with towers<br />made of bone, and blood ran in the streets like water. Maybe you can save Jace,<br />Daylighter, but you can’t save the world. The darkness is coming. ‘A land of darkness, as<br />darkness itself; and of the shadow of death, without any order, and where the light is as<br />darkness.’ If it weren’t for Alec, I’d be gone from here.”<br />“Where would you go?”<br />“Hide. Wait for it to blow over. I’m not a hero.” Magnus picked up Chairman Meow and<br />dumped him onto the floor.<br />“You love Alec enough to stick around,” said Simon. “That’s kind of heroic.”<br />“You loved Clary enough to wreck your whole life for her,” said Magnus with a<br />bitterness that was not characteristic of him. “See where that got you.” He raised his<br />voice. “All right, everybody. Get over here. Sheldon’s had an idea.”<br />“Who’s Sheldon?” said Isabelle.<br />The streets of Prague were cold and dark, and though Clary kept her ichor-burned coat<br />wrapped around her shoulders, she found the icy air cutting into the buzzing hum in her<br />veins, muting the leftover high from the battle. She bought a cup of hot wine to keep the<br />buzz going, wrapping her hands around it for warmth as she, Jace, and Sebastian lost<br />themselves in a twisting labyrinth of ever narrower, ever darker ancient streets. There<br />were no street signs or names, and no other pedestrians; the only constant was the moon<br />moving through thick clouds overhead. At last a shallow flight of stone steps took them<br />down into a tiny square, one side of which was lit by a flashing neon sign that said KOSTI<br />LUSTR. Below the sign was an open door, a blank spot in the wall that looked like a<br />missing tooth.<br />“What does that mean, ‘Kosti Lustr’?” Clary asked.<br />“It means ‘The Bone Chandelier.’ It’s the name of the nightclub,” said Sebastian,<br />sauntering forward. His pale hair reflected the changing neon colors of the sign: hot red,<br />cold blue, metallic gold. “You coming?”<br />A wall of sound and light hit Clary the moment she entered the club. It was a big,<br />tightly packed space that looked like it had once been the interior of a church. She could<br />still see stained-glass windows high up in the walls. Darting colored spotlights picked out<br />the blissed-out faces of dancers in the churning crowd, lighting them up one at a time:<br />hot pink, neon green, burning violet. There was a DJ booth along one wall, and trance<br />music blasted from the speakers. The music pounded up through her feet, into her blood,<br />vibrating her bones. The room was hot with the press of bodies and the smell of sweat<br />and smoke and beer.<br />She was about to turn and ask Jace if he wanted to dance, when she felt a hand on her<br />back. It was Sebastian. She tensed but didn’t pull away. “Come on,” he said into her ear.<br />“We’re not staying up here with the hoi polloi.”<br />His hand was like iron pressing against her spine. She let him propel her forward,<br />through the dancers; the crowd seemed to part to let them through, people looking up to<br />glance at Sebastian, then dropping their gazes, backing away. The heat increased, and<br />Clary was almost gasping by the time they reached the far side of the room. There was<br />an archway there that she hadn’t noticed before. A set of worn stone steps led downward,<br />curving away into darkness.<br />She glanced up as Sebastian took his hand away from her back. Light blazed around<br />them. Jace had taken out his witchlight rune-stone. He grinned at her, his face all angles<br />and shadows in the harsh, focused light.<br />“‘Easy is the descent,’” he said.<br />Clary shivered. She knew the whole phrase. Easy is the descent into Hell.<br />“Come on.” Sebastian jerked his head, and then he was moving downward, graceful<br />and sure-footed, not worried about slipping on the age-smoothed stones. Clary followed a<br />little more slowly. The air grew cooler as they went down, and the sound of the pounding<br />music faded. She could hear their breathing, and see their shadows thrown, distorted and<br />spindly, against the walls.<br />She heard the new music before they reached the bottom of the stairs. It had an even<br />more insistent beat than the music in the club upstairs; it shot through her ears and into<br />her veins and spun her around. She was almost dizzy by the time they reached the last of<br />the stairs and stepped out into a massive room that stole her breath.<br />Everything was stone, the walls bumpy and uneven, the floor smooth beneath their<br />feet. A massive statue of a black-winged angel rose along the far wall, its head lost in<br />shadows far above, its wings dripping strings of garnets that looked like drops of blood.<br />Explosions of color and light burst like cherry bombs throughout the room, nothing like<br />the artificial light upstairs—these were beautiful, sparkling like fireworks, and every time<br />one burst, it rained down a glittering shimmer onto the dancing crowd below. Huge<br />marble fountains sprayed sparkling water; black rose petals drifted onto the surface. And<br />far above everything, dangling down above the packed floor of dancers on a long golden<br />cord, was a massive chandelier made of bones.<br />It was as intricate as it was gruesome. The main body of the chandelier was formed by<br />spinal columns, fused together; femurs and tibias dripped like decoration from the arms<br />of the fixture, which swooped up to cradle human skulls, each holding a massive taper.<br />Black wax dripped like demon blood to spatter on the dancers below, none of whom<br />seemed to notice. And the dancers themselves—whirling and spinning and clapping—<br />none of them were human.<br />“Werewolves and vampires,” said Sebastian, answering Clary’s unasked question. “In<br />Prague they’re allies. This is where they… relax.” A hot breeze was blowing through the<br />room, like desert wind; it lifted his silvery hair and blew it across his eyes, hiding their<br />expression.<br />Clary wriggled out of her coat and held it pressed against her chest almost like a shield.<br />She looked around with wide eyes. She could sense the nonhuman-ness of the others in<br />the room, the vampires with their pallor and their swift and languid grace, the<br />werewolves fierce and fast. Most were young, dancing close, writhing up and down each<br />other’s bodies. “But—won’t they mind us being here? Nephilim?”<br />“They know me,” said Sebastian. “And they’ll know you’re with me.” He reached out<br />and tugged the coat out of her grip. “I’ll go get that hung up for you.”<br />“Sebastian—,” But he was gone, into the crowd.<br />She looked at Jace beside her. He had his thumbs hooked into his belt and was looking<br />around with casual interest. “Vampire coat check?” she said.<br />“Why not?” Jace smiled. “You’ll notice he didn’t offer to take my coat. Chivalry is dead, I<br />tell you.” He tipped his head to the side at her quizzical expression. “Whatever. There’s<br />probably someone he has to talk to here.”<br />“So this isn’t just for fun?”<br />“Sebastian never does anything just for fun.” Jace took her hands and pulled her<br />toward him. “But I do.”<br />To Simon’s complete lack of surprise, no one was enthusiastic about his plan. There was<br />a loud chorus of disapproval, followed by a clamor of voices trying to talk him out of it,<br />and questions, mostly directed at Magnus, about the safety of the whole enterprise.<br />Simon rested his elbows on his knees and waited it out.<br />Eventually he felt a soft touch on his arm. He turned, and to his surprise it was Isabelle.<br />She gestured at him to follow her.<br />They wound up in the shadows near one of the pillars as the argument raged behind<br />them. Since Isabelle had initially been one of the loudest dissenters, he braced himself for<br />her to yell at him. However, she only looked at him with her mouth tight. “Okay,” he said<br />finally, hating the silence. “I guess you’re not pleased with me right now.”<br />“You guess? I’d kick your butt, vampire, but I don’t want to ruin my expensive new<br />boots.”<br />“Isabelle—”<br />“I’m not your girlfriend.”<br />“Right,” Simon said, though he couldn’t help a twinge of disappointment. “I know that.”<br />“And I’ve never begrudged you the time you’ve spent with Clary. I even encouraged it. I<br />know how much you care about her. And how much she cares about you. But this—this is<br />an insane risk you’re talking about taking. Are you sure?”<br />Simon looked around—at Magnus’s messy apartment, the small group in the corner<br />arguing about his fate. “This isn’t just about Clary.”<br />“Well, it isn’t about your mother, is it?” Isabelle said. “That she called you a monster?<br />You don’t have anything to prove, Simon. That’s her problem, not yours.”<br />“It’s not like that. Jace saved my life. I owe him.”<br />Isabelle looked surprised. “You’re not doing this just to pay Jace back, are you?<br />Because I think by now everyone’s pretty even.”<br />“No, not completely,” he said. “Look, we all know the situation. Sebastian can’t be<br />running around loose. It isn’t safe. The Clave is right about that much. But if he dies, Jace<br />dies. And if Jace dies, Clary…”<br />“She’ll survive,” Isabelle said, her voice quick and hard. “She’s tough and strong.”<br />“She’ll hurt. Maybe forever. I don’t want her to hurt like that. I don’t want you to hurt<br />like that.”<br />Isabelle crossed her arms. “Of course not. But do you think she won’t be hurt, Simon, if<br />something happens to you?”<br />Simon bit his lip. He actually hadn’t thought about it. Not like that. “What about you?”<br />“What about me?”<br />“Will you be hurt if something happens to me?”<br />She kept looking at him, her back straight, her chin steady. But her eyes were shining.<br />“Yes.”<br />“But you want me to help Jace.”<br />“Yes. I want that, too.”<br />“You have to let me do this,” he said. “It’s not just for Jace, or for you and Clary,<br />though you’re all a big part of it. It’s because I believe darkness is coming. I believe<br />Magnus when he says it. I believe Raphael is truly afraid of a war. I believe we’re seeing<br />a small piece of Sebastian’s plan, but I don’t think it’s any coincidence he took Jace with<br />him when he went. Or that he and Jace are linked. He knows we need Jace to win a war.<br />He knows what Jace is.”<br />Isabelle didn’t deny it. “You’re just as brave as Jace.”<br />“Maybe,” said Simon. “But I’m not Nephilim. I can’t do what he can do. And I don’t<br />mean as much to as many people.”<br />“Special destinies and special torments,” Isabelle whispered. “Simon—you mean a lot<br />to me.”<br />He reached out, and lightly cupped her cheek. “You’re a warrior, Iz. It’s what you do.<br />It’s what you are. But if you can’t fight Sebastian because hurting him would hurt Jace,<br />you can’t fight the war. And if you have to kill Jace to win the war, I think it’ll kill part of<br />your soul. And I don’t want to see that, not if I could do something to change it.”<br />She swallowed. “It’s not fair,” she said. “That it has to be you—”<br />“This is my choice, to do this. Jace doesn’t have a choice. If he dies, it’s for something<br />he didn’t have anything to do with, not really.”<br />Isabelle expelled a breath. She uncrossed her arms and took him by the elbow. “All<br />right,” she said. “Let’s go.”<br />She steered him back toward the group, who broke off their argument and stared when<br />she cleared her throat, as if they hadn’t quite realized the two of them had been missing<br />until this moment.<br />“That’s enough,” she said. “Simon has made his decision, and it’s his decision to make.<br />He’s going to summon Raziel. And we’re going to help him in any way we can.”<br />They danced. Clary tried to lose herself in the pounding beat of the music, the rush of<br />blood in her veins, the way she had once been able to do at Pandemonium with Simon.<br />Of course Simon had been a fairly terrible dancer, and Jace was an excellent dancer. She<br />supposed it made sense. With all that trained fighting control and careful grace, there<br />wasn’t much he couldn’t make his body do. When he flung his head back, his hair was<br />dark with sweat, pasted to his temples, and the curve of his throat gleamed in the light of<br />the bone chandelier.<br />She saw the way the other dancers looked at him—appreciation, speculation, predatory<br />hunger. A possessiveness she couldn’t name or control rose up inside her. She moved<br />closer, sliding up his body the way she’d seen girls do on the dance floor before but had<br />never had the nerve to try herself. She’d always been convinced she’d get her hair caught<br />on someone’s belt buckle, but things were different now. Her months of training didn’t<br />pay off just in a fight, but any time she had to use her body. She felt fluid, in control, in a<br />way she never had before. She pressed her body against Jace’s.<br />His eyes had been closed; he opened them just as an explosion of colored light lit up<br />the darkness above them. Metallic drops rained down on them; droplets were caught in<br />Jace’s hair and shimmering on his skin like mercury. He touched his fingers to a drop of<br />silver liquid on his collarbone and showed it to her, his lips curving. “Do you remember<br />what I told you that first time at Taki’s? About faerie food?”<br />“I remember you said you ran down Madison Avenue naked with antlers on your head,”<br />said Clary, blinking silver drops off her lashes.<br />“I don’t think that was ever proved to have actually been me.” Only Jace could talk<br />while he danced and not make it look awkward. “Well, this stuff”—and he flicked at the<br />silvery liquid that mixed with his hair and skin, painting him in metal—“is like that. It’ll get<br />you…”<br />“High?”<br />He watched her with darkened eyes. “It can be fun.” Another of the drifting flowerthings<br />burst above their head; this spatter was silver-blue, like water. Jace licked a drop<br />off the side of his hand, studying her.<br />High. Clary had never done drugs, didn’t even drink. Maybe if you counted the bottle of<br />Kahlúa she and Simon had smuggled out of his mom’s liquor cabinet and drunk when<br />they’d been thirteen. They’d been heartily sick afterward; Simon had, in fact, thrown up in<br />a hedge. It hadn’t been worth it, but she did remember the sensation of being dizzy and<br />giggly and happy for no reason.<br />When Jace lowered his hand, his mouth was stained with silver. He was still watching<br />her, gold eyes dark under his long lashes.<br />Happy for no reason.<br />She thought of the way they had been together in the time after the Mortal War before<br />Lilith had begun to possess him. He had been the Jace in the photograph on his wall<br />then: so happy. They both had been happy. There had been no nagging doubt when she<br />looked at him, none of this feeling of tiny knives under her skin, eroding the closeness<br />between them.<br />She leaned up then, and kissed him, slowly and definitively, on the lips.<br />Her mouth exploded with a sweet-sour taste, a mixture of wine and candy. More of the<br />silvery liquid rained down on them as she pulled away from him, licking her mouth<br />deliberately. Jace was breathing hard; he reached for her, but she spun away, laughing.<br />She felt wild and free suddenly, and incredibly light. She knew there was something<br />terribly important she was supposed to be doing, but she couldn’t remember what it was,<br />or why she had cared. The faces of the dancers around her no longer looked vulpine and<br />faintly frightening, but darkly beautiful. She was in a great echoing cavern, and the<br />shadows around her were painted with colors lovelier and brighter than any sunset. The<br />angel statue that loomed above her seemed benevolent, a thousand times more so than<br />Raziel and his cold white light, and a high singing note sounded from it, pure and clear<br />and perfect. She spun, faster and faster, leaving behind grief, memories, loss, until she<br />spun into a pair of arms that snaked around her from behind and held her tight. She<br />looked down and saw scarred hands locked around her waist, slim beautiful fingers, the<br />Voyance rune. Jace. She melted back against him, closing her eyes, letting her head fall<br />into the curve of his shoulder. She could feel his heart beating against her spine.<br />No one else’s heart beat like Jace’s did, or ever could.<br />Her eyes flew open, and she spun around, her hands out to push him away.<br />“Sebastian,” she whispered. Her brother grinned down at her, silver and black like the<br />Morgenstern ring.<br />“Clarissa,” he said. “I want to show you something.”<br />No. The word came and went, dissolving like sugar into liquid. She couldn’t remember<br />why she was supposed to say no to him. He was her brother; she should love him. He<br />had brought her to this beautiful place. Perhaps he had done bad things, but that was a<br />long time ago and she could no longer remember what they were.<br />“I can hear angels singing,” she said to him.<br />He chuckled. “I see you found out that silvery stuff isn’t just glitter.” He reached<br />forward and stroked his forefinger across her cheekbone; it was silver when it came<br />away, as if he had caught a painted tear. “Come along, angel girl.” He held out his hand.<br />“But Jace,” she said. “I lost him in the crowd—”<br />“He’ll find us.” Sebastian’s hand clamped around hers, surprisingly warm and<br />comforting. She let him draw her toward one of the fountains in the middle of the room,<br />and set her down on the wide marble edge. He sat down beside her, her hand still in his.<br />“Look in the water,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”<br />She leaned over and looked into the smooth dark surface of the pool. She could see her<br />own face reflected back at her, her eyes wide and wild, her eye makeup smudged like<br />bruises, her hair tangled. And then Sebastian leaned over too, and she saw his face<br />beside hers. The silver of his hair reflected in the water made her think of the moon on<br />the river. She reached to touch its brilliance, and the water shivered apart, their<br />reflections distorting, unrecognizable.<br />“What is it?” Sebastian said, and there was a low urgency in his voice.<br />Clary shook her head; he was being very silly. “I saw you and me,” she said in a chiding<br />tone. “What else?”<br />He put his hand under her chin and turned her face toward him. His eyes were black,<br />night-black, with only a ring of silver separating the pupil from the iris. “Don’t you see it?<br />We’re the same, you and me.”<br />“The same?” She blinked at him. There was something very wrong with what he was<br />saying, though she couldn’t say quite what. “No…”<br />“You’re my sister,” he said. “We have the same blood.”<br />“You have demon blood,” she said. “Lilith’s blood.” For some reason this struck her as<br />funny, and she giggled. “You’re all dark, dark, dark. And Jace and I are light.”<br />“You have a dark heart in you, Valentine’s daughter,” he said. “You just won’t admit it.<br />And if you want Jace, you had better accept it. Because he belongs to me now.”<br />“Then, who do you belong to?”<br />Sebastian’s lips parted; he said nothing. For the first time, Clary thought, he looked as<br />if he had nothing to say. She was surprised; his words hadn’t meant much to her, and<br />she’d merely been idly curious. Before she could say anything else, a voice above them<br />said:<br />“What’s going on?” It was Jace. He looked from one of them to the other, his face<br />unreadable. More of the shimmering stuff had gotten on him, silver drops clinging to the<br />gold of his hair. “Clary.” He sounded annoyed. She pulled away from Sebastian and<br />hopped to her feet.<br />“Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I got lost in the crowd.”<br />“I noticed,” he said. “One second I was dancing with you, and the next you were gone<br />and a very persistent werewolf was trying to get the buttons on my jeans undone.”<br />Sebastian chuckled. “Girl or boy werewolf?”<br />“Not sure. Either way, they could have used a shave.” He took Clary’s hand, lightly<br />ringing her wrist with his fingers. “Do you want to go home? Or dance some more?”<br />“Dance some more. Is that all right?”<br />“Go ahead.” Sebastian leaned back, his hands braced behind him on the fountain’s<br />edge, his smile like the edge of a straight razor. “I don’t mind watching.”<br />Something flashed across Clary’s vision: the memory of a bloody handprint. It was gone<br />as soon as it had come, and she frowned. The night was too beautiful to think of ugly<br />things. She looked back at her brother only for a moment before she let Jace lead her<br />back through the crowd to its edge, near the shadows, where the press of bodies was<br />lighter. Another ball of colored light burst above their heads as they went, scattering<br />silver, and she tipped her head up, catching the salt-sweet drops on her tongue.<br />In the center of the room, beneath the bone chandelier, Jace stopped and she swung<br />toward him. Her arms were around him, and she felt the silver liquid trickling down her<br />face like tears. The fabric of his T-shirt was thin and she could feel the burn of his skin<br />underneath. Her hands slid up under the hem, her nails scratching lightly over his ribs.<br />Silver drops of liquid spangled his eyelashes as he lowered his glance to hers, leaned to<br />whisper in her ear. His hands moved over her shoulders, down her arms. Neither of them<br />were really dancing anymore: the hypnotic music went on around them, and the whirl of<br />other dancers, but Clary barely noticed. A couple moving past laughed and made a<br />derisive comment in Czech; Clary couldn’t understand it, but suspected the gist was Get a<br />room.<br />Jace made an impatient noise, and then he was moving through the crowd again,<br />drawing her after him and into one of the shadowy alcoves that lined the walls.<br />There were dozens of these circular alcoves, each lined with a stone bench and<br />provided with a velvet curtain that could be pulled closed to provide a modicum of<br />privacy. Jace yanked the curtain shut and they crashed against each other like the sea<br />against the shore. Their mouths collided and slid together; Jace lifted her up so she was<br />pressed against him, his fingers twisting in the slippery material of her dress.<br />Clary was conscious of heat and softness, hands seeking and finding, yielding and<br />pressure. Her hands under Jace’s T-shirt, her fingernails clawing at his back, savagely<br />pleased when he gasped. He bit down on her bottom lip and she tasted blood in her<br />mouth, salt and hot. It was as if they wanted to cut each other apart, she thought, to<br />climb inside each other’s bodies and share their heartbeats, even if it killed them both.<br />It was dark in the alcove, so dark that Jace was only an outline of shadows and gold.<br />His body pinned Clary’s to the wall. His hands slid down along her body and reached the<br />end of her dress, drawing it up along her legs.<br />“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Jace?”<br />He looked at her. The peculiar light in the club turned his eyes an array of fractured<br />colors. His smile was wicked. “You can tell me to stop whenever you want,” he said. “But<br />you won’t.”<br />Sebastian drew aside the dusty velvet curtain that closed off the alcove, and smiled.<br />A bench ran around the inside of the small circular room, and a man sat there, leaning<br />his elbows on a stone table. He had long black hair tied back, a scar or mark in the shape<br />of a leaf on one cheek, and his eyes were as green as grass. He wore a white suit, and a<br />handkerchief with green leaf embroidery peeked from one pocket.<br />“Jonathan Morgenstern,” Meliorn said.<br />Sebastian did not correct him. Faeries took great stock in names, and would never call<br />him by anything but the name his father had chosen for him. “I wasn’t sure you would be<br />here at the appointed time, Meliorn.”<br />“May I remind you that the Fair Folk do not lie,” said the knight. He reached up and<br />twitched the curtain shut behind Sebastian. The pounding music outside was discreetly<br />muffled, though by no means inaudible. “Come in, then, and seat yourself. Wine?”<br />Sebastian settled himself on the bench. “No, nothing.” Wine, like the faerie liquor,<br />would only cloud his thoughts, and faeries seemed to have a higher tolerance. “I admit I<br />was surprised when I received the message that you wished to meet here.”<br />“You above all should know that the Lady has a special interest in you. She knows of all<br />your movements.” Meliorn took a sip of wine. “There was a great demonic disturbance<br />here in Prague tonight. The Queen was concerned.”<br />Sebastian spread his arms out. “As you can see, I am unharmed.”<br />“A disturbance so great will surely win the attention of the Nephilim. In fact, if I am not<br />mistaken, several of them already disport themselves without.”<br />“Without what?” Sebastian asked innocently.<br />Meliorn took another sip of wine and glared.<br />“Oh, right. I always forget the amusing way faeries talk. You mean there are<br />Shadowhunters in the crowd outside, looking for me. I know that. I noticed them earlier.<br />The Queen does not think much of me if she does not think I can handle a few Nephilim<br />on my own.” Sebastian drew a dagger from his belt and twirled it, the very little light in<br />the alcove sparking off the blade.<br />“I shall tell her you said so,” muttered Meliorn. “I must admit, I have no idea what<br />attraction you hold for her. I have taken your measure and found it lacking, but I have not<br />my lady’s taste.”<br />“Weighed in the balance and found wanting?” Amused, Sebastian leaned forward. “Let<br />me break it down for you, faerie knight. I’m young. I’m pretty. And I’m willing to burn the<br />whole world to the ground to get what I want.” His dagger traced a crack in the stone<br />table. “Like myself, the Queen is content to play a long game. But what I desire to know<br />is this: When the twilight of the Nephilim comes, will the Courts stand with or against<br />me?”<br />Meliorn’s face was blank. “The Lady says she stands with you.”<br />Sebastian’s mouth curled at the corner. “That is excellent news.”<br />Meliorn snorted. “I always presumed the race of humans would end themselves,” he<br />said. “Through a thousand years I have prophesied that you would be your own deaths.<br />But I did not expect the end to come like this.”<br />Sebastian twirled the bright dagger between his fingers. “No one ever does.”<br />“Jace,” Clary whispered. “Jace, anyone could come in and see us.”<br />His hands didn’t stop what they were doing. “They won’t.” He trailed a path of kisses<br />down her neck, effectively scattering her thoughts. It was hard to hold on to what was<br />real, with his hands on her, and her mind and memories in a whirl, and her fingers were<br />so tightly bunched in Jace’s shirt that she was sure she was going to rip the material.<br />The stone wall was cold against her back, but Jace was kissing her shoulder, easing the<br />strap of her dress down. She was hot and cold and shivering. The world had fractured into<br />bits, like the bright pieces inside a kaleidoscope. She was going to come apart under his<br />hands.<br />“Jace—” She clung to his shirt. It was sticky, viscous. She glanced down at her hands<br />and for a moment didn’t comprehend what she saw there. Silver fluid, mixed with red.<br />Blood.<br />She looked up. Hanging upside-down from the ceiling above them, like a grisly piñata,<br />was a human body, rope binding its ankles. Blood dripped from its cut throat.<br />Clary screamed, but the scream made no sound. She pushed at Jace, who stumbled<br />back; there was blood in his hair, on his shirt, on her bare skin. She pulled up the straps<br />of her dress and stumbled to the curtain that hid the alcove, yanking it open.<br />The statue of the angel was no longer quite as it had been. The black wings were bat’s<br />wings, the lovely, benevolent face twisted into a sneer. Dangling from the ceiling on<br />twisted ropes were the slaughtered bodies of men, women, animals—slashed open, their<br />blood dripping down like rain. The fountains pulsed blood, and what floated on top of the<br />liquid was not flowers but open severed hands. The writhing, clawing dancers on the floor<br />were drenched in blood. As Clary watched, a couple spun by, the man tall and pale, the<br />woman limp in his arms, her throat torn, obviously dead. The man licked his lips and bent<br />down for another bite, but before he did, he glanced at Clary and grinned, and his face<br />was streaked with blood and silver. She felt Jace’s hand on her arm, tugging her back, but<br />she fought free of him. She was staring at the glass tanks along the wall that she had<br />thought held brilliant fish. The water was not clear but blackish and sludgy, and drowned<br />human bodies floated in it, their hair spinning around them like the filaments of luminous<br />jellyfish. She thought of Sebastian floating in his glass coffin. A screa<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-10201531246901172962013-02-19T05:42:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.277-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 12<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />When Alec returned to Magnus’s apartment, all the lights were off, but the living room<br />was glowing with a blue-white flame. It took him several moments to realize it was<br />coming from the pentagram.<br />He kicked his shoes off by the door and padded as quietly as he could into the master<br />bedroom. The room was dark, a strand of multicolored Christmas lights wrapped around<br />the window frame the only illumination. Magnus was asleep on his back, the covers pulled<br />up to his waist, his hand flat against his belly-button-free stomach.<br />Alec quickly stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed, hoping not to wake<br />Magnus. Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on Chairman Meow, who had tucked himself<br />under the covers. Alec’s elbow came down squarely on the cat’s tail, and the Chairman<br />yowled and darted off the bed, causing Magnus to sit up, blinking.<br />“What’s going on?”<br />“Nothing,” Alec said, silently cursing all cats. “I couldn’t sleep.”<br />“So you went out?” Magnus rolled onto his side and touched Alec’s bare shoulder. “Your<br />skin’s cold, and you smell like nighttime.”<br />“I was walking around,” Alec said, glad it was too dim in the room for Magnus to really<br />see his face. He knew he was a terrible liar.<br />“Around where?”<br />One must preserve some mystery in one’s relationship, Alec Lightwood.<br />“Places,” Alec said airily. “You know. Mysterious places.”<br />“Mysterious places?”<br />Alec nodded.<br />Magnus flopped back against the pillows. “I see you went to Crazytown,” he muttered,<br />closing his eyes. “Did you bring me anything back?”<br />Alec leaned over and kissed Magnus on the mouth. “Just that,” he said softly, drawing<br />back, but Magnus, who had started to smile, already had hold of his arms.<br />“Well, if you’re going to wake me up,” he said, “you might as well make it worth my<br />time,” and he pulled Alec down on top of him.<br />Considering they’d already spent one night in bed together, Simon hadn’t expected his<br />second night with Isabelle to be quite so awkward. But then again, this time Isabelle was<br />sober, and awake, and obviously expecting something from him. The problem was, he<br />wasn’t sure exactly what.<br />He had given her a button-down shirt of his to wear, and he looked away politely while<br />she climbed under the blanket and edged back against the wall, giving him plenty of<br />space.<br />He didn’t bother changing, just took off his shoes and socks and crawled in next to her<br />in his T-shirt and jeans. They lay side by side for a moment, and then Isabelle rolled<br />against him, draping an arm awkwardly across his side. Their knees bumped together.<br />One of Isabelle’s toenails scratched his ankle. He tried to move forward, and their<br />foreheads knocked.<br />“Ouch!” Isabelle said indignantly. “Shouldn’t you be better at this?”<br />Simon was bewildered. “Why?”<br />“All those nights you’ve spent in Clary’s bed, wrapped in your beautiful platonic<br />embraces,” she said, pressing her face against his shoulder so her voice was muffled. “I<br />figured…”<br />“We just slept,” said Simon. He didn’t want to say anything about how Clary fit<br />perfectly against him, about how being in a bed with her was as natural as breathing,<br />about the way the scent of her hair reminded him of childhood and sunshine and<br />simplicity and grace. That, he had a feeling, would not be helpful.<br />“I know. But I don’t just sleep,” Isabelle said irritably. “With anybody. I don’t stay the<br />night usually at all. Like, ever.”<br />“You said you wanted to—”<br />“Oh, shut up,” she said, and kissed him. This was marginally more successful. He’d<br />kissed Isabelle before. He loved the texture of her soft lips, the way his hands felt in her<br />long, dark hair. But as she pressed herself against him, he also felt the warmth of her<br />body, her long bare legs against him, the pulse of her blood—and the snap of his fang<br />teeth as they came out.<br />He pulled back hastily.<br />“Now what is it? You don’t want to kiss me?”<br />“I do,” he tried to say, but his fangs were in the way. Isabelle’s eyes widened.<br />“Oh, you’re hungry,” she said. “When was the last time you had any blood?”<br />“Yesterday,” he managed to say, with some difficulty.<br />She lay back against his pillow. Her eyes were impossibly big and black and lustrous.<br />“Maybe you should feed yourself,” she said. “You know what happens if you don’t.”<br />“I don’t have any blood with me. I’ll have to go back to the apartment,” Simon said. His<br />fangs had already begun to retract.<br />Isabelle caught him by the arm. “You don’t have to drink cold animal blood. I’m right<br />here.”<br />The shock of her words was like a pulse of energy zipping through his body, setting his<br />nerves on fire. “You’re not serious.”<br />“Sure I am.” She started to unbutton the shirt she was wearing, baring her throat, her<br />collarbone, the tracery of faint veins visible beneath her pale skin. The shirt fell open. Her<br />blue bra covered a lot more than many bikinis might, but Simon still felt his mouth go dry.<br />Her ruby flashed like a red stoplight below her collarbone. Isabelle. As if reading his mind,<br />she reached up and drew her hair back, draping it over one shoulder, leaving the side of<br />her throat naked. “Don’t you want… ?”<br />He caught her wrist. “Isabelle, don’t,” he said urgently. “I can’t control myself, can’t<br />control it. I could hurt you, kill you.”<br />Her eyes shone. “You won’t. You can hold yourself back. You did with Jace.”<br />“I’m not attracted to Jace.”<br />“Not even a little?” she said hopefully. “Eensy bit? Because that would be kind of hot.<br />Ah, well. Too bad. Look, attracted or not, you bit him when you were starving and dying,<br />and you still held back.”<br />“I didn’t hold back with Maureen. Jordan had to pull me off.”<br />“You would have.” She took her finger and pressed it to his lips, then ran it down his<br />throat, across his chest, coming to a stop where his heart had once beat. “I trust you.”<br />“Maybe you shouldn’t.”<br />“I’m a Shadowhunter. I can fight you off if I have to.”<br />“Jace didn’t fight me off.”<br />“Jace is in love with the idea of dying,” said Isabelle. “I’m not.” She slung her legs<br />around his hips—she was amazingly flexible—and slid forward until she could brush her<br />lips against his. He wanted to kiss her, wanted it so badly his whole body ached. He<br />opened his mouth tentatively, touched his tongue to hers, and felt a sharp pain. His<br />tongue had slid along the razor edge of his fang. He tasted his own blood and drew back<br />abruptly, turning his face away from her.<br />“Isabelle, I can’t.” He closed his eyes. She was warm and soft in his lap, teasing,<br />torturous. His fangs ached painfully; his whole body felt like sharp wires were twisting<br />through his veins. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”<br />“Simon.” Gently she touched his cheek, turning his face toward her. “This is who you<br />are—”<br />His fangs had retracted, slowly, but they still ached. He hid his face in his hands and<br />spoke between his fingers. “You can’t possibly want this. You can’t possibly want me. My<br />own mother threw me out of the house. I bit Maureen—she was only a kid. I mean, look<br />at me, look what I am, where I live, what I do. I’m nothing.”<br />Isabelle stroked his hair lightly. He looked at her between his fingers. Up close he could<br />see that her eyes weren’t black but a very dark brown, flecked with gold. He was sure he<br />could see pity in them. He didn’t know what he expected her to say. Isabelle used boys<br />and threw them away. Isabelle was beautiful and tough and perfect and didn’t need<br />anything. Least of all a vampire who wasn’t even very good at being a vampire.<br />He could feel her breathing. She smelled sweet—blood, mortality, gardenias. “You’re<br />not nothing,” she said. “Simon. Please. Let me see your face.”<br />Reluctantly he lowered his hands. He could see her more clearly now. She looked soft<br />and lovely in the moonlight, her skin pale and creamy, her hair like a black waterfall. She<br />unlooped her hands from around his neck. “Look at these,” she said, touching the white<br />scars of healed Marks that snowflaked her silvery skin—on her throat, on her arms, on the<br />curves of her breasts. “Ugly, aren’t they?”<br />“Nothing about you is ugly, Izzy,” said Simon, honestly shocked.<br />“Girls aren’t supposed to be covered in scars,” Isabelle said matter-of-factly. “But they<br />don’t bother you.”<br />“They’re part of you—No, of course they don’t bother me.”<br />She touched his lips with her fingers. “Being a vampire is part of you. I didn’t ask you to<br />come here last night because I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask. I want to be with<br />you, Simon. It scares the hell out of me, but I do.”<br />Her eyes shimmered, and before he could wonder for more than a moment whether it<br />was with tears, he had leaned forward and kissed her. This time it wasn’t awkward. This<br />time she leaned into him, and he was suddenly under her, rolling her on top of him. Her<br />long black hair fell down around them both like a curtain. She whispered to him softly as<br />he ran his hands up her back. He could feel her scars under his fingertips, and he wanted<br />to tell her he thought of them as ornaments, testaments to her bravery that only made<br />her more beautiful. But that would have meant stopping kissing her, and he didn’t want<br />to do that. She was moaning and moving in his arms; her fingers were in his hair as the<br />two of them rolled sideways, and now she was under him, and his arms were full of the<br />softness and warmth of her, and his mouth with the taste of her, and the scent of her<br />skin, salt and perfume and… blood.<br />He stiffened again, all over, and Isabelle felt it. She caught hold of his shoulders. She<br />was luminous in the darkness. “Go ahead,” she whispered. He could feel her heart,<br />slamming against his chest. “I want you to.”<br />He closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to hers, tried to calm himself. His fangs were<br />back, pushing into his lower lip, hard and painful. “No.”<br />Her long, perfect legs wrapped around him, her ankles locking, holding him to her. “I<br />want you to.” Her breasts flattened against his chest as she arched up against him,<br />baring her throat. The scent of her blood was everywhere, all over him, filling the room.<br />“Aren’t you scared?” he whispered.<br />“Yes. But I still want you to.”<br />“Isabelle—I can’t—”<br />He bit her.<br />His teeth slid, razor-sharp, into the vein at her throat like a knife slicing into the skin of<br />an apple. Blood exploded into his mouth. It was like nothing he had experienced before.<br />With Jace he had been barely alive; with Maureen the guilt had crushed him even as he<br />had drunk from her. He had certainly never had the sense that either of the people he<br />had bitten had liked it.<br />But Isabelle gasped, her eyes flying open and her body arcing up against him. She<br />purred like a cat, stroking his hair, his back, little urgent movement of her hands saying<br />Don’t stop, Don’t stop. Heat poured out of her, into him, lighting his body; he had never<br />felt, imagined, anything else like it. He could feel the strong, sure beat of her heat,<br />pounding through her veins into his, and for that moment it was as if he lived again, and<br />his heart contracted with pure elation—<br />He broke away. He wasn’t sure how, but he broke away and rolled onto his back, his<br />fingers digging hard into the mattress at his sides. He was still shuddering as his fangs<br />retracted. The room shimmered all around him, the way things did in the few moments<br />after he drank human, living blood.<br />“Izzy… ,” he whispered. He was afraid to look at her, afraid that now that his teeth<br />were no longer in her throat, she would stare at him with revulsion or horror.<br />“What?”<br />“You didn’t stop me,” he said. It was half accusation, half hope.<br />“I didn’t want to.” He looked at her. She was on her back, her chest rising and falling<br />fast, as if she’d been running. There were two neat puncture wounds in the side of her<br />throat, and two thin lines of blood that ran down her neck to her collarbone. Obeying an<br />instinct that seemed to run deep under the skin, Simon leaned forward and licked the<br />blood from her throat, tasting salt, tasting Isabelle. She shuddered, her fingers fluttering<br />in his hair. “Simon…”<br />He drew back. She was looking at him with her big dark eyes, very serious, her cheeks<br />flushed. “I…”<br />“What?” For a wild moment he thought she was going to say ‘I love you,’ but instead<br />she shook her head, yawned, and hooked her finger through one of the belt loops on his<br />jeans. Her fingers played with the bare skin at his waist.<br />Somewhere Simon had heard that yawning was a sign of blood loss. He panicked. “Are<br />you okay? Did I drink too much? Do you feel tired? Are—”<br />She scooted closer to him. “I am fine. You made yourself stop. And I’m a<br />Shadowhunter. We replace blood at triple the rate a normal human being does.”<br />“Did you…” He could barely bring himself to ask. “Did you like it?”<br />“Yeah.” Her voice was husky. “I liked it.”<br />“Really?”<br />She giggled. “You couldn’t tell?”<br />“I thought maybe you were faking it.”<br />She raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at him with her glowing dark eyes<br />—how could eyes be dark and bright at the same time? “I don’t fake things, Simon,” she<br />said. “And I don’t lie, and I don’t pretend.”<br />“You’re a heartbreaker, Isabelle Lightwood,” he said, as lightly as he could with her<br />blood still running through him like fire. “Jace told Clary once you’d walk all over me in<br />high-heeled boots.”<br />“That was then. You’re different now.” She eyed him. “You’re not scared of me.”<br />He touched her face. “And you’re not scared of anything.”<br />“I don’t know.” Her hair fell forward. “Maybe you’ll break my heart.” Before he could say<br />anything, she kissed him, and he wondered if she could taste her own blood. “Now shut<br />up. I want to sleep,” she said, and she curled up against his side and closed her eyes.<br />Somehow, now, they fit, where they hadn’t before. Nothing was awkward, or poking<br />into him, or banging against his leg. It didn’t feel like childhood and sunlight and<br />gentleness. It felt strange and heated and exciting and powerful and… different. Simon<br />lay awake, his eyes on the ceiling, his hand stroking Isabelle’s silky black hair absently.<br />He felt like he’d been caught up in a tornado and deposited somewhere very far away,<br />where nothing was familiar. Eventually he turned his head and kissed Izzy, very lightly, on<br />the forehead; she stirred and murmured but didn’t open her eyes.<br />When Clary woke in the morning, Jace was still asleep, curled on his side, his arm<br />outstretched just enough to touch her shoulder. She kissed his cheek and got to her feet.<br />She was about to pad into the bathroom to take a shower when she was overcome by<br />curiosity. She went quietly to the bedroom door and peered out.<br />The blood on the hallway wall was gone, the plaster unmarked. It was so clean she<br />wondered if the whole thing had been a dream—the blood, the conversation in the<br />kitchen with Sebastian, all of it. She took a step across the corridor, placed her hand<br />against the wall where the bloody handprint had been—<br />“Good morning.”<br />She whirled. It was her brother. He had come out of his room soundlessly and was<br />standing in the middle of the hall, regarding her with a crooked smile. He looked freshly<br />showered; damp, his fair hair was the color of silver, almost metallic.<br />“You planning to wear that all the time?” he asked, eyeing her nightgown.<br />“No, I was just…” She didn’t want to say she’d been checking to see if there was still<br />blood in the hall. He just looked at her, amused and superior. Clary backed away. “I’m<br />going to get dressed.”<br />He said something after her, but she didn’t pause to hear what it was, just darted back<br />into Jace’s bedroom and closed the door behind her. A moment later she heard voices in<br />the hallway—Sebastian’s again, and a girl’s, speaking musical Italian. The girl from last<br />night, she thought. The one he’d said was asleep in his room. It was only then that she<br />realized how much she’d suspected he was lying.<br />But he’d been telling the truth. I’m giving you a chance, he’d said. Can you give me a<br />chance?<br />Could she? This was Sebastian they were talking about. She mulled it over feverishly<br />while she showered and dressed carefully. The clothes in the wardrobe, having been<br />selected for Jocelyn, were so far from her usual style that it was hard to choose what to<br />wear. She found a pair of jeans—designer, from the price tag still attached—and a dotted<br />silk shirt with a bow at the neck that had a vintage feel she liked. She threw her own<br />velvet jacket on over it and headed back to Jace’s room, but he was gone, and it wasn’t<br />hard to guess where. The rattle of dishes, the sound of laughter, and the smell of cooking<br />floated up from downstairs.<br />She took the glass stairs two at a time, but paused on the bottom step, looking into the<br />kitchen. Sebastian was leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, and Jace was<br />making something in a pan that involved onions and eggs. He was barefoot, his hair<br />messy, his shirt buttoned haphazardly, and the sight of him made her heart turn over.<br />She had never seen him like this, first thing in the morning, still with that warm golden<br />aura of sleep clinging to him, and she felt a piercing sadness that all these firsts were<br />happening with a Jace who wasn’t really her Jace.<br />Even if he did look happy, eyes shadow-free, laughing as he flipped the eggs in the pan<br />and slid an omelet onto a plate. Sebastian said something to him, and Jace looked over<br />at Clary and smiled. “Scrambled or fried?”<br />“Scrambled. I didn’t know you could make eggs.” She came down from the steps and<br />over to the kitchen counter. Sun was streaming through the windows—despite the lack of<br />clocks in the house, she guessed it was late morning—and the kitchen glittered in glass<br />and chrome.<br />“Who can’t make eggs?” Jace wondered aloud.<br />Clary raised her hand—and at the same time so did Sebastian. She couldn’t help a little<br />jerk of surprise, and put her arm down hastily, but not before Sebastian had seen and<br />grinned. He was always grinning. She wished she could slap it off his face.<br />She looked away from him and busied herself putting together a breakfast plate from<br />what was on the table—bread, fresh butter, jam, and sliced bacon—the chewy, round<br />kind. There was juice, too, and tea. They ate pretty well here, she thought. Although, if<br />Simon was anything to go by, teenage boys were always hungry. She glanced toward the<br />window—and did a double take. The view was no longer of a canal but of a hill rising in<br />the distance, topped by a castle.<br />“Where are we now?” she asked.<br />“Prague,” said Sebastian. “Jace and I have an errand to do here.” He glanced out the<br />window. “We should probably get going soon, in fact.”<br />She smiled sweetly at him. “Can I come with you?”<br />Sebastian shook his head. “No.”<br />“Why not?” Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “Is this some manly bonding thing I<br />can’t be a part of? Are you getting matching haircuts?”<br />Jace handed her a plate with scrambled eggs on it, but he was looking at Sebastian.<br />“Maybe she could come,” he said. “I mean, this particular errand—it’s not dangerous.”<br />Sebastian’s eyes were like the woods in the Frost poem, dark and deep. They gave<br />nothing away. “Anything can turn dangerous.”<br />“Well, it’s your decision.” Jace shrugged, reached for a strawberry, popped it into his<br />mouth, and sucked the juice off his fingers. Now that, Clary thought, was a clear and<br />absolute difference between this Jace and hers. Her Jace had a ferocious and allconsuming<br />curiosity about everything. He would never shrug and go along with someone<br />else’s plan. He was like the ocean ceaselessly throwing itself against a rocky shore, and<br />this Jace was… a calm river, shining in the sun.<br />Because he’s happy?<br />Clary’s hand tensed on her fork, her knuckles whitening. She hated that little voice in<br />her head. Like the Seelie Queen, it planted doubts where there shouldn’t be doubts,<br />asked questions that had no answer.<br />“I’m going to get my stuff.” After grabbing another berry off the plate, Jace popped it<br />into his mouth and shot upstairs. Clary craned her head up. The clear glass steps seemed<br />invisible, making it look like he was flying upward, not running.<br />“You’re not eating your eggs.” It was Sebastian. He had come around the counter—still<br />noiselessly, dammit—and was looking at her, his eyebrows raised. He had the faintest<br />accent, a mixture of the accent of the people who lived in Idris and something more<br />British. She wondered if he’d been hiding it before or if she just hadn’t noticed.<br />“I don’t actually like eggs,” she confessed.<br />“But you didn’t want to tell Jace that, because he seemed so pleased to be making you<br />breakfast.”<br />Since this was accurate, Clary said nothing.<br />“Funny, isn’t it?” said Sebastian. “The lies good people tell. He’ll probably make you<br />eggs every day for the rest of your life now, and you’ll choke them down because you<br />can’t tell him you don’t like them.”<br />Clary thought of the Seelie Queen. “Love makes liars of us all?”<br />“Exactly. Quick study, aren’t you?” He took a step toward her, and an anxious tingle<br />seared her nerves. He was wearing the same cologne Jace wore. She recognized the<br />citrusy black-pepper scent, but on him it smelled different. Wrong, somehow. “We have<br />that in common,” Sebastian said, and began to unbutton his shirt.<br />She stood up hastily. “What are you doing?”<br />“Easy there, little sis.” He popped the last button, and his shirt hung open. He smiled<br />lazily. “You’re the magical rune girl, aren’t you?”<br />Clary nodded slowly.<br />“I want a strength rune,” he said. “And if you’re the best, I want it from you. You<br />wouldn’t deny your big brother a rune, would you?” His dark eyes raked her. “Besides,<br />you want me to give you a chance.”<br />“And you want me to give you a chance,” she said. “So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you<br />a strength rune if you let me come with you on your errand.”<br />He stripped the shirt the rest of the way off and dropped it onto the counter. “Deal.”<br />“I don’t have a stele.” She didn’t want to look at him, but it was hard not to. He<br />seemed to be deliberately invading her personal space. His body was much like Jace’s—<br />hard, without any extra ounce of flesh anywhere, the muscles showing clearly under the<br />skin. He was scarred like Jace too, though he was so pale that the white marks stood out<br />less than they did against Jace’s golden skin. On her brother they were like silver pen on<br />white paper.<br />He drew a stele from his belt and handed it to her. “Use mine.”<br />“All right,” she said. “Turn around.”<br />He did. And she swallowed back a gasp. His bare back was striped with ragged scars,<br />one after the other, too even to be random accident.<br />Whip marks.<br />“Who did this to you?” she said.<br />“Who do you think? Our father,” he said. “He used a whip made of demon metal, so no<br />iratze could heal them. They’re meant to remind me.”<br />“Remind you of what?”<br />“Of the perils of obedience.”<br />She touched one. It felt hot under her fingertips, as if newly made, and rough, where<br />the skin around it was smooth. “Don’t you mean ‘disobedience’?”<br />“I mean what I said.”<br />“Do they hurt?”<br />“All the time.” Impatiently he glanced back over his shoulder. “What are you waiting<br />for?”<br />“Nothing.” She set the tip of the stele to his shoulder blade, trying to keep her hand<br />steady. Part of her mind raced, thinking how easy it would be to Mark him with something<br />that would damage him, sicken him, twist his insides—but what would happen to Jace if<br />she did? Shaking her hair out of her face, she carefully drew the Fortis rune at the<br />juncture of shoulder blade and back, just where, if he were an angel, he would have<br />wings.<br />When she was done, he turned and took the stele from her, then shrugged his shirt<br />back on. She didn’t expect a thank-you—and didn’t get one. He rolled his shoulders back<br />as he buttoned the shirt, and grinned. “You are good,” he said, but that was all.<br />A moment later the steps rattled, and Jace returned, shrugging on a suede jacket. He<br />had clipped on his weapons belt too, and wore fingerless dark gloves.<br />Clary smiled at him with a warmth she didn’t feel. “Sebastian says I can come with<br />you.”<br />Jace raised his eyebrows. “Matching haircuts for everyone?”<br />“I hope not,” said Sebastian. “I look terrible with curls.”<br />Clary glanced down at herself. “Do I need to change into gear?”<br />“Not really. This isn’t the sort of errand where we’re expecting to have to fight. But it’s<br />good to be prepared. I’ll get you something from the weapons room,” said Sebastian, and<br />vanished upstairs. Clary cursed herself silently for not having found the weapons room<br />while she was searching. Surely it had something inside that could provide some sort of<br />clue as to what they were planning—<br />Jace touched the side of her face, and she jumped. She’d nearly forgotten he was<br />there. “You sure you want to do this?”<br />“Absolutely. I’m going stir-crazy in the house. Besides, you taught me to fight. I figure<br />you’d want me to use it.”<br />His lips quirked into a devilish grin; he brushed her hair back and murmured something<br />into her ear about using what she’d learned from him. He leaned away as Sebastian<br />joined them, his own jacket on and a weapons belt in his hand. There was a dagger<br />thrust through it, and a seraph blade. He reached out to draw Clary close to him and<br />pulled the belt around her waist, double-looping it and settling it low on her hips. She was<br />too surprised to push him away and he was done before she had the chance; turning<br />away, he moved toward the wall, where the outline of a doorway had appeared,<br />shimmering like a doorway in a dream.<br />They stepped through it.<br />A soft knock on the library door made Maryse raise her head. It was a cloudy day, dim<br />outside the library windows, and the green-shaded lamps cast small pools of light in the<br />circular room. She couldn’t say how long she’d been sitting behind the desk. Empty coffee<br />mugs littered the surface in front of her.<br />She rose to her feet. “Come in.”<br />There was a soft click as the door opened, but no sound of footsteps. A moment later a<br />parchment-robed figure glided into the room, his hood raised, shadowing his face. You<br />called on us, Maryse Lightwood?<br />Maryse rolled her shoulders back. She felt cramped and tired and old. “Brother<br />Zachariah. I was expecting—Well. It doesn’t matter.”<br />Brother Enoch? He is senior to me, but I thought perhaps that your call might have<br />something to do with the disappearance of your adoptive son. I have a particular interest<br />in his well-being.<br />She looked at him curiously. Most Silent Brothers didn’t editorialize, or speak of their<br />personal feelings, if they had any. Smoothing her tangled hair back, she stepped out from<br />behind the desk. “Very well. I want to show you something.”<br />She had never really gotten used to the Silent Brothers, to the soundless way they<br />moved, as if their feet didn’t touch the ground. Zachariah seemed to hover beside her as<br />she led him across the library to a map of the world tacked to the north wall. It was a<br />Shadowhunter map. It showed Idris in the center of Europe and the ward around it as a<br />border of gold.<br />On a shelf below the map were two objects. One was a shard of glass crusted with<br />dried blood. The other was a worn leather cuff bracelet, decorated with the rune for<br />angelic power.<br />“These are—”<br />Jace Herondale’s cuff and Jonathan Morgenstern’s blood. I understood attempts to track<br />them were unsuccessful?<br />“It isn’t tracking precisely.” Maryse straightened her shoulders. “When I was in the<br />Circle, there was a mechanism Valentine used by which he could locate us all. Unless we<br />were in certain protected places, he knew where we were at all times. I thought there<br />was a chance he might have done the same to Jace when he was a child. He never<br />seemed to have trouble finding him.”<br />What kind of mechanism do you speak of?<br />“A mark. Not one from the Gray Book. We all had it. I had nearly forgotten about it;<br />after all, there was no way to get rid of it.”<br />If Jace had it, would he not know of it, and take steps to prevent you using it to find<br />him?<br />Maryse shook her head. “It could be as small as a tiny, almost invisible white mark<br />under his hair, as mine is. He would not have known he had it—Valentine wouldn’t have<br />wanted to tell him.”<br />Brother Zachariah moved apart from her, examining the map. And what has been the<br />result of your experiment?<br />“Jace has it,” Maryse said, but she did not sound pleased or triumphant. “I’ve seen him<br />on the map. When he appears, the map flares, like a spark of light, in the location where<br />he is; and his cuff flares at the same time. So I know it is him, and not Jonathan<br />Morgenstern. Jonathan never appears on the map.”<br />And where is he? Where is Jace?<br />“I’ve seen him appear, just for a few seconds each time, in London, Rome, and<br />Shanghai. Just a little while ago he flickered into existence in Venice, and then vanished<br />again.”<br />How is he traveling so quickly between cities?<br />“By Portal?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that every time the map flickers, I<br />know he’s alive… for now. And it’s like I can breathe again, just for a little while.” She<br />shut her mouth decidedly, lest the other words come pouring out—how she missed Alec<br />and Isabelle but could not bear to call them back to the Institute, where Alec at least<br />would be expected to take responsibility in the manhunt for his own brother. How she still<br />thought of Max every day and it was like someone had emptied her lungs of air, and she<br />would catch at her heart, afraid she was dying. She could not lose Jace, too.<br />I can understand that. Brother Zachariah folded his hands in front of him. His hands<br />looked young, not gnarled or bent, his fingers slender. Maryse often wondered how the<br />Brothers aged and how long they lived, but that information was secret to their order.<br />There is little more powerful than the love of family. But what I do not know is why you<br />chose to show this to me.<br />Maryse took a shuddering breath. “I know I should show it to the Clave,” she said. “But<br />the Clave knows of his bond with Jonathan now. They are hunting them both. They will<br />kill Jace if they find him. And yet to keep it to myself is surely treason.” She hung her<br />head. “I decided that telling you, the Brothers, was something I could bear. Then it is<br />your choice whether to show it to the Clave. I—I can’t stand that it be mine.”<br />Zachariah was silent a long moment. Then his voice, gentle in her head, said, Your map<br />tells you that your son is still alive. If you give it to the Clave, I do not think it will help<br />them much, besides telling them that he is traveling fast and is impossible to track. They<br />know that already. You keep the map. I will not speak of it for now.<br />Maryse looked at him in astonishment. “But… you are a servant of the Clave…”<br />I was once a Shadowhunter like you. I lived like you do. And like you, there were those<br />I loved enough to put their welfare before anything else—any oath, any debt.<br />“Did you…” Maryse hesitated. “Did you ever have children?”<br />No. No children.<br />“I’m sorry.”<br />Do not be. And try not to let fear for Jace devour you. He is a Herondale, and they are<br />survivors—<br />Something snapped inside Maryse. “He is not a Herondale. He is a Lightwood. Jace<br />Lightwood. He’s my son.”<br />There was a long pause. Then, I did not mean to imply otherwise, said Brother<br />Zachariah. He unclasped his thin hands and stepped back. There is one thing you must be<br />aware of. If Jace appears on the map for more than a few seconds at a time, you will<br />have to tell the Clave. You should brace yourself for the possibility.<br />“I don’t think I can,” she said. “They’ll send hunters after him. Set a trap for him. He’s<br />just a boy.”<br />He was never just a boy, said Zachariah, and he turned to glide from the room. Maryse<br />did not watch him go. She had returned to staring at the map.<br />Simon?<br />Relief opened like a flower in his chest. Clary’s voice, tentative but familiar, filled his<br />head. He looked sideways. Isabelle was still sleeping. Midday light was visible around the<br />edges of the curtains.<br />Are you awake?<br />He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. Of course I’m awake.<br />Well, I wasn’t sure. You’re what, six, seven hours behind where I am. It’s twilight here.<br />Italy?<br />We’re in Prague now. It’s pretty. There’s a big river and a lot of buildings with spires.<br />Looks a little like Idris from a distance. It’s cold here, though. Colder than at home.<br />Okay, enough with the weather report. Are you safe? Where are Sebastian and Jace?<br />They’re with me. I wandered off a little, though. I said I wanted to commune with the<br />view from the bridge.<br />So I’m the view from the bridge?<br />She laughed, or at least he felt something that was like laughter in his head—a soft,<br />nervous laughter. I can’t take too long. Though, they don’t really seem to suspect<br />anything. Jace… Jace definitely doesn’t. Sebastian is harder to read. I don’t think he trusts<br />me. I searched his room yesterday, but there’s nothing—I mean, nothing—to indicate<br />what they’re planning. Last night…<br />Last night?<br />Nothing. It was odd, how she could be inside his head and he could still sense that she<br />was hiding something. Sebastian has in his room the box my mom used to own. With his<br />baby stuff in it. I can’t figure out why.<br />Don’t waste your time trying to figure out Sebastian, Simon told her. He’s not worth it.<br />Figure out what they’re going to do.<br />I’m trying. She sounded irritable. Are you still at Magnus’s?<br />Yeah. We’ve moved to phase two of our plan.<br />Oh, yeah? What was phase one?<br />Phase one was sitting around the table, ordering pizza, and arguing.<br />What’s phase two? Sitting around the table drinking coffee and arguing?<br />Not exactly. Simon took a deep breath. We raised the demon Azazel.<br />Azazel? Her mental voice spiked upward; Simon almost clutched at his ears. So that’s<br />what the stupid Smurf question was about. Tell me you’re kidding.<br />I’m not. It’s a long story. He filled her in as best he could, watching Isabelle breathe as<br />he did, watching the light outside the window grow brighter. We thought he could help us<br />find a weapon that can hurt Sebastian without hurting Jace.<br />Yeah, but—demon-raising? Clary didn’t sound convinced. And Azazel is no ordinary<br />demon. I’m the one with Team Evil over here. You’re Team Good. Keep it in mind.<br />You know nothing’s that simple, Clary.<br />It was as if he could feel her sigh, a breath of air that passed over his skin, raising the<br />hairs on the back of his neck. I know.<br />Cities and rivers, Clary thought as she took her fingers from the gold ring on her right<br />hand and turned away from the view off Charles Bridge, back to Jace and Sebastian. They<br />were on the other side of the old stone bridge, pointing off at something she couldn’t see.<br />The water below was the color of metal, sliding soundlessly around the bridge’s ancient<br />struts; the sky was the same color, pocked with black clouds.<br />The wind whipped at her hair and coat as she walked over to join Sebastian and Jace.<br />They all set off again, the two boys conversing softly; she could have joined the<br />conversation if she’d wanted to, she supposed, but there was something about the still<br />loveliness of the city, its spires rising into mist in the distance, that made her want to be<br />quiet, to look and to think on her own.<br />The bridge emptied out into a twisting cobblestone street lined with tourist shops,<br />shops selling blood-red garnets and big chunks of golden Polish amber, heavy Bohemian<br />glass, and wooden toys. Even at this hour, touts stood outside nightclubs, holding free<br />passes or cards that would give you discounts on drinks; Sebastian gestured them aside<br />impatiently, snapping his annoyance in Czech. The press of people was relieved when the<br />street widened into an old medieval square. Despite the cold weather, it was filled with<br />milling pedestrians and kiosks were selling sausages and hot, spiced cider. The three of<br />them stopped for food and ate around a tall rickety table while the huge astronomical<br />clock in the square’s center began to chime the hour. Clanking machinery started up, and<br />a circle of dancing wooden figures appeared from doors on either side of the clock—the<br />twelve apostles, Sebastian explained as the figures whirled around and around.<br />“There’s a legend,” he said, leaning forward with his hands cupped around a mug of hot<br />cider, “that the king had the eyes of the clock maker put out after this clock was finished,<br />so he could never build anything as beautiful again.”<br />Clary shuddered and moved a little closer to Jace. He had been quiet since they’d left<br />the bridge, as if lost in thought. People—girls, mainly—stopped to look at him as they<br />passed, his hair bright and startling among the winter-dark colors of the Old Square.<br />“That’s sadistic,” she said.<br />Sebastian ran his finger around the rim of his mug, and licked the cider off. “The past is<br />another country.”<br />“Foreign country,” said Jace.<br />Sebastian looked at him with lazy eyes. “What?”<br />“‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there,’” Jace said. “That’s the<br />whole quote.”<br />Sebastian shrugged and pushed his mug away. You got a euro for returning them to<br />the stand where you bought the cider, but Clary suspected Sebastian couldn’t be bothered<br />to fake good citizenship for a measly euro. “Let’s go.”<br />Clary wasn’t finished with her cider, but she set it down anyway and followed as<br />Sebastian led them away from the square, among a maze of narrow, twisting streets.<br />Jace had corrected Sebastian, she thought. Certainly it had been over something minor,<br />but wasn’t Lilith’s blood magic supposed to bind him to her brother in such a way that he<br />thought everything Sebastian did was right? Could this be a sign—even a tiny sign—that<br />the spell that connected them was starting to fade?<br />It was stupid to hope, she knew. But sometimes hope was all you had.<br />The streets grew narrower, darker. The clouds overhead had completely blocked out<br />the lowering sun, and old-fashioned gas lamps burned here and there, illuminating the<br />misty dimness. The streets had turned to cobblestones, and the sidewalks were<br />narrowing, forcing them to walk in a line, as if they were picking their way across a<br />narrow bridge. Only the sight of other pedestrians, appearing and disappearing out of the<br />fog, made Clary feel that she had not stepped through some sort of warp in time into a<br />dream city out of her own imagination.<br />Finally they reached an archway of stone that opened out into a small square. Most of<br />the stores had turned off their lights, though across from them one was lit up. It said<br />ANTIKVARIAT in gold letters, and the window was full of old display bottles of different<br />substances, their peeling labels marked in Latin. Clary was surprised when Sebastian<br />headed toward it. What use could they possibly have for old bottles?<br />She dismissed the thought when they stepped over the threshold. The store inside was<br />dimly lit and smelled of mothballs, but it was stuffed, every cranny, with an incredible<br />selection of junk—and not-junk. Beautiful celestial maps warred for space with salt and<br />pepper shakers shaped like the figures from the clock in the Old Town Square. There<br />were heaps of old tobacco and cigar tins, stamps mounted in glass, old cameras of East<br />German and Russian design, a gorgeous cut-glass bowl in a deep emerald shade sitting<br />side by side with a stack of water-stained old calendars. An antique Czech flag hung from<br />a mounting pole overhead.<br />Sebastian moved forward through the stacks toward a counter in the back of the store,<br />and Clary realized that what she had taken for a mannequin was in fact an old man with<br />a face as creased and wrinkled as an old bedsheet, leaning back against the counter with<br />his arms crossed. The counter itself was glass-fronted and held heaps of vintage jewelry<br />and sparkling glass beads, small chain purses with gem clasps, and rows of cuff links.<br />Sebastian said something in Czech, and the man nodded and indicated Clary and Jace<br />with a jerk of his chin and a suspicious look. His eyes were, Clary saw, a dark red color.<br />She narrowed her own eyes, concentrating hard, and began to strip the glamour from<br />him.<br />It wasn’t easy; it seemed to stick to him like flypaper. In the end she managed to pull it<br />away only enough to see in flashes the real creature standing in front of her—tall and<br />human-shaped, with gray skin and ruby-red eyes, a mouth full of pointed teeth that jutted<br />every which way, and long, serpentine arms that ended in heads like an eel’s—narrow,<br />evil-looking, and toothy.<br />“A Vetis demon,” Jace muttered in her ear. “They’re like dragons. They like to stockpile<br />sparkly things. Junk, jewels, it’s all the same to them.”<br />Sebastian was looking back over his shoulder at Jace and Clary. “They’re my brother<br />and sister,” he said after a moment. “They are entirely to be trusted, Mirek.”<br />A faint shudder ran under Clary’s skin. She didn’t like the idea of posing as Jace’s sister,<br />even for a demon’s benefit.<br />“I don’t like this,” the Vetis demon said. “You said we would be dealing only with you,<br />Morgenstern. And while I know Valentine had a daughter”—his head dipped toward Clary<br />—“I also know he had only one son.”<br />“He’s adopted,” said Sebastian breezily, gesturing toward Jace.<br />“Adopted?”<br />“I think you’ll find the definition of the modern family is really changing at an<br />impressive pace these days,” said Jace.<br />The demon—Mirek—didn’t look impressed. “I don’t like this,” he said again.<br />“But you’ll like this,” said Sebastian, taking a pouch, tied at the top, from his pocket. He<br />turned it upside down above the counter, and a clattering pile of bronze coins fell out,<br />clinking together as they rolled across the glass. “Pennies from dead men’s eyes. A<br />hundred of them. Now, do you have what we agreed on?”<br />One toothed hand felt its way across the counter and bit gently at a coin. The demon’s<br />red eyes flickered over the pile. “That is all very well, but it is not enough to buy what<br />you seek.” He gestured with an undulating arm, and above it appeared what looked to<br />Clary like a hunk of rock crystal—only it was more luminous, more sheer, silvery, and<br />beautiful. She realized with a jolt that it was the stuff seraph blades were made from.<br />“Pure adamas,” Mirek said. “The stuff of Heaven. Priceless.”<br />Anger crackled across Sebastian’s face like lightning, and for a moment Clary saw the<br />vicious boy underneath, the one who had laughed while Hodge lay dying. Then the look<br />was gone. “But we agreed on a price.”<br />“We also agreed you would come alone,” said Mirek. His red eyes returned to Clary,<br />and to Jace, who hadn’t moved but whose aspect had taken on the controlled stillness of<br />a crouching cat’s. “I’ll tell you what else you can give me,” he said. “A lock of your sister’s<br />pretty hair.”<br />“Fine,” Clary said, stepping forward. “You want a snip of my hair—”<br />“No!” Jace moved to block her. “He’s a dark magician, Clary. You have no idea what he<br />could do with a lock of your hair or a bit of blood.”<br />“Mirek,” Sebastian said slowly, not looking at Clary. And in that moment she wondered,<br />If Sebastian wanted to trade a lock of her hair for the adamas, what was to stop him?<br />Jace had objected, but he was also compelled to do what Sebastian asked of him. In the<br />crunch, what would win out? The compulsion or Jace’s feelings for her? “Absolutely not.”<br />The demon blinked a slow lizardlike blink. “Absolutely not?”<br />“You will not touch a hair on my sister’s head,” said Sebastian. “Nor will you renege on<br />our bargain. No one cheats Valentine Morgenstern’s son. The agreed upon price, or—”<br />“Or what?” Mirek snarled. “Or I’ll be sorry? You are not Valentine, little boy. Now, that<br />was a man who inspired loyalty—”<br />“No,” said Sebastian, sliding a seraph blade from the belt at his waist. “I am not<br />Valentine. I do not intend to deal with demons as Valentine did. If I cannot have your<br />loyalty, I will have your fear. Know that I am more powerful than my father ever was, and<br />if you do not deal fairly with me, I will take your life, and have what I have come for.” He<br />raised the blade he held. “Dumah,” he whispered, and the blade shot forth, shimmering<br />like a column of fire.<br />The demon recoiled, snapping several words in a muddy-sounding language. Jace’s<br />hand already had a dagger in it. He called out to Clary, but not fast enough. Something<br />struck her hard on the shoulder, and she fell forward, sprawling on the cluttered floor. She<br />flipped over onto her back, fast, looked up—<br />And screamed. Looming over her was a massive snake—or at least it had a thick,<br />scaled body and a head hooded like a cobra’s, but its body was jointed, insectile, with a<br />dozen skittering legs that ended in jagged claws. Clary fumbled for her weapons belt as<br />the creature reared back, yellow venom dripping from its fangs, and struck.<br />Simon had fallen back asleep after “speaking” with Clary. When he awoke again, the<br />lights were on, and Isabelle knelt on the edge of the bed, wearing jeans and a worn Tshirt<br />she must have borrowed from Alec. It had holes in the sleeves, and the stitching<br />around the hem was coming undone. She had the collar pulled away from her throat and<br />was using the tip of a stele to trace a rune onto the skin of her chest, just below her<br />collarbone.<br />He raised himself up on his elbows. “What are you doing?”<br />“Iratze,” she said. “For this.” She tucked her hair back behind her ear, and he saw the<br />two puncture wounds he’d made in the side of her throat. As she finished the rune, they<br />smoothed over, leaving only the faintest white flecks behind.<br />“Are you… all right?” His voice came out in a whisper. Smooth. He was trying to bite<br />back the other questions he wanted to ask. Did I hurt you? Do you think I’m a monster<br />now? Have I creeped you out completely?<br />“I’m fine. I slept a lot later than I normally ever do, but I think that’s probably a good<br />thing.” Seeing his expression, Isabelle slid her stele into her belt. She crawled toward<br />Simon with a catlike grace and positioned herself over him, her hair falling down around<br />them. They were so close their noses touched. She looked at him unblinklingly. “Why are<br />you so crazy?” she said, and he could feel her breath against his face, as soft as a<br />whisper.<br />He wanted to pull her down and kiss her—not bite her, just kiss her—but at that exact<br />moment the apartment door buzzer sounded. A second later, someone knocked on the<br />bedroom door—banged on it, really, making it shake on its hinges.<br />“Simon. Isabelle.” It was Magnus. “Look, I don’t care if you’re asleep or doing<br />unspeakable things to each other. Get dressed and come out to the living room. Now.”<br />Simon locked gazes with Isabelle, who looked as puzzled as he did. “What’s going on?”<br />“Just get out here,” Magnus said, and the sound of his retreating feet was loud as he<br />stalked away from their room.<br />Isabelle rolled off Simon, much to his disappointment, and sighed. “What do you think<br />it is?”<br />“No idea,” said Simon. “Emergency meeting of Team Good, I guess.” He’d found the<br />phrase amusing when Clary had used it. Isabelle, though, just shook her head and sighed.<br />“I’m not sure there is any such thing as Team Good these days,” she said.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-41812904486011160502013-02-19T05:39:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.289-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 11<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Magnus said that no electricity could be used during the summoning of Azazel, so the<br />loft apartment was lit only by candlelight. The candles burned in a circle in the center of<br />the room, all different heights and brightness, though they shared a similar blue-white<br />flame.<br />Inside the circle, a pentagram had been drawn by Magnus, using a rowan stick that had<br />burned the pattern of overlapping triangles into the floor. In between the spaces formed<br />by the pentagram were symbols unlike anything Simon had seen before: not quite letters<br />and not quite runes, they gave off a chilly sense of menace despite the heat of the candle<br />flames.<br />It was dark outside the windows now, the sort of dark that came with the early sunsets<br />of approaching winter. Isabelle, Alec, Simon, and finally, Magnus—who was chanting<br />aloud from Forbidden Rites—each stood at one cardinal point around the circle. Magnus’s<br />voice rose and fell, the Latin words like a prayer, but one that was inverted and sinister.<br />The flames rose higher and the symbols carved into the floor began to burn black.<br />Chairman Meow, who had been watching from a corner of the room, hissed and fled into<br />the shadows. The blue-white flames rose, and now Simon could hardly see Magnus<br />through them. The room was getting hotter, the warlock chanting faster, his black hair<br />curling in the humid heat, sweat gleaming on his cheekbones. “Quod tumeraris: per<br />Jehovam, Gehennam, et consecratam aquam quam nunc spargo, signumque crucis quod<br />nunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatus Azazel!”<br />There was a burst of fire from the center of the pentagram, and a thick black wave of<br />smoke rose, dissipating slowly through the room, making everyone but Simon cough and<br />choke. It swirled like a whirlpool, coalescing slowly in the center of the pentagram into<br />the figure of a man.<br />Simon blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. A tall man with<br />auburn hair, neither young nor old—an ageless face, inhuman and cold. Broadshouldered,<br />dressed in a well-cut black suit and shining black shoes. Around each wrist<br />was a dark red groove, the marks of some sort of binding, rope or metal, that had cut into<br />the skin over many years. In his eyes were leaping red flames.<br />He spoke. “Who summons Azazel?” His voice was like metal grinding on metal.<br />“I do.” Magnus firmly shut the book he was holding. “Magnus Bane.”<br />Azazel craned his head slowly toward Magnus. His head seemed to swivel unnaturally<br />on his neck, like the head of a snake. “Warlock,” he said. “I know who you are.”<br />Magnus raised his eyebrows. “You do?”<br />“Summoner. Binder. Destroyer of the demon Marbas. Son of—”<br />“Now,” said Magnus quickly. “There’s no need to go into all of that.”<br />“But there is.” Azazel sounded reasonable, even amused. “If it is infernal assistance you<br />require, why not summon your father?”<br />Alec was looking at Magnus with his mouth open. Simon felt for him. He didn’t think<br />any of them had ever assumed that Magnus even knew who his father was, beyond that<br />he had been a demon who had tricked his mother into believing he was her husband. Alec<br />clearly knew no more about it than the rest of them, which, Simon imagined, was<br />probably something he wasn’t too happy about.<br />“My father and I are not on the best of terms,” said Magnus. “I would prefer not to<br />involve him.”<br />Azazel raised his hands. “As you say, Master. You hold me within the seal. What do you<br />demand?”<br />Magnus said nothing, but it was clear from the expression on Azazel’s face that the<br />warlock was speaking to him silently, mind to mind. The flames leaped and danced in the<br />demon’s eyes, like eager children listening to a story. “Clever Lilith,” the demon said at<br />last. “To raise the boy from death, and secure his life by binding him to someone whom<br />you cannot bear to kill. She was always better at manipulating human emotions than<br />most of the rest of us. Perhaps because she was something close to human once.”<br />“Is there a way?” Magnus sounded impatient. “To break the bond between them?”<br />Azazel shook his head. “Not without killing them both.”<br />“Then, is there a way to harm Sebastian only, without hurting Jace?” It was Isabelle,<br />eager; Magnus shot her a quelling look.<br />“Not with any weapon I might create, or have at my disposal,” said Azazel. “I can craft<br />only weapons whose alliance is demonic. A bolt of lightning from the hand of an angel,<br />perhaps, might burn away what was evil in Valentine’s son and either break their tie or<br />cause it to become more benevolent in nature. If I might make a suggestion…”<br />“Oh,” said Magnus, narrowing his cat’s eyes, “please do.”<br />“I can think of a simple solution that will separate the boys, keep yours alive, and<br />neutralize the danger of the other one. And I will ask very little of you in return.”<br />“You are my servant,” Magnus said. “If you wish to leave this pentagram, you will do<br />what I ask, and not demand favors in return.”<br />Azazel hissed, and fire curled from his lips. “If I am not bound here, then I am bound<br />there. It makes little difference to me.”<br />“‘For this is Hell, nor am I out of it,’” said Magnus, with the air of someone quoting an<br />old saying.<br />Azazel showed a metallic smile. “You may not be proud like old Faustus, warlock, but<br />you are impatient. I am sure my willingness to remain in this pentagram will outlast your<br />desire to keep watch over me inside it.”<br />“Oh, I don’t know,” Magnus said. “I’ve always been fairly bold where decorating is<br />concerned, and having you here does add that little extra touch of something to the<br />room.”<br />“Magnus,” Alec said, clearly not thrilled at the idea of an immortal demon taking up<br />residence in his boyfriend’s loft.<br />“Jealous, little Shadowhunter?” Azazel grinned at Alec. “Your warlock is not my type,<br />and besides, I would hardly want to anger his—”<br />“Enough,” Magnus said. “Tell us what the ‘little’ thing you want in return for your plan<br />is.”<br />Azazel templed his hands—hard workman’s hands, the color of blood, topped with black<br />nails. “One happy memory,” he said. “From each of you. Something to amuse me while I<br />am bound like Prometheus to his rock.”<br />“ A memory?” said Isabelle in astonishment. “You mean it would vanish out of our<br />heads? We wouldn’t be able to recall it anymore?”<br />Azazel squinted at her through the flames. “What are you, little one? A Nephilim? Yes, I<br />would take your memory and it would become mine. You would no longer know that it<br />had happened to you. Although, please do avoid giving me memories of demons you’ve<br />slaughtered under the light of the moon. Not the sort of thing I enjoy. No, I want these<br />memories to be… personal.” He grinned, and his teeth gleamed like an iron portcullis.<br />“I’m old,” Magnus said. “I have many memories. I would give one up, if needed. But I<br />cannot speak for the rest of you. No one should be forced to give up something like this.”<br />“I’ll do it,” Isabelle said immediately. “For Jace.”<br />“I will too, of course,” said Alec, and then it was Simon’s turn. He thought suddenly of<br />Jace, cutting his wrist and giving him his blood in the tiny room on Valentine’s boat.<br />Risking his own life for Simon’s. It might have been for Clary’s sake at its heart, but it was<br />still a debt. “I’m in.”<br />“Good,” Magnus said. “All of you, try to think of happy memories. They must be<br />genuinely happy. Something that gives you pleasure in the recollection.” He shot a sour<br />glance at the smug demon in the pentagram.<br />“I’m ready,” Isabelle said. She was standing with her eyes closed, her back straight as<br />if braced for pain. Magnus moved toward her and laid his fingers against her forehead,<br />murmuring softly.<br />Alec watched Magnus with his sister, his mouth tight, then shut his eyes. Simon shut his<br />own too, hastily, and tried to summon up a happy memory—something to do with Clary?<br />But so many of his memories of her were tinged now with his worry over her well-being.<br />Something from when they were very young? An image swam to the forefront of his mind<br />—a hot summer day at Coney Island, him on his father’s shoulders, Rebecca running<br />behind them, trailing a handful of balloons. Looking up at the sky, trying to find shapes in<br />the clouds, and the sound of his mother’s laughter. No, he thought, not that. I don’t want<br />to lose that—<br />There was a cool touch on his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw Magnus lowering<br />his hand. Simon blinked at him, his mind suddenly blank. “But I wasn’t thinking of<br />anything,” he protested.<br />Magnus’s cat eyes were sad. “Yes, you were.”<br />Simon glanced around the room, feeling a little dizzy. The others looked the same, as if<br />they were awakening from a strange dream; he caught Isabelle’s eye, the dark flutter of<br />her lashes, and wondered what she had thought about, what happiness she had given<br />away.<br />A low rumble from the center of the pentagram drew his gaze from Izzy. Azazel stood,<br />as close to the edge of the pattern as he could, a slow growl of hunger coming from his<br />throat. Magnus turned and looked at him, a look of disgust on his face. His hand was<br />closed into a fist, and something seemed to be shining between his fingers as if he held a<br />witchlight rune-stone. He turned and flung it, fast and sideways, into the center of the<br />pentagram. Simon’s vampire vision tracked it. It was a bead of light that expanded as it<br />flew, expanded into a circle holding multiple images. Simon saw a piece of azure ocean,<br />the corner of a satin dress that belled out as its wearer spun, a glimpse of Magnus’s face,<br />a boy with blue eyes—and then Azazel opened his arms and the circle of images vanished<br />into his body, like a stray piece of trash sucked into the fuselage of a jet plane.<br />Azazel gasped. His eyes, which had been darting flickers of red flame, blazed like<br />bonfires now, and his voice crackled when he spoke. “Ahhhh. Delicious.”<br />Magnus spoke sharply. “Now for your side of the bargain.”<br />The demon licked his lips. “The solution to your problem is this. You release me into<br />the world, and I take Valentine’s son and bring him living into Hell. He will not die, and<br />therefore your Jace will live, but he will have left this world behind, and slowly their<br />connection will burn away. You will have your friend back.”<br />“And then what?” Magnus said slowly. “We release you into the world, and then you<br />return and let yourself be bound again?”<br />Azazel laughed. “Of course not, foolish warlock. The price for the favor is my freedom.”<br />“Freedom?” Alec spoke, sounding incredulous. “A Prince of Hell, set free in the world?<br />We already gave you our memories—”<br />“The memories were the price you paid to hear my plan,” said Azazel. “My freedom is<br />what you will pay to have my plan enacted.”<br />“That is a cheat, and you know it,” said Magnus. “You ask for the impossible.”<br />“So do you,” said Azazel. “By all rights your friend is lost to you forever. ‘For if a man<br />vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond, he shall not<br />break his word.’ And by the terms of Lilith’s spell, their souls are bound, and both<br />agreed.”<br />“Jace would never agree—,” Alec began.<br />“He said the words,” said Azazel. “Of his own will or under compunction, it does not<br />matter. You are asking me to sever a bond only Heaven can sever. But Heaven will not<br />help you; you know that as well as I. That is why men summon demons and not angels,<br />is it not? This is the price you pay for my intervention. If you do not want to pay it, you<br />must learn to accept what you’ve lost.”<br />Magnus’s face was pale and tight. “We will converse among ourselves and discuss<br />whether your offer is acceptable. In the meantime I banish you.” He waved his hand, and<br />Azazel vanished, leaving behind the smell of charred wood.<br />The four people in the room stared at one another incredulously. “What he is asking<br />for,” Alec said finally, “it isn’t possible, is it?”<br />“Theoretically anything is possible,” said Magnus, staring ahead as if into an abyss.<br />“But to loose a Greater Demon on the world—not just a Greater Demon, a Prince of Hell,<br />second only to Lucifer himself—the destruction he could wreak—”<br />“Isn’t it possible,” Isabelle said, “that Sebastian could wreak just as much destruction?”<br />“Like Magnus said,” Simon put in bitterly, “anything’s possible.”<br />“There could be almost no greater crime in the eyes of the Clave,” said Magnus.<br />“Whoever loosed Azazel upon the world would be a wanted criminal.”<br />“But if it were to destroy Sebastian…” Isabelle began.<br />“We don’t have proof Sebastian’s plotting anything,” said Magnus. “For all we know, all<br />he wants is to settle down in a nice country house in Idris.”<br />“With Clary and Jace?” Alec said incredulously.<br />Magnus shrugged. “Who knows what he wants with them? Maybe he’s just lonely.”<br />“No way did he kidnap Jace off that roof because he’s desperately in need of a<br />bromance,” said Isabelle. “He’s planning something.”<br />They all looked at Simon. “Clary’s trying to find out what. She needs some time. And<br />don’t say ‘We don’t have time,’” he added. “She knows that.”<br />Alec raked a hand through his dark hair. “Fine, but we just wasted a whole day. A day<br />we didn’t have. No more stupid ideas.” His voice was uncharacteristically sharp.<br />“Alec,” Magnus said. He put a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder; Alec was standing still,<br />staring angrily at the floor. “Are you okay?”<br />Alec looked at him. “Who are you again?”<br />Magnus gave a little gasp; he looked—for the first time Simon could remember—<br />actually unnerved. It lasted only a moment, but it was there. “Alexander,” he said.<br />“Too soon to joke about the happy memory thing, I take it,” Alec said.<br />“You think?” Magnus’s voice soared. Before he could say anything else, the door swung<br />open and Maia and Jordan came in. Their cheeks were red from the cold, and—Simon saw<br />with a small start—Maia was wearing Jordan’s leather jacket.<br />“We just came from the station,” she said excitedly. “Luke hasn’t woken up yet, but it<br />looks like he’s going to be all right—” She broke off, looking around at the still-glimmering<br />pentagram, the clouds of black smoke, and the scorched patches on the floor. “Okay,<br />what have you guys been doing?”<br />With the help of a glamour and Jace’s ability to swing himself one-armed up onto a<br />curving old bridge, Clary and Jace escaped the Italian police without being arrested. Once<br />they had stopped running, they collapsed against the side of a building, laughing, side by<br />side, their hands interlinked. Clary felt a moment of pure sharp happiness and had to bury<br />her head against Jace’s shoulder, reminding herself, in a hard internal voice, that this<br />wasn’t him, before her laughter trailed off into silence.<br />Jace seemed to take her sudden quiet as a sign that she was tired. He held her hand<br />lightly as they made their way back to the street they’d started out from, the narrow<br />canal with bridges on both ends. In between them Clary recognized the blank, featureless<br />townhouse they’d left. A shudder ran over her.<br />“Cold?” Jace pulled her toward him and kissed her; he was so much taller than she was<br />that he either had to bend down or pick her up; in this case he did the latter, and she<br />suppressed a gasp as he swung her up and through the wall of the house. Setting her<br />down, he kicked a door—which had appeared suddenly behind them—shut with a bang,<br />and was about to shuck off his jacket when there was the sound of a stifled chuckle.<br />Clary pulled away from Jace as lights blazed up around them. Sebastian sat on the<br />sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. His fair hair was tousled; his eyes were glossy black.<br />He wasn’t alone, either. There were two girls there, one on either side of him. One was<br />fair, a little scantily dressed, in a glittering short skirt and spangled top. She had her hand<br />splayed out across Sebastian’s chest. The other was younger, softer-looking, with black<br />hair cut short, a red velvet band around her head, and a lacy black dress.<br />Clary felt her nerves tighten. Vampire, she thought. She didn’t know how she knew, but<br />she did—whether it was the waxy white sheen of the dark-haired girl’s skin or the<br />bottomlessness of her eyes, or perhaps Clary was just learning to sense these things, the<br />way Shadowhunters were supposed to. The girl knew she knew; Clary could tell. The girl<br />grinned, showing her little pointed teeth, and then bent to run them over Sebastian’s<br />collarbone. His lids fluttered, fair eyelashes lowering over dark eyes. He looked up at<br />Clary through them, ignoring Jace.<br />“Did you enjoy your little date?”<br />Clary wished she could say something rude, but instead she just nodded.<br />“Well, then, would you like to join us?” he said, indicating himself and the two girls.<br />“For a drink?”<br />The dark-haired girl laughed and said something in Italian to Sebastian, her voice<br />questioning.<br />“No,” said Sebastian. “Lei è mia sorella.”<br />The girl sat back, looking disappointed. Clary’s mouth was dry. Suddenly she felt Jace’s<br />hand against hers, his callused fingertips rough. “I don’t think so,” he said. “We’re going<br />upstairs. We’ll see you in the morning.”<br />Sebastian wiggled his fingers, and the Morgenstern ring on his hand caught the light,<br />sparking like a signal fire. “Ci vediamo.”<br />Jace led Clary out of the room and up the glass stairs; only when they were in the<br />corridor did she feel like she had gotten her breath back. This different Jace was one<br />thing. Sebastian was something else. The sense of menace that rose off him was like<br />smoke off a fire. “What did he say?” she asked. “In Italian?”<br />“He said, ‘No, she is my sister,’” said Jace. He did not say what the girl had asked<br />Sebastian.<br />“Does he do this much?” she asked. They had stopped in front of Jace’s room, on the<br />threshold. “Bring girls back?”<br />Jace touched her face. “He does what he wants, and I don’t ask,” he said. “He could<br />bring a six-foot tall pink rabbit in a bikini back home with him if he wanted to. It’s not my<br />business. But if you’re asking me if I’ve brought any girls back here, the answer is no. I<br />don’t want anybody but you.”<br />It hadn’t been what she was asking, but she nodded anyway, as if reassured. “I don’t<br />want to go back downstairs.”<br />“You can sleep in my room with me tonight.” His gold eyes were luminous in the dark.<br />“Or you can sleep in the master bedroom. You know I wouldn’t ever ask you—”<br />“I want to be with you,” she said, surprising herself with her own vehemence. Maybe it<br />was just that the idea of sleeping in that bedroom, where Valentine had once slept,<br />where he had hoped to live again with her mother, was too much. Or maybe it was that<br />she was tired, and she had only ever spent one night in the same bed as Jace, and they<br />had slept with only their hands touching, as if an unsheathed sword had lain between<br />them.<br />“Give me a second to clean up the room. It’s a mess.”<br />“Yeah, when I was in there before, I think I might actually have seen a fleck of dust on<br />the windowsill. You’d better get on that.”<br />He tugged a lock of her hair, running it through his fingers. “Not to actively work<br />against my own interests, but do you need something to sleep in? Pajamas, or…”<br />She thought of the wardrobe full of clothes in the master bedroom. She was going to<br />have to get used to the idea. Might as well start now. “I’ll get a nightgown.”<br />Of course, she thought several moments later, standing over an open drawer, the sort<br />of nightgowns men bought because they wanted the women in their lives to wear them<br />were not necessarily the kind of thing you might buy for yourself. Clary usually slept in a<br />tank top and pajama shorts, but everything here was silky or lacy or barely there, or all<br />three. She settled finally on a pale green silk shift that hit her midthigh. She thought of<br />the red nails of the girl downstairs, the one with her hand on Sebastian’s chest. Her own<br />nails were bitten, her toenails never decorated with much more than clear polish. She<br />wondered what it would be like to be more like Isabelle, so aware of your own feminine<br />power you could wield it as a weapon instead of gazing at it mystified, like someone<br />presented with a housewarming gift they had no idea where to display.<br />She touched the gold ring on her finger for luck before heading into Jace’s bedroom. He<br />was sitting on the bed, shirtless in black pajama bottoms, reading a book in the small<br />pool of yellow light from the bedside lamp. She stood for a moment, watching him. She<br />could see the delicate play of muscles under his skin as he turned the pages—and could<br />see Lilith’s Mark, just over his heart. It didn’t look like the black lacework of the rest of his<br />Marks; it was silvery-red, like blood-tinged mercury. It seemed not to belong on him.<br />The door slipped closed behind her with a click, and Jace looked up. Clary saw his face<br />change. She might not have been such a big fan of the nightgown, but he definitely was.<br />The look on his face made a shiver run over her skin.<br />“Are you cold?” He threw the covers back; she crawled in with him as he tossed the<br />book onto the nightstand, and they slid together under the blanket, until they were facing<br />each other. They had lain in the boat for what had seemed like hours, kissing, but this<br />was different. That had been out in public, under the gaze of the city and the stars. This<br />was a sudden intimacy, just the two of them under the blanket, their breath and the heat<br />of their bodies mingling. There was no one to watch them, no one to stop them, no<br />reason to stop. When he reached out and laid his hand against her cheek, she thought<br />the thunder of her own blood in her ears might deafen her.<br />Their eyes were so close together, she could see the pattern of gold and darker gold in<br />his irises, like a mosaic opal. She had been cold for so long, and now she felt as if she<br />were burning and melting at the same time, dissolving into him—and they were barely<br />touching. She found her gaze drawn to the places he was most vulnerable—his temples,<br />his eyes, the pulse at the base of his throat, wanting to kiss him there, to feel his<br />heartbeat against her lips.<br />His scarred right hand moved down her cheek, across her shoulder and side, stroking<br />her in a single long caress that ended at her hip. She could see why men liked silk<br />nightclothes so much. There was no friction; it was like sliding your hands across glass.<br />“Tell me what you want,” he said in a whisper that couldn’t quite disguise the hoarseness<br />in his voice.<br />“I just want you to hold me,” she said. “While I sleep. That’s all I want right now.”<br />His fingers, which had been stroking slow circles on her hip, stilled. “That’s all?”<br />It wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was to kiss him until she lost track of<br />space and time and location, as she had in the boat—to kiss him until she forgot who she<br />was and why she was here. She wanted to use him like a drug.<br />But that was a very bad idea.<br />He watched her, restless, and she remembered the first time she had seen him and<br />how she had thought he seemed deadly as well as beautiful, like a lion. This is a test, she<br />thought. And maybe a dangerous one. “That’s all.”<br />His chest rose and fell. Lilith’s Mark seemed to pulse against the skin just over his<br />heart. His hand tightened on her hip. She could hear her own breathing, as shallow as<br />low tide.<br />He pulled her toward him, rolling her over until they lay tucked together like spoons,<br />her back to him. She swallowed a gasp. His skin was hot against hers, as if he were<br />slightly feverish. But his arms as they went around her were familiar. The two of them fit<br />together, as always, her head under his chin, her spine against the hard muscles of his<br />chest and stomach, her legs bent around his. “All right,” he whispered, and the feel of his<br />breath against the back of her neck raised goose bumps over her body. “So we’ll sleep.”<br />And that was all. Slowly her body relaxed, the thudding of her heart slowing. Jace’s<br />arms around her felt the way they always had. Comfortable. She closed her hands around<br />his and shut her eyes, imagining their bed cut free of this strange prison, floating through<br />space or on the surface of the ocean, just the two of them alone.<br />She slept like that, her head tucked under Jace’s chin, her spine fitted to his body, their<br />legs entwined. It was the best sleep she had had in weeks.<br />Simon sat on the edge of the bed in Magnus’s spare room, staring down at the duffel bag<br />in his lap.<br />He could hear voices from the living room. Magnus was explaining to Maia and Jordan<br />what had happened that night, with Izzy occasionally interjecting a detail. Jordan was<br />saying something about how they should order Chinese food so they wouldn’t starve;<br />Maia laughed and said as long as it wasn’t from the Jade Wolf, that would be fine.<br />Starving, Simon thought. He was getting hungry—hungry enough to have begun to feel<br />it, like a pull on all his veins. It was a different kind of hunger than human hunger. He felt<br />scraped out, a hollow emptiness inside. If you struck him, he thought, he would ring like a<br />bell.<br />“Simon.” His door opened, and Isabelle slid inside. Her black hair was down and loose,<br />almost reaching her waist. “Are you okay?”<br />“I’m fine.”<br />She saw the duffel bag on his lap, and her shoulders tensed. “Are you leaving?”<br />“Well, I wasn’t planning to stay forever,” Simon said. “I mean, last night was—different.<br />You asked…”<br />“Right,” she said in an unnaturally bright voice. “Well, you can get a ride back with<br />Jordan at least. Did you notice him and Maia, by the way?”<br />“Notice what about them?”<br />She lowered her voice. “Something definitely happened between them on their little<br />road trip. They’re all couply now.”<br />“Well, that’s good.”<br />“Are you jealous?”<br />“Jealous?” he echoed, confused.<br />“Well, you and Maia…” She waved a hand, looking up at him through her lashes. “You<br />were…”<br />“Oh. No. No, not at all. I’m glad for Jordan. This will make him really happy.” He meant<br />it too.<br />“Good.” Isabelle looked up then, and he saw that her cheeks were rosy red, and not<br />just from the cold. “Would you stay here tonight, Simon?”<br />“With you?”<br />She nodded, not looking at him. “Alec’s going out to get some more of his clothes from<br />the Institute. He asked if I wanted to go back with him, but I—I’d rather stay here with<br />you.” She raised her chin, looking at him directly. “I don’t want to sleep by myself. If I<br />stay here, will you stay with me?” He could tell how much she hated to ask.<br />“Of course,” he said, as lightly as he possibly could, pushing the thought of his hunger<br />out of his head, or trying to. The last time he had tried to forget to drink, it had ended<br />with Jordan pulling him off a semiconscious Maureen.<br />But that was when he hadn’t eaten for days. This was different. He knew his limits. He<br />was sure of it.<br />“Of course,” he said again. “That would be great.”<br />Camille smirked up at Alec from her divan. “So where does Magnus think you are now?”<br />Alec, who had put a plank of wood across two cinderblocks to form a sort of bench,<br />stretched his long legs out and looked at his boots. “At the Institute, picking up clothes. I<br />was going to go up to Spanish Harlem, but I came here instead.”<br />Her eyes narrowed. “And why is that?”<br />“Because I can’t do it. I can’t kill Raphael.”<br />Camille threw up her hands. “And why not? Have you some sort of personal bond with<br />him?”<br />“I barely know him,” Alec said. “But killing him is deliberately breaking Covenant Law.<br />Not that I haven’t broken Laws before, but there’s a difference between breaking them for<br />good reasons and breaking them for selfish ones.”<br />“Oh, dear God.” Camille began to pace. “Spare me from Nephilim with consciences.”<br />“I’m sorry.”<br />Her eyes narrowed. “Sorry? I’ll make you—” She broke off. “Alexander,” she went on in<br />a more composed voice. “What of Magnus? If you continue as you have been, you will<br />lose him.”<br />Alec watched her as she moved, catlike and composed, her face blank of anything now<br />but a curious sympathy. “Where was Magnus born?”<br />Camille laughed. “You don’t even know that? My goodness. Batavia, if you must know.”<br />She snorted at his look of incomprehension. “Indonesia. Of course, it was the Dutch East<br />Indies then. His mother was a native, I believe; his father was some dull colonial. Well,<br />not his real father.” Her lips curved into a smile.<br />“Who was his real father?”<br />“Magnus’s father? Why, a demon, of course.”<br />“Yes, but which demon?”<br />“How could it possibly matter, Alexander?”<br />“I get the feeling,” Alec went on stubbornly, “that he’s a pretty powerful, high-up<br />demon. But Magnus won’t talk about him.”<br />Camille collapsed back onto the divan with a sigh. “Well, of course he won’t. One must<br />preserve some mystery in one’s relationship, Alec Lightwood. A book that one has not<br />read yet is always more exciting than a book one has memorized.”<br />“You mean I tell him too much?” Alec pounced on the morsel of advice. Somewhere<br />here, inside this cold, beautiful shell of a woman, was someone who had shared a unique<br />experience with him—of loving and being loved by Magnus. Surely she must know<br />something, some secret, some key that would keep him from screwing everything up.<br />“Almost certainly. Although, you’ve been alive for such a short time that I can’t imagine<br />how much there could be to say. Certainly you must be out of anecdotes.”<br />“Well, it seems clear to me that your policy of not telling him anything didn’t work out<br />either.”<br />“I was not so invested in keeping him as you are.”<br />“Well,” Alec asked, knowing it was a bad idea but not being able to help it, “if you had<br />been interested in keeping him, what would you have done differently?”<br />Camille sighed dramatically. “The thing that you are too young to understand is that we<br />all hide things. We hide them from our lovers because we wish to present our best selves,<br />but also because if it is real love, we expect our loved one to simply understand it,<br />without needing to ask. In a true partnership, the kind that lasts through the ages, there<br />is an unspoken communion.”<br />“B-but,” Alec stammered, “I would have thought he would have wanted me to open up.<br />I mean, I have a hard time being open even with people I’ve known my whole life—like<br />Isabelle, or Jace…”<br />Camille snorted. “That’s another thing,” she said. “You no longer need other people in<br />your life once you have found your true love. No wonder Magnus feels he cannot open up<br />to you, when you rely so heavily upon these other people. When love is true, you should<br />meet each other’s every desire, every need—Are you listening, young Alexander? For my<br />advice is precious, and not given often…”<br />The room was filled with translucent dawn light. Clary sat up, watching Jace as he slept.<br />He was on his side, his hair a pale brass color in the bluish air. His cheek was pillowed on<br />his hand, like a child’s. The star-shaped scar on his shoulder was revealed, and so were<br />the patterns of old runes up and down his arms, back, and sides.<br />She wondered if other people would find the scars as beautiful as she did, or if she only<br />saw them that way because she loved him and they were part of him. Each one told the<br />story of a moment. Some had even saved his life.<br />He murmured in his sleep and turned over onto his back. His hand, the Voyance rune<br />clear and black on the back of it, was splayed across his stomach, and above it was the<br />one rune that Clary did not find beautiful: Lilith’s rune, the one that bound him to<br />Sebastian.<br />It seemed to pulse, like Isabelle’s ruby necklace, like a second heart.<br />Silent as a cat, she moved up the bed and onto her knees. She reached up and pulled<br />the Herondale dagger from the wall. The photograph of her and Jace together fluttered<br />free, spinning in the air before landing face-down on the floor.<br />She swallowed and looked back at him. Even now, he was so alive, he seemed to glow<br />from inside, as if lit by inner fire. The scar on his chest pulsed its steady beat.<br />She lifted the knife.<br />Clary came awake with a start, her heart slamming against her rib cage. The room swung<br />around her like a carousel: it was still dark, and Jace’s arm was around her, his breath<br />warm on the back of her neck. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine. She closed<br />her eyes, swallowing against the bitter taste in her mouth.<br />It was a dream. Just a dream.<br />But there was no way she was getting back to sleep now. She sat up carefully, gently<br />moving Jace’s arm away, and climbed off the bed.<br />The floor was icy cold, and she winced as her bare feet touched it. She found the knob<br />of the bedroom door in the half-light, and swung it open. And froze.<br />Though there were no windows in the hallway outside, it was lit by pendant<br />chandeliers. Puddles of something that looked sticky and dark marred the floor. Along one<br />white-painted wall was the clear mark of a bloody handprint. Blood spattered the wall at<br />intervals leading to the stairs, where there was a single long, dark smear.<br />Clary looked toward Sebastian’s room. It was quiet, the door shut, no light showing<br />beneath it. She thought of the blond girl in the spangled top, looking up at him. She<br />looked at the bloody handprint again. It was like a message, a hand thrust out, saying<br />Stop.<br />And then Sebastian’s door opened.<br />He stepped out. He was wearing a thermal shirt over black jeans, and his silver-white<br />hair was rumpled. He was yawning; he did a double take when he saw her, and a look of<br />genuine surprise passed over his face. “What are you doing up?”<br />Clary sucked in a breath. The air tasted metallic. “What am I doing? What are you<br />doing?”<br />“Going downstairs to get some towels to clean up this mess,” he said matter-of-factly.<br />“Vampires and their games…”<br />“This doesn’t look like the outcome of a game,” Clary said. “The girl—the human girl<br />who was with you—what happened to her?”<br />“She got a little frightened at the sight of fangs. Sometimes they do.” At the look on<br />her face, he laughed. “She came around. Even wanted more. She’s asleep in my bed now,<br />if you want to check and make sure she’s alive.”<br />“No… That’s not necessary.” Clary dropped her eyes. She wished she’d worn something<br />besides this silk nightgown to bed. She felt undressed. “What about you?”<br />“Are you asking if I’m all right?” She hadn’t been, but Sebastian looked pleased. He<br />pulled the collar of his shirt aside, and she could see two neat puncture wounds just at his<br />collarbone. “I could use an iratze.”<br />Clary said nothing.<br />“Come downstairs,” he said, and gestured for her to follow him as he padded past her,<br />barefoot, and down the glass staircase. After a moment she did as he’d asked. He flicked<br />on the lights as he went, so by the time they reached the kitchen, it was glowing with<br />warm light. “Wine?” he said to her, pulling the refrigerator door open.<br />She settled herself on one of the counter stools, smoothing down her nightgown. “Just<br />water.”<br />She watched him as he poured two glasses of mineral water—one for her, one for him.<br />His smooth economical movements were like Jocelyn’s, but the control with which he<br />moved must have been instilled in him by Valentine. It reminded her of the way Jace<br />moved, like a carefully trained dancer.<br />He pushed her water toward her with one hand, the other tipping his glass toward his<br />lips. When he was done, he slammed the glass back down on the counter. “You probably<br />know this, but fooling around with vampires certainly makes you thirsty.”<br />“Why would I know that?” Her question came out sharper than intended.<br />He shrugged. “Figured you were playing some biting games with that Daylighter.”<br />“Simon and I never played biting games,” she said in a frozen tone. “In fact, I can’t<br />figure out why anyone would want vampires feeding on them on purpose. Don’t you hate<br />and despise Downworlders?”<br />“No,” he said. “Don’t mix me up with Valentine.”<br />“Yeah,” she muttered. “Tough mistake to make.”<br />“It’s not my fault I look exactly like him and you look like her.” His mouth curled into an<br />expression of distaste at the thought of Jocelyn. Clary scowled at him. “See, there you go.<br />You’re always looking at me like that.”<br />“Like what?”<br />“Like I burn down animal shelters for fun and light my cigarettes with orphans.” He<br />poured another glass of water. As he turned his head from her, she saw that the puncture<br />wounds at his throat were already beginning to heal over.<br />“You killed a child,” she said sharply, knowing as she said it that she should be keeping<br />her mouth shut, going along with the pretense that she didn’t think Sebastian was a<br />monster. But Max. He was alive in her head as if it were the first time she’d ever seen<br />him, asleep on a sofa at the Institute with a book on his lap and his glasses askew on his<br />small face. “That’s not something you can be forgiven for, ever.”<br />Sebastian drew in a breath. “So that’s it,” he said. “Cards on the table so soon, little<br />sister?”<br />“What did you think?” Her voice sounded thin and tired to her own ears, but he flinched<br />as if she’d snapped at him.<br />“Would you believe me if I told you it was an accident?” he said, setting his glass down<br />on the counter. “I didn’t mean to kill him. Just to knock him out, so he wouldn’t tell—”<br />Clary silenced him with a look. She knew she couldn’t hide the hatred in her eyes: knew<br />she should, knew it was impossible.<br />“I mean it. I meant to knock him out, like I did Isabelle. I misjudged my own strength.”<br />“And Sebastian Verlac? The real one? You killed him, didn’t you?”<br />Sebastian looked at his own hands as if they were strange to him: there was a silver<br />chain holding a flat metal plate, like an ID bracelet, around his right wrist—hiding the scar<br />where Isabelle had sliced his hand away. “He wasn’t supposed to fight back—”<br />Disgusted, Clary started to slide off the stool, but Sebastian caught at her wrist, pulling<br />her toward him. His skin was hot against hers and she remembered, in Idris, the time his<br />touch had burned her. “Jonathan Morgenstern killed Max. But what if I’m not the same<br />person? Haven’t you noticed I won’t even use the same name?”<br />“Let me go.”<br />“You believe Jace is different,” Sebastian said quietly. “You believe he isn’t the same<br />person, that my blood changed him. Don’t you?”<br />She nodded without speaking.<br />“Then, why is it so hard to believe it might go the other way? Maybe his blood changed<br />me. Maybe I’m not the same person I was.”<br />“You stabbed Luke,” she said. “Someone I care about. Someone I love—”<br />“He was about to blow me to pieces with a shotgun,” said Sebastian. “You love him; I<br />don’t know him. I was saving my life, and Jace’s. Do you really not understand that?”<br />“And maybe you’re just saying whatever you think you need to say to get me to trust<br />you.”<br />“Would the person I used to be care if you trusted me?”<br />“If you wanted something.”<br />“Maybe I just want a sister.”<br />At that, her eyes flicked up to his—involuntary, disbelieving. “You don’t know what a<br />family is,” she said. “Or what you’d do with a sister if you had one.”<br />“I do have one.” His voice was low. There were bloodstains at the collar of his shirt,<br />just where it touched his skin. “I’m giving you a chance. To see that what Jace and I are<br />doing is the right thing. Can you give me a chance?”<br />She thought of the Sebastian she had known in Idris. She had heard him sound<br />amused, friendly, detached, ironic, intense, and angry. She had never heard him sound<br />pleading.<br />“Jace trusts you,” he said. “But I don’t. He believes you love him enough to throw over<br />everything you’ve ever valued or believed in to come and be with him. No matter what.”<br />Her jaw tightened. “And how do you know I wouldn’t?”<br />He laughed. “Because you’re my sister.”<br />“We’re nothing alike,” she spat, and saw the slow smile on his face. She bit back the<br />rest of her words, but it was already too late.<br />“That’s what I would have said,” he said. “But come on, Clary. You’re here. You can’t go<br />back. You’ve thrown your lot in with Jace. You might as well do it wholeheartedly. Be a<br />part of what’s happening. Then you can make up your own mind about… me.”<br />Not looking at him but down at the marble floor, she nodded, very slightly.<br />He reached up and brushed away the hair that had fallen into her eyes, and the kitchen<br />lights sparked off the bracelet he wore, the one she had noticed before, with letters<br />etched into it. Acheronta movebo. Boldly she put her hand on his wrist. “What does this<br />mean?”<br />He looked at her hand where it touched the silver on his wrist. “It means ‘Thus always<br />to tyrants.’ I wear it to remind me of the Clave. It’s said this was shouted by the Romans<br />who murdered Caesar before he could become a dictator.”<br />“Traitors,” said Clary, dropping her hand.<br />Sebastian’s dark eyes flashed. “Or fighters for freedom. History gets written by the<br />winners, little sis.”<br />“And you intend to write this portion?”<br />He grinned at her, his dark eyes alight. “You bet I do.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-35378632297836552882013-02-18T05:34:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.384-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 10<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Jordan’s old room at the Praetor House looked like any dormitory room at any college.<br />There were two iron-framed beds, each set against a different wall. Through the window<br />separating them green lawns were visible three floors down. Jordan’s side of the room<br />was fairly bare—it looked as if he had taken most of his photographs and books with him<br />to Manhattan—though there were some tacked-up pictures of beaches and the ocean,<br />and a surfboard leaning against one wall. A little jolt went through Maia as she saw that<br />on the bedside table was a gold-framed photo of her with Jordan, taken at Ocean City,<br />the boardwalk and the beach behind them.<br />Jordan looked at the photograph and then at her, and blushed. He slung his bag onto<br />his bed and stripped off his jacket, his back to her.<br />“When will your roommate be back?” she asked into the suddenly uncomfortable<br />silence. She wasn’t sure why they were both embarrassed. They certainly hadn’t been<br />when they’d been in the truck together, but now, here in Jordan’s space, the years they<br />had spent not speaking seemed to press them apart.<br />“Who knows? Nick’s on assignment. They’re dangerous. He might not come back.”<br />Jordan sounded resigned. He tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. “Why don’t you lie<br />down? I’m going to take a shower.” He headed for the bathroom, which, Maia was<br />relieved to see, was attached to his room. She didn’t feel like dealing with one of those<br />shared-bathroom-down-the-hall things.<br />“Jordan—,” she began, but he’d already closed the bathroom door behind him. She<br />could hear water running. With a sigh she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the<br />absent Nick’s bed. The blanket was dark blue plaid, and smelled like pinecones. She<br />looked up and saw that the ceiling was wallpapered with photographs. The same<br />laughing blond boy, who looked about seventeen, smiled down at her out of each picture.<br />Nick, she guessed. He looked happy. Had Jordan been happy, here at the Praetor House?<br />She reached out and flipped the photograph of the two of them toward her. It had been<br />taken years ago, when Jordan was skinny, with big hazel eyes that dominated his face.<br />They had their arms around each other and looked sunburned and happy. Summer had<br />darkened both their skins and put light streaks in Maia’s hair, and Jordan had his head<br />turned slightly toward her, as if he were going to say something or kiss her. She couldn’t<br />remember which. Not anymore.<br />She thought of the boy whose bed she was sitting on, the boy who might never come<br />back. She thought of Luke, slowly dying, and of Alaric and Gretel and Justine and Theo<br />and all the others of her pack who had lost their lives in the war against Valentine. She<br />thought of Max, and of Jace, two Lightwoods lost—for, she had to admit in her heart, she<br />didn’t think they would ever get Jace back. And lastly and strangely she thought of<br />Daniel, the brother she had never mourned for, and to her surprise she felt tears sting the<br />backs of her eyes.<br />She sat up abruptly. She felt as if the world were tilting and she was clinging on<br />helplessly, trying to keep from tumbling into a black abyss. She could feel the shadows<br />closing in. With Jace lost and Sebastian out there, things could only get darker. There<br />would only be more loss and more death. She had to admit, the most alive she’d felt in<br />weeks had been those moments at dawn, kissing Jordan in his car.<br />As if she were in a dream, she found herself getting to her feet. She walked across the<br />room and opened the door to the bathroom. The shower was a square of frosted glass;<br />she could see Jordan’s silhouette through it. She doubted he could hear her over the<br />running water as she pulled off her sweater and shimmied out of her jeans and<br />underwear. With a deep breath she crossed the room, slid the shower door open, and<br />stepped inside.<br />Jordan spun around, pushing the wet hair out of his eyes. The shower was running hot,<br />and his face was flushed, making his eyes shine as if the water had polished them. Or<br />maybe it wasn’t just the water making the blood rise under his skin as his eyes took her<br />in—all of her. She looked back at him steadily, not embarrassed, watching the way the<br />Praetor Lupus pendant shone in the wet hollow of his throat, and the slide of the soap<br />suds over his shoulders and chest as he stared at her, blinking water out of his eyes. He<br />was beautiful, but then she had always thought so.<br />“Maia?” he said unsteadily. “Are you… ?”<br />“Shh.” She put her finger against his lips, drawing the shower door closed with her<br />other hand. Then she stepped closer, wrapping both arms around him, letting the water<br />wash both of them clean of the darkness. “Don’t talk. Just kiss me.”<br />So he did.<br />“What in the name of the Angel do you mean Clary isn’t there?” Jocelyn demanded,<br />white-faced. “How do you know that, if you just woke up? Where has she gone?”<br />Simon swallowed. He had grown up with Jocelyn as almost a second mother to him. He<br />was used to her protectiveness of her daughter, but she had always seen him as an ally<br />in that, someone who would stand between Clary and the dangers of the world. Now she<br />was looking at him like the enemy. “She texted me last night… ,” Simon began, then<br />stopped as Magnus waved him over to the table.<br />“You might as well sit down,” he said. Isabelle and Alec were watching wide-eyed from<br />either side of Magnus, but the warlock didn’t look particularly surprised. “Tell us all what’s<br />going on. I have a feeling this is going to take a while.”<br />It did, though not as long as Simon might have hoped. When he was done explaining,<br />hunched over on his chair and staring down at Magnus’s scratched table, he lifted his<br />head to see Jocelyn fixing him with a green stare as cold as arctic water. “You let my<br />daughter go off… with Jace… to some unfindable, untraceable place where none of us can<br />reach her?”<br />Simon looked down at his hands. “I can reach her,” he said, holding up his right hand<br />with the gold ring on the finger. “I told you. I heard from her this morning. She said she<br />was fine.”<br />“You never should have let her leave in the first place!”<br />“I didn’t let her. She was going to go anyway. I thought she might as well have some<br />kind of a lifeline, since it’s not like I could stop her.”<br />“To be fair,” said Magnus, “I don’t think anyone could. Clary does what she wants.” He<br />looked at Jocelyn. “You can’t keep her in a cage.”<br />“I trusted you,” she snapped at Magnus. “How did she get out?”<br />“She made a Portal.”<br />“But you said there were wards—”<br />“To keep threats out, not to keep guests in. Jocelyn, your daughter isn’t stupid, and she<br />does what she thinks is right. You can’t stop her. No one can stop her. She is a great deal<br />like her mother.”<br />Jocelyn looked at Magnus for a moment, her mouth slightly open, and Simon realized<br />that of course Magnus must have known Clary’s mother when she was young, when she<br />betrayed Valentine and the Circle and nearly died in the Uprising. “She’s a little girl,” she<br />said, and turned to Simon. “You’ve spoken to her? Using these—these rings? Since she<br />left?”<br />“This morning,” said Simon. “She said she was fine. That everything was fine.”<br />Instead of seeming reassured, Jocelyn only looked angrier. “I’m sure that’s what she<br />said. Simon, I can’t believe you allowed her to do this. You should have restrained her—”<br />“What, tied her up?” Simon said in disbelief. “Handcuffed her to the diner table?”<br />“If that’s what it took. You’re stronger than she is. I’m disappointed in—”<br />Isabelle stood up. “Okay, that’s enough.” She glared at Jocelyn. “It is totally and<br />completely unfair to yell at Simon over something Clary decided to do on her own. And if<br />Simon had tied her up for you, then what? Were you planning on keeping her tied up<br />forever? You’d have to let her go eventually, and then what? She wouldn’t trust Simon<br />anymore, and she already doesn’t trust you because you stole her memories. And that, if<br />I recall, was because you were trying to protect her. Maybe if you hadn’t protected her so<br />much, she would know more about what is dangerous and what isn’t, and be a little less<br />secretive—and less reckless!”<br />Everyone stared at Isabelle, and for a moment Simon was reminded of something that<br />Clary had said to him once—that Izzy rarely made speeches, but when she did, she made<br />them count. Jocelyn was white around the lips.<br />“I’m going to the station to be with Luke,” she said. “Simon, I expect reports from you<br />every twenty-four hours that my daughter is all right. If I don’t hear from you every night,<br />I’m going to the Clave.”<br />And she stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her so hard that a<br />long crack appeared in the plaster beside it.<br />Isabelle sat back down, this time beside Simon. He said nothing to her but held out his<br />hand, and she took it, slipping her fingers between his.<br />“So,” Magnus said finally, breaking the silence. “Who’s up for raising Azazel? Because<br />we’re going to need a whole lot of candles.”<br />Jace and Clary spent the day wandering—through mazelike tiny streets than ran along<br />canals whose water ranged from deep green to murky blue. They made their way among<br />the tourists in Saint Mark’s Square, and over the Bridge of Sighs, and drank small,<br />powerful cups of espresso at Caffè Florian. The disorienting maze of streets reminded<br />Clary a bit of Alicante, though Alicante lacked Venice’s feeling of elegant decay. There<br />were no roads here, no cars, only twisting little alleys, and bridges arching over canals<br />whose water was as green as malachite. As the sky overhead darkened to the deep blue<br />of late autumn twilight, lights began to go on—in tiny boutiques, in bars and restaurants<br />that seemed to appear out of nowhere and disappear again into shadow as she and Jace<br />passed, leaving light and laughter behind.<br />When Jace asked Clary if she was ready for dinner, she nodded firmly, yes. She had<br />begun to feel guilty that she had gotten no information out of him and that she was,<br />actually, enjoying herself. As they crossed over a bridge to the Dorsoduro, one of the<br />quieter sections of the city, away from the tourist throng, she determined that she would<br />get something out of him that night, something worth relaying to Simon.<br />Jace held her hand firmly as they went over a final bridge and the street opened out<br />into a great square on the side of an enormous canal the size of a river. The basilica of a<br />domed church rose on their right. Across the canal more of the city lit the evening,<br />throwing illumination onto the water, which shifted and glimmered with light. Clary’s<br />hands itched for chalk and pencils, to draw the light as it faded out of the sky, the<br />darkening water, the jagged outlines of the buildings, their reflections slowly dimming in<br />the canal. Everything seemed washed with a steely blueness. Somewhere church bells<br />were chiming.<br />She tightened her hand on Jace’s. She felt very far away here from everything in her<br />life, distant in a way that she had not felt in Idris. Venice shared with Alicante the sense<br />of being a place out of time, torn from the past, as if she had stepped into a painting or<br />the pages of a book. But it was also a real place, one she had grown up knowing about,<br />wanting to visit. She looked sidelong at Jace, who was gazing down the canal. The steely<br />blue light was on him, too, darkening his eyes, the shadows under his cheekbones, the<br />lines of his mouth. When he caught her gaze on him, he looked over and smiled.<br />He led her around the church and down a flight of mossy steps to a path along the<br />canal. Everything smelled of wet stone and water and dampness and years. As the sky<br />darkened, something broke the surface of the canal water a few feet from Clary. She<br />heard the splash and looked in time to see a green-haired woman rise from the water<br />and grin at her; she had a beautiful face but sharklike teeth and a fish’s yellow eyes.<br />Pearls were wound through her hair. She sank again below the water, without a ripple.<br />“Mermaid,” said Jace. “There are old families of them that have lived here in Venice a<br />long, long time. They’re a little odd. They do better in clean water, far out to sea, living<br />on fish instead of garbage.” He looked toward the sunset. “The whole city is sinking,” he<br />said. “It’ll all be under water in a hundred years. Imagine swimming down into the ocean<br />and touching the top of Saint Mark’s Basilica.” He pointed across the water.<br />Clary felt a flicker of sadness at the thought of all this beauty being lost. “Isn’t there<br />anything they can do?”<br />“To raise a whole city? Or hold back the ocean? Not much,” Jace said. They had come<br />to a set of stairs leading up. The wind came off the water and lifted his dark gold hair off<br />his forehead, his neck. “All things tend toward entropy. The whole universe is moving<br />outward, the stars pulling away from one another, God knows what falling through the<br />cracks between them.” He paused. “Okay, that sounded a little crazy.”<br />“Maybe it was all the wine at lunch.”<br />“I can hold my liquor.” They turned a corner, and a fairyland of lights gleamed out at<br />them. Clary blinked, her eyes adjusting. It was a small restaurant with tables set outside<br />and inside, heat lamps wound with Christmas lights like a forest of magical trees between<br />the tables. Jace detached himself from her long enough to get them a table, and soon<br />they were sitting by the side of the canal, listening to the splash of water against stone<br />and the sound of small boats bobbing up and down with the tide.<br />Tiredness was beginning to wash over Clary in waves, like the lap of water against the<br />sides of the canal. She told Jace what she wanted and let him order in Italian, relieved<br />when the waiter went away so she could lean forward and rest her elbows on the table,<br />her head on her hands.<br />“I think I have jet lag,” she said. “Interdimensional jet lag.”<br />“You know, time is a dimension,” Jace said.<br />“Pedant.” She flicked a bread crumb from the basket on the table at him.<br />He grinned. “I was trying to remember all the deadly sins the other day,” he said.<br />“Greed, envy, gluttony, irony, pedantry…”<br />“I’m pretty sure irony isn’t a deadly sin.”<br />“I’m pretty sure it is.”<br />“Lust,” she said. “Lust is a deadly sin.”<br />“And spanking.”<br />“I think that falls under lust.”<br />“I think it should have its own category,” said Jace. “Greed, envy, gluttony, irony,<br />pedantry, lust, and spanking.” The white Christmas lights were reflected in his eyes. He<br />looked more beautiful than he ever had, Clary thought, and correspondingly more distant,<br />more hard to touch. She thought of what he had said about the city sinking, and the<br />spaces between the stars, and remembered the lines of a Leonard Cohen song that<br />Simon’s band used to cover, not very well. “There is a crack in everything/That’s how the<br />light gets in.” There had to be a crack in Jace’s calm, some way she could reach through<br />to the real him she believed was still in there.<br />Jace’s amber eyes studied her. He reached out to touch her hand, and it was only after<br />a moment that Clary realized that his fingers were on her gold ring. “What’s that?” he<br />said. “I don’t remember you having a faerie-work ring.”<br />His tone was neutral, but her heart skipped a beat. Lying straight to Jace’s face wasn’t<br />something she had a lot of practice with. “It was Isabelle’s,” she said with a shrug. “She<br />was throwing out all the stuff that faerie ex-boyfriend of hers gave her—Meliorn—and I<br />thought this was pretty, so she said I could have it.”<br />“And the Morgenstern ring?”<br />This seemed like a place to tell the truth. “I gave it to Magnus so he could try to track<br />you with it.”<br />“Magnus.” Jace said the name as if it were a stranger’s, and exhaled a breath. “Do you<br />still feel like you made the right decision? Coming with me here?”<br />“Yes. I’m happy to be with you. And—well, I always wanted to see Italy. I’ve never<br />traveled much. Never been out of the country—”<br />“You were in Alicante,” he reminded her.<br />“Okay, other than visiting magical lands no one else can see, I haven’t traveled much.<br />Simon and I had plans. We were going to go backpacking around Europe after we<br />graduated high school…” Clary’s voice trailed off. “It sounds silly now.”<br />“No, it doesn’t.” He reached out and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stay with<br />me. We can see the whole world.”<br />“I am with you. I’m not going anywhere.”<br />“Is there anything special you want to see? Paris? Budapest? The Leaning Tower of<br />Pisa?”<br />Only if it falls on Sebastian’s head, she thought. “Can we travel to Idris? I mean, I<br />guess, can the apartment travel there?”<br />“It can’t get past the wards.” His hand traced a path down her cheek. “You know, I<br />really missed you.”<br />“You mean you haven’t been going on romantic dates with Sebastian while you’ve been<br />away from me?”<br />“I tried,” Jace said, “but no matter how liquored up you get him, he just won’t put out.”<br />Clary reached for her glass of wine. She was starting to get used to the taste of it. She<br />could feel it burning a path down her throat, heating her veins, adding a dreamlike quality<br />to the night. She was in Italy, with her beautiful boyfriend, on a beautiful night, eating<br />delicious food that melted in her mouth. These were the kinds of moments that you<br />remembered all your life. But it felt like touching only the edge of happiness; every time<br />she looked at Jace, happiness slipped away from her. How could he be Jace and not-Jace,<br />all at once? How could you be heartbroken and happy at the same time?<br />They lay in the narrow twin bed that was meant for only one person, wrapped together<br />tightly under Jordan’s flannel sheet. Maia lay with her head in the crook of his arm, the<br />sun from the window warming her face and shoulders. Jordan was propped on his arm,<br />leaning over her, his free hand running through her hair, pulling her curls out to their full<br />length and letting them slide back through his fingers.<br />“I missed your hair,” he said, and dropped a kiss onto her forehead.<br />Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, that sort of laughter that came<br />with the giddiness of infatuation. “Just my hair?”<br />“No.” He was grinning, his hazel eyes lit with green, his brown hair thoroughly rumpled.<br />“Your eyes.” He kissed them, one after another. “Your mouth.” He kissed that, too, and<br />she hooked her fingers through the chain against his bare chest that held the Praetor<br />Lupus pendant. “Everything about you.”<br />She twisted the chain around her fingers. “Jordan… I’m sorry about before. About<br />snapping at you about the money, and Stanford. It was just a lot to take in.”<br />His eyes darkened, and he ducked his head. “It’s not like I don’t know how independent<br />you are. I just… I wanted to do something nice for you.”<br />“I know,” she whispered. “I know you worry about me needing you, but I shouldn’t be<br />with you because I need you. I should be with you because I love you.”<br />His eyes lit up—incredulous, hopeful. “You—I mean, you think it’s possible you could<br />feel that way about me again?”<br />“I never stopped loving you, Jordan,” she said, and he caught her against him with a<br />kiss so intense it was bruising. She moved closer to him, and things might have<br />proceeded as they had in the shower if a sharp knock hadn’t come at the door.<br />“Praetor Kyle!” a voice shouted through the door. “Wake up! Praetor Scott wishes to<br />see you downstairs in his office.”<br />Jordan, his arms around Maia, swore softly. Laughing, Maia ran her hand slowly up his<br />back, tangling her fingers in his hair. “You think Praetor Scott can wait?” she whispered.<br />“I think he has a key to this room and he’ll use it if he feels like it.”<br />“That’s all right,” she said, brushing her lips against his ear. “We have lots of time,<br />right? All the time we’ll ever need.”<br />Chairman Meow lay on the table in front of Simon, completely asleep, his four legs<br />sticking straight into the air. This, Simon felt, was something of an achievement. Since he<br />had become a vampire, animals tended not to like him; they avoided him if they could,<br />and hissed or barked if he came too close. For Simon, who had always been an animal<br />lover, it was a hard loss. But he supposed if you were already the pet of a warlock,<br />perhaps you’d learned to accept weird creatures in your life.<br />Magnus, as it turned out, hadn’t been joking about the candles. Simon was taking a<br />moment to rest and drink some coffee; it stayed down well, and the caffeine took the<br />edge off the beginning prickles of hunger. All afternoon, they had been helping Magnus<br />set the scene for raising Azazel. They had raided local bodegas for tea lights and prayer<br />candles, which they had placed in a careful circle. Isabelle and Alec were scattering the<br />floorboards outside the circle with a mixture of salt and dried belladonna as Magnus<br />instructed them, reading aloud from Forbidden Rites, A Necromancer’s Manual of the<br />Fifteenth Century.<br />“What have you done to my cat?” Magnus demanded, returning to the living room<br />carrying a pot of coffee, with a circle of mugs floating around his head like a model of the<br />planets rotating around the sun. “You drank his blood, didn’t you? You said you weren’t<br />hungry!”<br />Simon was indignant. “I did not drink his blood. He’s fine!” He poked the Chairman in<br />the stomach. The cat yawned. “Second, you asked me if I was hungry when you were<br />ordering pizza, so I said no, because I can’t eat pizza. I was being polite.”<br />“That doesn’t give you the right to eat my cat.”<br />“Your cat is fine!” Simon reached to pick up the tabby, who jumped indignantly to his<br />feet and stalked off the table. “See?”<br />“Whatever.” Magnus threw himself down in the seat at the head of the table; the mugs<br />banged into place as Alec and Izzy straightened up, done with their task. Magnus clapped<br />his hands. “Everyone! Gather around. It’s time for a meeting. I’m going to teach you how<br />to summon a demon.”<br />Praetor Scott was waiting for them in the library, still in the same swivel chair, a small<br />bronze box on the desk between them. Maia and Jordan sat down across from him, and<br />Maia couldn’t help wondering if it was written all over her face, what she and Jordan had<br />been doing. Not that the Praetor was looking at them with much interest.<br />He pushed the box toward Jordan. “It’s a salve,” he said. “If applied to Garroway’s<br />wound, it should filter the poison from his blood and allow the demon steel to work its<br />way free. He should heal in a few days.”<br />Maia’s heart leaped—finally some good news. She reached for the box before Jordan<br />could, and opened it. It was indeed filled with a dark waxy salve that smelled sharply<br />herbal, like crushed bay leaves.<br />“I—,” Praetor Scott began, his eyes flicking to Jordan.<br />“She should take it,” said Jordan. “She’s close to Garroway and is part of the pack. They<br />trust her.”<br />“Are you saying they don’t trust the Praetor?”<br />“Half of them think the Praetor is a fairy tale,” Maia said, adding “sir” as an<br />afterthought.<br />Praetor Scott looked annoyed, but before he could say anything, the phone on his desk<br />rang. He seemed to hesitate, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Scott here,” he said, and<br />then, after a moment, “Yes—yes, I think so.” He hung up, his mouth curving into a not<br />entirely pleasant smile. “Praetor Kyle,” he said. “I’m glad you dropped in on us today of<br />all days. Stay a moment. This matter somewhat concerns you.”<br />Maia was startled at this pronouncement, but not as startled as she was a moment<br />later when a corner of the room began to shimmer and a figure appeared, slowly<br />developing—it was like watching images appear on film in a darkroom—and the figure of<br />a young boy took shape. His hair was dark brown, short and straight, and a gold necklace<br />gleamed against the brown skin of his throat. He looked slight and ethereal, like a<br />choirboy, but there was something in his eyes that made him seem much older than that.<br />“Raphael,” she said, recognizing him. He was ever so slightly transparent—a Projection,<br />she realized. She’d heard of them but had never seen one up close.<br />Praetor Scott looked at her in surprise. “You know the head of the New York vampire<br />clan?”<br />“We met once, in Brocelind Woods,” said Raphael, looking her over without much<br />interest. “She is a friend of the Daylighter, Simon.”<br />“Your assignment,” Praetor Scott said to Jordan, as if Jordan could have forgotten.<br />Jordan’s forehead creased. “Has something happened to him?” he asked. “Is he all<br />right?”<br />“This is not about him,” said Raphael. “It is about the rogue vampire, Maureen Brown.”<br />“Maureen?” Maia exclaimed. “But she’s only, what, thirteen?”<br />“A rogue vampire is a rogue vampire,” said Raphael. “And Maureen has been cutting<br />quite a swath for herself through TriBeCa and the Lower East Side. Multiple injured and at<br />least six kills. We’ve managed to cover them up, but…”<br />“She’s Nick’s assignment,” said Praetor Scott with a frown. “But he hasn’t been able to<br />find a trace of her. We may need to send in someone with more experience.”<br />“I urge you to do so,” said Raphael. “If the Shadowhunters were not so concerned with<br />their own… emergency at this juncture, they would surely have involved themselves by<br />now. And the last thing the clan needs after the affair with Camille is a censuring by the<br />Shadowhunters.”<br />“I take it Camille is still missing as well?” said Jordan. “Simon told us everything that<br />happened the night Jace disappeared, and Maureen seemed to be doing Camille’s<br />bidding.”<br />“Camille is not new-made and is therefore not our concern,” said Scott.<br />“I know, but—find her, and you may find Maureen, that’s all I’m saying,” said Jordan.<br />“If she were with Camille, she would not be killing at the rate she is,” said Raphael.<br />“Camille would prevent her. She is bloodthirsty but she knows the Conclave, and the Law.<br />She would keep Maureen and her activities out of their line of sight. No, Maureen’s<br />behavior has all the hallmarks of a vampire gone feral.”<br />“Then, I think you’re right.” Jordan sat back. “Nick should have backup in dealing with<br />her, or—”<br />“Or something might happen to him? If it does, perhaps it will help you focus more in<br />future,” said Praetor Scott. “On your own assignment.”<br />Jordan’s mouth opened. “Simon wasn’t responsible for Turning Maureen,” he said. “I<br />told you—”<br />Praetor Scott waved away his words. “Yes, I know,” he said, “or you would have been<br />pulled from your assignment, Kyle. But your subject did bite her, and under your watch as<br />well. And it was her association with the Daylighter, however distant, that led to her<br />eventual Turning.”<br />“The Daylighter is dangerous,” said Raphael, his eyes shining. “It is what I have been<br />saying all along.”<br />“He is not dangerous,” Maia said fiercely. “He has a good heart.” She saw Jordan<br />glance at her a little, sidelong, so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.<br />“Yap, yap, yap,” said Raphael dismissively. “You werewolves cannot focus on the<br />matter at hand. I trusted you, Praetor, for new-fledged Downworlders are your<br />department. But allowing Maureen to run wild reflects badly on my clan. If you do not find<br />her soon, I will call up every vampire at my disposal. After all”—he smiled, and his<br />delicate incisors shone—“in the end she is ours to kill.”<br />When the meal was over, Clary and Jace walked back to the apartment through a mistshrouded<br />evening. The streets were deserted and the canal water shone like glass.<br />Rounding a corner, they found themselves beside a quiet canal, lined with shuttered<br />houses. Boats bobbed gently on the curving water, each a half-moon of black.<br />Jace laughed softly and moved forward, his hand pulling out of Clary’s. His eyes were<br />wide and golden in the lamplight. He knelt by the side of the canal, and she saw a flash<br />of white-silver—a stele—and then one of the boats sprang free of its mooring chain and<br />began to drift toward the center of the canal. Jace slid the stele back into his belt and<br />leaped, landing lightly on the wooden seat at the front of the boat. He held his hand out<br />to Clary. “Come on.”<br />She looked from him to the boat and shook her head. It was only a little bigger than a<br />canoe, painted black, though the paint was damp and splintering. It looked as light and<br />fragile as a toy. She imagined upending it and both of them being dumped into the icegreen<br />canal. “I can’t. I’ll knock it over.”<br />Jace shook his head impatiently. “You can do it,” he said. “I trained you.” To<br />demonstrate he took a step back. Now he was standing on the thin edge of the boat, just<br />beside the oarlock. He looked at her, his mouth crooked in a half smile. By all the laws of<br />physics, she thought, the boat, unbalanced, ought to have been toppling sideways into<br />the water. But Jace balanced lightly there, back straight, as if he were made of nothing<br />more than smoke. Behind him was the backdrop of water and stone, canal and bridges,<br />not a single modern edifice in sight. With his bright hair and the way he carried himself,<br />he could have been some Renaissance prince.<br />He held out a hand to her again. “Remember. You’re as light as you want to be.”<br />She remembered. Hours of training in how to fall, to balance, how to land like Jace did,<br />as if you were a piece of ash sifting gently downward. She sucked her breath in and<br />leaped, the green water flying by beneath her. She alighted in the bow of the boat,<br />wobbling on the wooden seat, but steady.<br />She let out her breath in a whoosh of relief and heard Jace laugh as he leaped down to<br />the flat bottom of the boat. It was leaky. A thin layer of water covered the wood. He was<br />also nine inches taller than she was, so that with her standing on the seat in the bow,<br />their heads were on a level.<br />He put his hands on her waist. “So,” he said. “Where do you want to go now?”<br />She looked around. They had drifted far away from the bank of the canal. “Are we<br />stealing this boat?”<br />“‘Stealing’ is such an ugly word,” he mused.<br />“What do you want to call it?”<br />He picked her up and swung her around before putting her down. “An extreme case of<br />window-shopping.”<br />He pulled her closer, and she stiffened. Her feet skidded out from under her, and the<br />two of them slid to the curved floor of the boat, which was flat and damp and smelled like<br />water and wet wood.<br />Clary found herself resting on top of Jace, her knees on either side of his hips. Water<br />was soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. He threw his hands behind his<br />head, folding them, his shirt pulling up. “You literally knocked me down with the strength<br />of your passion,” he observed. “Nice work, Fray.”<br />“You only fell because you wanted to. I know you,” she said. The moon shone down on<br />them like a spotlight, like they were the only people under it. “You never slip.”<br />He touched her face. “I may not slip,” he said, “but I fall.”<br />Her heart pounded, and she had to swallow before she could reply lightly, as if he were<br />joking. “That may be your worst line of all time.”<br />“Who says it’s a line?”<br />The boat rocked, and she leaned forward, balancing her hands on his chest. Her hips<br />pressed against his, and she watched his eyes as they widened, going from wickedly<br />sparkling gold to dark, the pupil swallowing the iris. She could see herself and the night<br />sky in them.<br />He propped himself up on one elbow, and slipped a hand around the back of her neck.<br />She felt him arch up against her, lips brushing hers, but she drew back, not quite allowing<br />the kiss. She wanted him, wanted him so much she felt hollow on the inside, as if desire<br />had burned her clean through. No matter what her mind said—that this was not Jace, not<br />her Jace, still her body remembered him, the shape and feel of him, the scent of his skin<br />and hair, and wanted him back.<br />She smiled against his mouth as if she were teasing him, and rolled to the side, curling<br />next to him in the wet bottom of the boat. He didn’t protest. His arm curved around her,<br />and the rocking of the boat beneath them was gentle and lulling. She wanted to put her<br />head on his shoulder, but didn’t.<br />“We’re drifting,” she said.<br />“I know. There’s something I want you to see.” Jace was looking up at the sky. The<br />moon was a great white billow, like a sail; Jace’s chest rose and fell steadily. His fingers<br />tangled in her hair. She lay still beside him, waiting and watching as the stars ticked by<br />like an astrological clock, and she wondered what they were waiting for. At last she heard<br />it, a long slow rushing noise, like water pouring through a broken dam. The sky darkened<br />and churned as figures rushed across it. She could barely make them out through the<br />clouds and the distance, but they seemed to be men, with long hair like cirrus clouds,<br />riding horses whose hooves gleamed the color of blood. The sound of a hunting horn<br />echoed across the night, and the stars shivered and the night folded in on itself as the<br />men vanished behind the moon.<br />She let her breath out in a slow exhalation. “What was that?”<br />“The Wild Hunt,” said Jace. His voice sounded distant and dreamlike. “Gabriel’s<br />Hounds. The Wild Host. They have many names. They are faeries who disdain the earthly<br />Courts. They ride across the sky, pursuing an eternal hunt. On one night a year a mortal<br />can join them—but once you’ve joined the Hunt, you can never leave it.”<br />“Why would anyone want to do that?”<br />Jace rolled and was suddenly on top of Clary, pressing her down into the bottom of the<br />boat. She hardly noticed the damp; she could feel heat rolling off him in waves, and his<br />eyes burned. He had a way of propping himself over her so that she wasn’t crushed but<br />she could feel every part of him against her—the shape of his hips, the rivets in his jeans,<br />the tracings of his scars. “There’s something appealing about the idea,” he said. “Of<br />losing all your control. Don’t you think?”<br />She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already kissing her. She had kissed him<br />so many times—soft gentle kisses, hard and desperate ones, brief brushes of the lips that<br />said good-bye, and kisses that seemed to go on for hours—and this was no different. The<br />way the memory of someone who had once lived in a house might linger even after they<br />were gone, like a sort of psychic imprint, her body remembered Jace. Remembered the<br />way he tasted, the slant of his mouth over hers, his scars under her fingers, the shape of<br />his body under her hands. She let go of her doubts and reached up to pull him toward<br />her.<br />He rolled sideways, holding her, the boat rocking underneath them. Clary could hear<br />the splash of water as his hands drifted down her side to her waist, his fingers lightly<br />stroking the sensitive skin at the small of her back. She slid her hands into his hair and<br />closed her eyes, wrapped in mist, the sound and smell of water. Endless ages went by,<br />and there was only Jace’s mouth on hers, the lulling motion of the boat, his hands on her<br />skin. Finally, after what could have been hours or minutes, she heard the sound of<br />someone shouting, an angry Italian voice, rising and cutting through the night.<br />Jace drew back, his look lazy and regretful. “We’d better go.”<br />Clary looked up at him, dazed. “Why?”<br />“Because that’s the guy whose boat we stole.” Jace sat up, tugging his shirt down. “And<br />he’s about to call the police.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-28789655036898035782013-02-18T05:33:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.470-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 9<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Alec raised the witchlight rune-stone high in his hand, brilliant light raying out from it,<br />spotlighting now one corner of the City Hall station and then another. He jumped as a<br />mouse squeaked, running across the dusty platform. He was a Shadowhunter; he had<br />been in many dark places, but there was something about the abandoned air of this<br />station that made a cold shiver run up his spine.<br />Perhaps it was the chill of disloyalty he had felt, slipping away from his guard post on<br />Staten Island and heading down the hill to the ferry the moment Magnus had left. He<br />hadn’t thought about what he was doing; he’d just done it, as if he were on autopilot. If<br />he hurried, he was sure he could be back before Isabelle and Jocelyn returned, before<br />anyone realized he had ever been gone.<br />Alec raised his voice. “Camille!” he called. “Camille Belcourt!”<br />He heard a light laugh; it echoed off the walls of the station. Then she was there, at<br />the top of the stairs, the brilliance of his witchlight rendering her a silhouette. “Alexander<br />Lightwood,” she said. “Come upstairs.”<br />She vanished. Alec followed his darting witchlight up the steps, and found Camille<br />where he had before, in the lobby of the station. She was dressed in the fashion of a<br />bygone era—a long velvet dress nipped in at the waist, her hair dressed high in whiteblond<br />curls, her lips dark red. He supposed she was beautiful, though he wasn’t the best<br />judge of feminine appeal, and it didn’t help that he hated her.<br />“What’s with the costume?” he demanded.<br />She smiled. Her skin was very smooth and white, without dark lines—she had fed<br />recently. “A masquerade ball downtown. I fed quite well. Why are you here, Alexander?<br />Starved for good conversation?”<br />If he were Jace, Alec thought, he’d have a smart remark for that, some kind of pun or<br />cleverly disguised put-down. Alec just bit his lip and said, “You told me to come back if I<br />was interested in what you were offering.”<br />She ran a hand along the back of the divan, the only piece of furniture in the room.<br />“And you’ve decided that you are.”<br />Alec nodded.<br />She chuckled. “You understand what you’re asking for?”<br />Alec’s heart was pounding. He wondered if Camille could hear it. “You said you could<br />make Magnus mortal. Like me.”<br />Her full lips thinned. “I did,” she said. “I must admit, I doubted your interest. You left<br />rather hastily.”<br />“Don’t play with me,” he said. “I don’t want what you’re offering that badly.”<br />“Liar,” she said casually. “Or you wouldn’t be here.” She moved around the divan,<br />coming close to him, her eyes raking his face. “Up close,” she said, “you do not look so<br />much like Will as I had thought. You have his coloring, but a different shape to your<br />face… perhaps a slight weakness to your jaw—”<br />“Shut up,” he said. Okay, it wasn’t Jace-level wit, but it was something. “I don’t want to<br />hear about Will.”<br />“Very well.” She stretched, languorously, like a cat. “It was many years ago, when<br />Magnus and I were lovers. We were in bed together, after quite a passionate evening.”<br />She saw him flinch, and grinned. “You know how it is with pillow talk. One reveals one’s<br />weaknesses. Magnus spoke to me of a spell that existed, one that might be undertaken<br />to rid a warlock of their immortality.”<br />“So why don’t I just find out what the spell is and do it?” Alec’s voice rose and cracked.<br />“Why do I need you?”<br />“First, because you’re a Shadowhunter; you’ve no idea how to work a spell,” she said<br />calmly. “Second, because if you do it, he’ll know it was you. If I do it, he will assume it is<br />revenge. Spite on my part. And I do not care what Magnus thinks. But you do.”<br />Alec looked at her steadily. “And you’re going to do this for me as a favor?”<br />She laughed, like tinkling bells. “Of course not,” she said. “You do a favor for me, and I<br />will do one for you. That is how these matters are conducted.”<br />Alec’s hand tightened around the witchlight rune-stone until the edges cut into his<br />hand. “And what favor do you want from me?”<br />“It’s very simple,” she said. “I want you to kill Raphael Santiago.”<br />The bridge that crossed the crevasse surrounding the Adamant Citadel was lined with<br />knives. They were sunk, point upward, at random intervals along the path, so that it was<br />possible to cross the bridge only very slowly, by picking your way with dexterity. Isabelle<br />had little trouble but was surprised to see how lightly Jocelyn, who hadn’t been an active<br />Shadowhunter in fifteen years, made her way.<br />By the time Isabelle had reached the opposite side of the bridge, her dexteritas rune<br />had vanished into her skin, leaving a faint white mark behind. Jocelyn was only a step<br />behind her, and as aggravating as Isabelle found Clary’s mother, she was glad in a<br />moment, when Jocelyn raised her hand and a witchlight rune-stone blazed forth,<br />illuminating the space they stood in.<br />The walls were hewn from white-silver adamas, so that a dim light seemed to glow<br />from within them. The floor was demon-stone as well, and carved into the center of it<br />was a black circle. Inside the circle the symbol of the Iron Sisters was carved—a heart<br />punctured through and through by a blade.<br />Whispering voices made Isabelle tear her gaze from the floor and look up. A shadow<br />had appeared inside one of the smooth white walls—a shadow growing ever clearer, ever<br />closer. Suddenly a portion of the wall slid back and a woman stepped out.<br />She wore a long, loose white gown, bound tightly at the wrists and under her breasts<br />with silver-white cord—demon wire. Her face was both unwrinkled and ancient. She could<br />have been any age. Her hair was long and dark, hanging in a thick braid down her back.<br />Across her eyes and temples was an intricately curlicued tattooed mask, encircling both<br />her eyes, which were the orange color of leaping flames.<br />“Who calls on the Iron Sisters?” she said. “Speak your names.”<br />Isabelle looked toward Jocelyn, who gestured that she should speak first. She cleared<br />her throat. “I am Isabelle Light-wood, and this is Jocelyn Fr—Fairchild. We have come to<br />ask your help.”<br />“Jocelyn Morgenstern,” said the woman. “Born Fairchild, but you cannot so easily erase<br />the taint of Valentine from your past. Have you not turned your back on the Clave?”<br />“It is true,” said Jocelyn. “I am outcast. But Isabelle is a daughter of the Clave. Her<br />mother—”<br />“Runs the New York Institute,” said the woman. “We are remote here but not without<br />sources of information; I am no fool. My name is Sister Cleophas, and I am a Maker. I<br />shape the adamas for the other sisters to carve. I recognize that whip you wind so<br />cunningly around your wrist.” She indicated Isabelle. “As for that bauble about your throat<br />—”<br />“If you know so much,” said Jocelyn, as Isabelle’s hand crept to the ruby at her neck,<br />“then do you know why we are here? Why we have come to you?”<br />Sister Cleophas’s eyelids lowered and she smiled slowly. “Unlike our speechless<br />brethren, we cannot read minds here in the Fortress. Therefore we rely upon a network of<br />information, most of it very reliable. I assume this visit has something to do with the<br />situation involving Jace Lightwood—as his sister is here—and your son, Jonathan<br />Morgenstern.”<br />“We have a conundrum,” said Jocelyn. “Jonathan Morgenstern plots against the Clave,<br />like his father. The Clave has issued a death warrant against him. But Jace—Jonathan<br />Lightwood—is very much loved by his family, who have done no wrong, and by my<br />daughter. The conundrum is that Jace and Jonathan are bound, by very ancient blood<br />magic.”<br />“Blood magic? What sort of blood magic?”<br />Jocelyn took Magnus’s folded notes from the pocket of her gear and handed them over.<br />Cleophas studied them with her intent fiery gaze. Isabelle saw with a start that the<br />fingers of her hands were very long—not elegantly long but grotesquely so, as if the<br />bones had been stretched so that each hand resembled an albino spider. Her nails were<br />filed to points, each tipped with electrum.<br />She shook her head. “The Sisters have little to do with blood magic.” The flame color of<br />her eyes seemed to leap and then dim, and a moment later another shadow appeared<br />behind the frosted-glass surface of the adamas wall. This time Isabelle watched more<br />closely as a second Iron Sister stepped through. It was like watching someone emerge<br />from a haze of white smoke.<br />“Sister Dolores,” said Cleophas, handing Magnus’s notes to the new arrival. She looked<br />much like Cleophas—the same tall narrow form, the same white dress, the same long<br />hair, though in this case her hair was gray, and bound at the ends of her two braids with<br />gold wire. Despite her gray hair, her face was lineless, her fire-colored eyes bright. “Can<br />you make sense of this?”<br />Dolores glanced over the pages briefly. “A twinning spell,” she said. “Much like our own<br />parabatai ceremony, but its alliance is demonic.”<br />“What makes it demonic?” Isabelle demanded. “If the parabatai spell is harmless—”<br />“Is it?” said Cleophas, but Dolores shot her a quelling look.<br />“ T h e parabatai ritual binds two individuals but leaves their wills free,” Dolores<br />explained. “This binds two but makes one subordinate to the other. What the primary of<br />the two believes, the other will believe; what the first one wants, the second will want. It<br />essentially removes the free will of the secondary partner in the spell, and that is why it is<br />demonic. For free will is what makes us Heaven’s creatures.”<br />“It also seems to mean that when one is wounded, the other is wounded,” said Jocelyn.<br />“Might we presume the same about death?”<br />“Yes. Neither will survive the death of the other. This again is not part of our parabatai<br />ritual, for it is too cruel.”<br />“Our question to you is this,” said Jocelyn. “Is there any weapon forged, or that you<br />might create, that could harm one but not the other? Or that might cut them apart?<br />Sister Dolores looked down at the notes, then handed them to Jocelyn. Her hands, like<br />those of her colleague, were long and thin and as white as floss. “No weapon we have<br />forged or could ever forge might do that.”<br />Isabelle’s hand tightened at her side, her nails cutting into her palm. “You mean there’s<br />nothing?”<br />“Nothing in this world,” said Dolores. “A blade of Heaven or Hell might do it. The sword<br />of the Archangel Michael, that Joshua fought with at Jericho, for it is infused with<br />heavenly fire. And there are blades forged in the blackness of the Pit that might aid you,<br />though how one might be obtained, I do not know.”<br />“And we would be prevented from telling you by the Law if we did know,” said<br />Cleophas with asperity. “You understand, of course, that we will also have to tell the<br />Clave about this visit of yours—”<br />“What about Joshua’s sword?” interrupted Isabelle. “Can you get that? Or can we?”<br />“Only an angel can gift you that sword,” said Dolores. “And to summon an angel is to<br />be blasted with heavenly fire.”<br />“But Raziel—,” Isabelle began.<br />Cleophas’s lips thinned into a straight line. “Raziel left us the Mortal Instruments that<br />he might be called upon in a time of direst need. That one chance was wasted when<br />Valentine summoned him. We shall never be able to compel his might again. It was a<br />crime to use the Instruments in that manner. The only reason that Clarissa Morgenstern<br />escapes culpability is that it was her father who summoned him, not herself.”<br />“My husband also summoned another angel,” said Jocelyn. Her voice was quiet. “The<br />angel Ithuriel. He kept him imprisoned for many years.”<br />Both Sisters hesitated before Dolores spoke. “It is the bleakest of crimes to entrap an<br />angel,” she said. “The Clave could never approve it. Even if you could summon one, you<br />could never force it to do your bidding. There is no spell for that. You could never get an<br />angel to give you the archangel’s sword; you can take by force from an angel, but there is<br />no greater crime. Better that your Jonathan die than that an angel be so besmirched.”<br />At that, Isabelle, whose temper had been rising, exploded. “That’s the problem with<br />you—all of you, the Iron Sisters and the Silent Brothers. Whatever they do to change you<br />from Shadowhunters to what you are, it takes all the feelings out of you. We might be<br />part angel, but we’re part human, too. You don’t understand love, or the things people do<br />for love, or family—”<br />The flame leaped in Dolores’s orange eyes. “I had a family,” she said. “A husband and<br />children, all murdered by demons. There was nothing left to me. I had always had a skill<br />with shaping things with my hands, so I became an Iron Sister. The peace it has brought<br />me is peace I think I would never have found elsewhere. It is for that reason I chose the<br />name Dolores, “sorrow.” So do not presume to tell us what we do or do not know about<br />pain, or humanity.”<br />“You don’t know anything,” Isabelle snapped. “You’re as hard as demon-stone. No<br />wonder you surround yourselves with it.”<br />“Fire tempers gold, Isabelle Lightwood,” said Cleophas.<br />“Oh, shut up,” Isabelle said. “You’ve been very unhelpful, both of you.”<br />She turned on the heel of her boot, spun away, and stalked back across the bridge,<br />barely taking note of where the knives turned the path into a death trap, letting her<br />body’s training guide her. She reached the other side and strode through the gates; only<br />when she was outside them did she break down. Kneeling among the moss and volcanic<br />rocks, under the great gray sky, she let herself shake silently, though no tears came.<br />It seemed ages before she heard a soft step beside her, and Jocelyn knelt and put her<br />arms around her. Oddly, Isabelle found that she didn’t mind. Though she had never much<br />liked Jocelyn, there was something so universally motherly in her touch that Isabelle<br />leaned into it, almost against her own will.<br />“Do you want to know what they said, after you left?” Jocelyn asked, after Isabelle’s<br />trembling had slowed.<br />“I’m sure something about how I’m a disgrace to Shadowhunters everywhere, et<br />cetera.”<br />“Actually, Cleophas said you’d make an excellent Iron Sister, and if you were ever<br />interested to let them know.” Jocelyn’s hand stroked her hair lightly.<br />Despite everything, Isabelle choked back a laugh. She looked up at Jocelyn. “Tell me,”<br />she said.<br />Jocelyn’s hand stop moving. “Tell you what?”<br />“Who it was. That my father had the affair with. You don’t understand. Every time I see<br />a woman my mother’s age, I wonder if it was her. Luke’s sister. The Consul. You—”<br />Jocelyn sighed. “It was Annamarie Highsmith. She died in Valentine’s attack on<br />Alicante. I doubt you ever knew her.”<br />Isabelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I’ve never even heard her name before.”<br />“Good.” Jocelyn tucked a lock of Isabelle’s hair back. “Do you feel any better, now that<br />you know?”<br />“Sure,” Isabelle lied, staring down at the ground. “I feel a lot better.”<br />After lunch Clary had returned to the downstairs bedroom with the excuse that she was<br />exhausted. With the door firmly closed she had tried contacting Simon again, though she<br />realized, given the time difference between where she was now—Italy—and New York,<br />there was every chance he was asleep. At least she prayed he was asleep. It was far<br />preferable to hope for that than to consider the possibility that the rings might not work.<br />She had been in the bedroom for only about half an hour when a knock sounded at the<br />door. She called, “Come in,” moving to lean back on her hands, her fingers curled in as if<br />she could hide the ring.<br />The door swung open slowly, and Jace looked down at her from the doorway. She<br />remembered another night, summer heat, a knock on her door. Jace. Clean, in jeans and<br />a gray shirt, his washed hair a halo of damp gold. The bruises on his face were already<br />fading from purple to faint gray, and his hands were behind his back.<br />“Hey,” he said. His hands were in plain sight now, and he was wearing a soft-looking<br />sweater the color of bronze that brought out the gold in his eyes. There were no bruises<br />on his face, and the shadows she had almost grown used to seeing under his eyes were<br />gone.<br />Is he happy like this? Really happy? And if he is, what are you saving him from?<br />Clary pushed away the tiny voice in her head and forced a smile. “What’s up?”<br />He grinned. It was a wicked grin, the kind that made the blood in Clary’s veins run a<br />little faster. “You want to go on a date?”<br />Caught off guard, she stammered. “A wh-what?”<br />“A date,” Jace repeated. “Often ‘a boring thing you have to memorize in history class,’<br />but in this case, ‘an offer of an evening of blisteringly white-hot romance with yours<br />truly.’”<br />“Really?” Clary was not sure what to make of this. “Blisteringly white-hot?”<br />“It’s me,” said Jace. “Watching me play Scrabble is enough to make most women<br />swoon. Imagine if I actually put in some effort.”<br />Clary sat up and looked down at herself. Jeans, silky green top. She thought about the<br />cosmetics in that odd shrine-like bedroom. She couldn’t help it; she was wishing for a<br />little lip gloss.<br />Jace held his hand out. “You look gorgeous,” he said. “Let’s go.”<br />She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “I don’t know…”<br />“Come on.” His voice had that self-mocking, seductive tone she remembered from<br />when they had first been getting to know each other, when he’d brought her up to the<br />greenhouse to show her the flower that bloomed at midnight. “We’re in Italy. Venice. One<br />of the most beautiful cities in the world. Shame not to see it, don’t you think?”<br />Jace pulled her forward, so she fell against his chest. The material of his shirt was soft<br />under her fingers, and he smelled like his familiar soap and shampoo. Her heart took a<br />sweeping dive inside her chest. “Or we could stay in,” he said, sounding a little<br />breathless.<br />“So I can swoon watching you make a triple-word score?” With an effort she pulled<br />back from him. “And spare me the jokes about scoring.”<br />“Dammit, woman, you read my mind,” he said. “Is there no filthy wordplay you can’t<br />foresee?”<br />“It’s my special magical power. I can read your mind when you’re thinking dirty<br />thoughts.”<br />“So, ninety-five percent of the time.”<br />She craned her head back to look up at him. “Ninety-five percent? What’s the other five<br />percent?”<br />“Oh, you know, the usual—demons I might kill, runes I need to learn, people who’ve<br />annoyed me recently, people who’ve annoyed me not so recently, ducks.”<br />“Ducks?”<br />He waved her question away. “All right. Now watch this.” He took her shoulders and<br />turned her gently, so they were both facing the same way. A moment later—she wasn’t<br />sure how—the walls of the room seemed to melt away around them, and she found<br />herself stepping out onto cobblestones. She gasped, turning to look behind her, and saw<br />only a blank wall, windows high up in an old stone building. Rows of similar houses lined<br />the canal they stood beside. If she craned her head to the left, she could see in the<br />distance that the canal opened out into a much larger waterway, lined with grand<br />buildings. Everywhere was the smell of water and stone.<br />“Cool, huh?” Jace said proudly.<br />She turned and looked at him. “Ducks?” she said again.<br />A smile tugged the edge of his mouth. “I hate ducks. Don’t know why. I just always<br />have.”<br />It was early morning when Maia and Jordan arrived at Praetor House, the headquarters of<br />the Praetor Lupus. The truck clanked and bumped over the long white drive that swept<br />through manicured lawns to the massive house that rose like the prow of a ship in the<br />distance. Behind it Maia could see strips of trees, and behind that, the blue water of the<br />Sound some distance away.<br />“This is where you did your training?” she demanded. “This place is gorgeous.”<br />“Don’t be fooled,” Jordan said with a smile. “This place is boot camp, emphasis on the<br />‘boot.’”<br />She looked sideways at him. He was still smiling. He had been, pretty much nonstop,<br />since she’d kissed him down by the beach at dawn. Part of Maia felt as if a hand had lifted<br />her up and dropped her back into her past, when she’d loved Jordan beyond anything<br />she’d ever imagined, and part of her felt totally adrift, as if she’d woken up in a<br />completely foreign landscape, far from the familiarity of her everyday life and the warmth<br />of the pack.<br />It was very peculiar. Not bad, she thought. Just… peculiar.<br />Jordan came to a stop at a circular drive in front of the house, which, up close, Maia<br />could see was built of blocks of golden stone, the tawny color of a wolf pelt. Black double<br />doors were set at the top of a massive stone staircase. In the center of the circular drive<br />was a massive sundial, its raised face telling her that it was seven in the morning. Around<br />the edge of the sundial, words were carved: I ONLY MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE.<br />She unlocked her door and jumped down from the cab just as the doors of the house<br />opened and a voice rang out: “Praetor Kyle!”<br />Jordan and Maia both looked up. Descending the stairs was a middle-aged man in a<br />charcoal suit, his blond hair streaked with gray. Jordan, smoothing all expression from his<br />face, turned to him. “Praetor Scott,” he said. “This is Maia Roberts, of the Garroway pack.<br />Maia, this is Praetor Scott. He runs the Praetor Lupus, pretty much.”<br />“Since the 1800s the Scotts have always run the Praetor,” said the man, glancing at<br />Maia, who inclined her head, a sign of submission. “Jordan, I have to admit, we did not<br />expect you back again so soon. The situation with the vampire in Manhattan, the<br />Daylighter—”<br />“Is in hand,” Jordan said hastily. “That’s not why we’re here. This concerns something<br />quite different.”<br />Praetor Scott raised his eyebrows. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”<br />“It’s a matter of some urgency,” said Maia. “Luke Garroway, our pack’s leader—”<br />Praetor Scott gave her a sharp look, silencing her. Though he might have been<br />packless, he was an alpha, that much was clear from his bearing. His eyes, under his<br />thick eyebrows, were green-gray; around his throat, under the collar of his shirt, sparkled<br />the bronze pendant of the Praetor, with its imprint of a wolf’s paw. “The Praetor chooses<br />what matters it will regard as urgent,” he said. “Nor are we a hotel, open to uninvited<br />guests. Jordan took a chance in bringing you here, and he knows that. If he were not one<br />of our most promising graduates, I might well send you both away.”<br />Jordan hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and looked at the ground. A<br />moment later Praetor Scott set his hand on Jordan’s shoulder.<br />“But,” he said, “you are one of our most promising graduates. And you look exhausted;<br />I can see you were up all night. Come, and we’ll discuss this in my office.”<br />The office turned out to be down a long and winding hallway, elegantly paneled in dark<br />wood. The house was lively with the sound of voices, and a sign saying HOUSE RULES was<br />pinned to the wall beside a staircase leading up.<br />HOUSE RULES<br />No shape-shifting in the hallways.<br />No howling.<br />No silver.<br />Clothes must be worn at all times. ALL TIMES.<br />No fighting. No biting.<br />Mark all your food before you put it in the communal refrigerator.<br />The smell of cooking breakfast wafted through the air, making Maia’s stomach grumble.<br />Praetor Scott sounded amused. “I’ll have someone make us up a plate of snacks if you’re<br />hungry.”<br />“Thanks,” Maia muttered. They had reached the end of a hallway, and Praetor Scott<br />opened a door marked OFFICE.<br />The older werewolf’s eyebrows drew together. “Rufus,” he said. “What are you doing<br />here?”<br />Maia peered past him. The office was a large room, comfortably messy. There was a<br />rectangular picture window that gave out onto wide lawns, on which groups of mostly<br />young people were executing what looked like drill maneuvers, wearing black warm-up<br />pants and tops. The walls of the room were lined with books about lycanthropy, many in<br />Latin, but Maia recognized the word “lupus.” The desk was a slab of marble set upon the<br />statues of two snarling wolves.<br />In front of it were two chairs. In one of them sat a large man—a werewolf—hunched<br />over, his hands gripped together. “Praetor,” he said in a grating voice. “I had hoped to<br />speak with you regarding the incident in Boston.”<br />“The one in which you broke your assigned charge’s leg?” the Praetor said dryly. “I will<br />be speaking to you about it, Rufus, but not this moment. Something more pressing calls<br />me.”<br />“But, Praetor—”<br />“That will be all, Rufus,” said Scott in the ringing tone of an alpha wolf whose orders<br />were not to be challenged. “Remember, this is a place of rehabilitation. Part of that is<br />learning to respect authority.”<br />Muttering under his breath, Rufus rose from the chair. Only when he stood up did Maia<br />realize, and react to, his enormous size. He towered over both her and Jordan, his black<br />T-shirt straining over his chest, the sleeves about to split around his biceps. His head was<br />closely shaved, his face scored with deep claw marks all across one cheek, like furrows<br />dug in soil. He gave her a sour look as he stalked past them and out into the hall.<br />“Of course some of us,” Jordan muttered, “are easier to rehabilitate than others.”<br />As Rufus’s heavy tread faded down the hall, Scott threw himself into the high-backed<br />chair behind the desk and buzzed a joltingly modern-looking intercom. After requesting<br />breakfast in a terse voice, he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head.<br />“I’m all ears,” he said.<br />As Jordan recounted their story, and their request, to Praetor Scott, Maia couldn’t keep<br />her eyes and mind from wandering. She wondered what it would have been like to have<br />been raised here, in this elegant house of rules and regulations, rather than with the<br />comparatively lawless freedom of the pack. At some point a werewolf dressed all in black<br />—it seemed to be the regulation outfit of the Praetor—came in with sliced roast beef,<br />cheese, and protein drinks on a pewter tray. Maia eyed the breakfast with some dismay.<br />It was true that werewolves needed more protein than normal people, much more, but<br />roast beef for breakfast?<br />“You’ll find,” Praetor Scott said as Maia drank her protein shake gingerly, “that, in fact,<br />refined sugar is harmful to werewolves. If you cease consuming it for a period of time,<br />you will cease desiring it. Hasn’t your pack leader told you that?”<br />Maia tried to imagine Luke, who liked to make pancakes in odd and amusing shapes,<br />lecturing her about sugar, and failed. Now was not the time to mention that, though. “No,<br />he has, of course,” she said. “I tend to, ah, backslide in times of stress.”<br />“I understand your concern for your pack leader,” said Scott. A gold Rolex glinted on his<br />wrist. “Normally we maintain a strict policy of noninterference regarding matters not<br />related to new-fledged Downworlders. We do not, in fact, prioritize werewolves over<br />other Downworlders, though only lycanthropes are allowed into the Praetor.”<br />“But that’s exactly why we do need your help,” said Jordan. “Packs are by their nature<br />always moving, transitional. They have no opportunity to build up things like libraries of<br />stored knowledge. I’m not saying they don’t have wisdom, but everything is an oral<br />tradition and every pack knows different things. We could go from pack to pack, and<br />maybe someone would know how to cure Luke, but we don’t have time. Here”—he<br />gestured at the books lining the walls—“is the closest thing werewolves have to, say, the<br />archives of the Silent Brothers or the Spiral Labyrinth of the warlocks.”<br />Scott looked unconvinced. Maia set her protein shake down. “And Luke isn’t just any<br />pack leader,” she said. “He’s the lyncanthrope’s representative on the Council. If you<br />helped cure him, you would know that the Praetor would always have a Council voice in<br />their favor.”<br />Scott’s eyes glinted. “Interesting,” he said. “Very well. I’ll have a look through the<br />books. It’ll probably take a few hours. Jordan, I suggest that if you’re going to drive back<br />to Manhattan you get some rest. We don’t need you wrapping your truck around a tree.”<br />“I could drive—,” Maia began.<br />“You look equally exhausted. Jordan, as you know, there will always be a room for you<br />here at the Praetor House, even though you’ve graduated. And Nick is on assignment, so<br />there’s a bed for Maia. Why don’t you both get some rest, and I’ll call you down when I’m<br />finished.” He swiveled around in his chair to examine the books on the walls.<br />Jordan gestured to Maia that this was their cue to leave; she stood up, brushing crumbs<br />off her jeans. She was halfway to the door when Praetor Scott spoke again.<br />“Oh, and Maia Roberts,” he said, and his voice held a note of warning. “I hope you<br />understand that when you make promises in other people’s names, it falls upon your<br />head to make sure they follow through.”<br />Simon awoke still feeling exhausted, blinking in the darkness. The thick black curtains<br />over the windows let in very little light, but his internal body clock told him it was<br />daytime. That and the fact that Isabelle was gone, her side of the bed rumpled, the<br />covers turned back.<br />Daytime, and he hadn’t talked to Clary since she’d gone. He drew his hand out from<br />under the covers and looked at the gold ring on his right hand. Delicate, it was etched<br />with what were either designs or words in an alphabet he didn’t know.<br />Clenching his jaw, he sat up and touched the ring. Clary?<br />The answer was immediate and clear. He nearly slid off the bed with relief. Simon.<br />Thank God.<br />Can you talk?<br />No. He felt rather than heard a tense distraction in the voice of her mind. I’m glad you<br />spoke to me, but now isn’t good. I’m not alone.<br />But you’re all right?<br />I’m fine. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m trying to gather information. I promise I’ll talk to<br />you the moment I hear anything.<br />Okay. Take care of yourself.<br />You too.<br />And she was gone. Sliding his legs over the side of the mattress, Simon did his best to<br />flatten his sleep-mussed hair, and went to see if anyone else was awake.<br />They were. Alec, Magnus, Jocelyn, and Isabelle sat around the table in Magnus’s living<br />room. While Alec and Magnus were in jeans, both Jocelyn and Isabelle wore gear,<br />Isabelle with her whip wrapped around her right arm. She glanced up as he came in but<br />didn’t smile; her shoulders were tense, her mouth a thin line. They all had mugs of coffee<br />in front of them.<br />“There’s a reason the ritual of the Mortal Instruments was so complicated.” Magnus<br />made the sugar bowl float over to himself and dumped some of the white powder into his<br />coffee. “Angels act at the behest of God, not human beings—not even Shadowhunters.<br />Summon one, and you’re likely to find yourself blasted with divine wrath. The whole point<br />of the Mortal Instruments ritual wasn’t that it allowed someone to summon Raziel. It was<br />that it protected the summoner from the Angel’s wrath once he did appear.”<br />“Valentine—,” Alec began.<br />“Yes, Valentine also summoned a very minor angel. And it never spoke to him, did it?<br />Never gave him a sliver of help, though he harvested its blood. And even then he must<br />have been using incredibly powerful spells just to bind it. My understanding is that he tied<br />its life to the Wayland manor, so that when the angel died the manor collapsed to<br />rubble.” He tapped a blue-painted fingernail on his mug. “And he damned himself.<br />Whether you believe in Heaven and Hell or not, he damned himself surely. When he<br />summoned Raziel, Raziel struck him down. Partly in revenge for what Valentine had done<br />to his brother angel.”<br />“Why are we talking about summoning angels?” Simon asked, perching himself on the<br />end of the long table.<br />“Isabelle and Jocelyn went to see the Iron Sisters,” said Alec. “Looking for a weapon<br />that could be used on Sebastian that wouldn’t affect Jace.”<br />“And there isn’t one?”<br />“Nothing in this world,” said Isabelle. “A Heavenly weapon might do it, or something<br />with a seriously demonic alliance. We were exploring the first option.”<br />“Summoning up an angel to give you a weapon?”<br />“It’s happened before,” said Magnus. “Raziel gave the Mortal Sword to Jonathan<br />Shadowhunter. In the old stories, the night before the battle of Jericho, an angel<br />appeared and gave Joshua a sword.”<br />“Huh,” said Simon. “I would have thought angels would have been all about peace, not<br />weapons.”<br />Magnus snorted. “Angels are not just messengers. They are soldiers. Michael is said to<br />have routed armies. They are not patient, angels. Certainly not with the vicissitudes of<br />human beings. Anyone who tried to summon Raziel without the Mortal Instruments to<br />protect them would probably be blasted to death on the spot. Demons are easier to<br />summon. There are more of them, and many are weak. But then, a weak demon can help<br />you only so much—”<br />“We can’t summon a demon,” said Jocelyn, aghast. “The Clave—”<br />“I thought you stopped caring what the Clave thought of you years ago,” Magnus said.<br />“It’s not just me,” said Jocelyn. “The rest of you. Luke. My daughter. If the Clave knew<br />—”<br />“Well, they won’t know, will they?” said Alec, his usually gentle voice edged. “Unless<br />you tell them.”<br />Jocelyn looked from Isabelle’s still face to Magnus’s inquiring one, to Alec’s stubborn<br />blue eyes. “You’re really considering this? Summoning a demon?”<br />“Well, not just any demon,” said Magnus. “Azazel.”<br />Jocelyn’s eyes blazed. “Azazel?” Her eyes scanned the others, as if looking for support,<br />but Izzy and Alec glanced down at their mugs, and Simon just shrugged.<br />“I don’t know who Azazel is,” he said. “Isn’t he the cat from The Smurfs?” He cast<br />about, but Isabelle just looked up and rolled her eyes at him. Clary? he thought.<br />Her voice came through, tinged with alarm. What is it? What’s happened? Did my mom<br />find out I’m gone?<br />Not yet, he thought back. Is Azazel the cat from The Smurfs?<br />There was a long pause. That’s Azrael, Simon. And no more using the magic rings for<br />Smurf questions.<br />And she was gone. Simon glanced up from his hand and saw Magnus looking at him<br />quizzically. “He’s not a cat, Sylvester,” he said. “He’s a Greater Demon. Lieutenant of Hell<br />and Forger of Weapons. He was an angel who taught mankind how to make weapons,<br />when before it had been knowledge only angels possessed. That caused him to fall, and<br />now he is a demon. ‘And the whole earth has been corrupted by the works that were<br />taught by Azazel. To him ascribe all sin.’”<br />Alec looked at Magnus in amazement. “How did you know all that?”<br />“He’s a friend of mine,” said Magnus, and, noting their expressions, sighed. “Okay, not<br />really. But it is in the Book of Enoch.”<br />“Seems dangerous.” Alec frowned. “It sounds like he’s beyond a Greater Demon, even.<br />Like Lilith.”<br />“Fortunately, he is already bound,” said Magnus. “If you summon him, his spirit form<br />will come to you but his corporeal self will remain bound to the jagged rocks of Duduael.”<br />“The jagged rocks of… Oh, whatever,” Isabelle said, winding her long dark hair into a<br />bun. “He’s the demon of weapons. Fine. I say we give it a go.”<br />“I can’t believe you’re even considering this,” said Jocelyn. “I learned from watching my<br />husband what dabbling in raising demons can do. Clary—” She broke off then, as if<br />sensing Simon’s gaze on her, and turned. “Simon,” she said, “do you know, is Clary awake<br />yet? We’ve been letting her sleep, but it’s almost eleven.”<br />Simon hesitated. “I don’t know.” This, he reasoned, was true. Wherever Clary was, she<br />could be asleep. Even though he had just talked to her.<br />Jocelyn looked puzzled. “But weren’t you in the room with her?”<br />“No, I wasn’t. I was—” Simon broke off, realizing the hole he’d just dug himself. There<br />were three spare bedrooms. Jocelyn had been in one, Clary the other. Which would<br />obviously mean he must have slept in the third room with—<br />“Isabelle?” said Alec, his eyebrows raised. “You slept in Isabelle’s room?”<br />Isabelle waved a hand. “No need to worry, big brother. Nothing happened. Of course,”<br />she added as Alec’s shoulders relaxed, “I was totally passed-out drunk, so he could really<br />have done whatever he wanted and I wouldn’t have woken up.”<br />“Oh, please,” said Simon. “All I did was tell you the entire plot of Star Wars.”<br />“I don’t think I remember that,” said Isabelle, taking a cookie from the plate on the<br />table.<br />“Oh, yeah? Who was Luke Skywalker’s best childhood friend?”<br />“Biggs Darklighter,” Isabelle said immediately, and then hit the table with the flat of<br />her hand. “That is so cheating!” Still, she grinned at him around her cookie.<br />“Ah,” said Magnus. “Nerd love. It is a beautiful thing, while also being an object of<br />mockery and hilarity for those of us who are more sophisticated.”<br />“All right, that’s enough.” Jocelyn stood up. “I’m going to get Clary. If you’re going to<br />raise a demon, I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want my daughter here either.” She<br />headed toward the hallway.<br />Simon blocked her way. “You can’t do that,” he said.<br />Jocelyn looked at him with a set face. “I know you’re going to say that this is the safest<br />place for us, Simon, but with a demon being raised, I just—”<br />“It’s not that.” Simon took a deep breath, which didn’t help, since his blood no longer<br />processed oxygen. He felt slightly sick. “You can’t go wake her up because… because she<br />isn’t here.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-70097367251122824522013-02-18T05:25:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.556-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 8<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Maia had never been to Long Island, but when she thought of it at all, she’d always<br />thought of it as being a lot like New Jersey—mostly suburban, a place where people who<br />worked in New York or Philly actually lived.<br />She had dropped her bag into the back of Jordan’s truck—startlingly unfamiliar. He’d<br />driven a beaten-up red Toyota when they’d been dating, and it had always been littered<br />with old, crumpled coffee cups and fast-food bags, the ashtray full of cigarettes smoked<br />down to the filter. The cab of this truck was comparatively clean, the only detritus a stack<br />of papers on the passenger seat. He moved them aside with no comment as she climbed<br />in.<br />They hadn’t spoken through Manhattan and onto the Long Island Expressway, and<br />eventually Maia had dozed, her cheek against the cool glass of the window. She’d finally<br />woken when they’d gone over a bump in the road, jolting her forward. She’d blinked,<br />rubbing at her eyes.<br />“Sorry,” Jordan had said ruefully. “I was going to let you sleep until we got there.”<br />She’d sat up, looking around. They’d been driving down a two-lane blacktop road, the<br />sky around them just beginning to lighten. There were fields on either side of the road,<br />the occasional farmhouse or silo, clapboard houses set far back with picket fences around<br />them.<br />“It’s pretty,” she’d said in surprise.<br />“Yeah.” Jordan had changed gears, clearing his throat. “Since you’re up anyway…<br />Before we get to the Praetor House, can I show you something?”<br />She’d hesitated only a moment before nodding. And now here they were, bumping<br />down a one-lane dirt road, trees on either side. Most were leafless; the road was muddy,<br />and Maia cranked the window down to smell the air. Trees, salt water, softly decaying<br />leaves, small animals running through the high grass. She took another deep breath just<br />as they bumped off the road and onto a small circular turnaround space. In front of them<br />was the beach, stretching down to dark steel-blue water. The sky was almost lilac.<br />She looked over at Jordan. He was staring straight ahead. “I used to come here while I<br />was training at the Praetor House,” he said. “Sometimes just to look at the water and<br />clear my head. The sunrises here… Every one is different, but they’re all beautiful.”<br />“Jordan.”<br />He didn’t look at her. “Yeah?”<br />“I’m sorry about before. About running off, you know, in the navy yard.”<br />“It’s fine.” He let his breath out slowly, but she could tell by the tension in his<br />shoulders, his hand gripping the gearshift, that it wasn’t, not really. She tried not to look<br />at the way the tension shaped the muscles in his arm, accenting the indentation of his<br />bicep. “It was a lot for you to take in; I get that. I just…”<br />“I think we should take it slow. Work toward being friends.”<br />“I don’t want to be friends,” he said.<br />She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You don’t?”<br />He moved his hands from the gearshift to the steering wheel. Warm air poured from<br />the heater inside the car, mixing with the cooler air outside Maia’s open window. “We<br />shouldn’t talk about this now.”<br />“I want to,” she said. “I want to talk about it now. I don’t want to be stressing about us<br />when we’re in the Praetor House.”<br />He slid down in his seat, chewing his lip. His tangled brown hair fell forward over his<br />forehead. “Maia…”<br />“If you don’t want to be friends, then what are we? Enemies again?”<br />He turned his head, his cheek against the back of the car seat. Those eyes, they were<br />just as she remembered, hazel with flecks of green and blue and gold. “I don’t want to be<br />friends,” he said, “because I still love you. Maia, you know I haven’t even so much as<br />kissed anyone since we broke up?”<br />“Isabelle…”<br />“Wanted to get drunk and talk about Simon.” He took his hands off the steering wheel,<br />reached for her, then dropped them back into his lap, a defeated look on his face. “I’ve<br />only ever loved you. Thinking about you got me through my training. The idea that I<br />might be able to make it up to you someday. And I will, in any way that I can except for<br />one.”<br />“You won’t be my friend.”<br />“I won’t be just your friend. I love you, Maia. I’m in love with you. I always have been. I<br />always will be. Just being your friend would kill me.”<br />She looked out toward the ocean. The rim of the sun was just showing above the<br />water, its rays lighting the sea in shades of purple and gold and blue. “It’s so beautiful<br />here.”<br />“That’s why I used to come here. I couldn’t sleep, and I’d watch the sun come up.” His<br />voice was soft.<br />“Can you sleep now?” She turned back to him.<br />He closed his eyes. “Maia… if you’re going to say no, you don’t want to be anything but<br />friends with me,… just say it. Rip the Band-Aid off, okay?”<br />He looked braced, as if for a blow. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones.<br />There were pale white scars on the olive skin of his throat, scars she had made. She<br />unclipped her seat belt and scooted across the bench seat toward him. She heard his<br />gasp of breath, but he didn’t move as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. She inhaled the<br />scent of him. Same soap, same shampoo, but no lingering scent of cigarettes. Same boy.<br />She kissed across his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, and finally, edging even closer,<br />set her mouth over his.<br />His lips opened under hers and he growled, low in his throat. Werewolves weren’t<br />gentle with each other, but his hands were light on her as he lifted her and set her on his<br />lap, wrapping his arms around her as their kiss deepened. The feel of him, the warmth of<br />his corduroy-covered arms around her, the beat of his heart, the taste of his mouth, the<br />clash of lips, teeth, and tongue, stole her breath. Her hands slipped around the back of<br />his neck, and she melted against him as she felt the soft thick curls of his hair, exactly the<br />same as it had always been.<br />When they finally drew apart, his eyes were glassy. “I’ve been waiting for that for<br />years.”<br />She traced the line of his collarbone with a finger. She could feel her own heart<br />beating. For a few moments they hadn’t been two werewolves on a mission to a deadly<br />secret organization—they’d been two teenagers, making out in a car on the beach. “Did it<br />live up to your expectations?”<br />“It was much better.” His mouth crooked up at the corner. “Does this mean…”<br />“Well,” she said. “That’s not the sort of thing you do with your friends, right?”<br />“Isn’t it? I’ll have to tell Simon. He’s going to be seriously disappointed.”<br />“Jordan.” She hit him lightly in the shoulder, but she was smiling, and so was he, an<br />uncharacteristically big, goofy grin spreading over his face. She bent close and put her<br />face against the crook of his neck, breathing him in along with the morning.<br />They were battling across the frozen lake, the icy city glowing like a lamp in the distance.<br />The angel with the golden wings and the angel with the wings like black fire. Clary stood<br />on the ice as blood and feathers fell around her. The golden feathers burned like fire<br />where they touched her skin, but the black feathers were as cold as ice.<br />Clary awoke with her heart pounding, tangled in a knot of blankets. She sat up, pushing<br />the blankets to her waist. She was in an unfamiliar room. The walls were white plaster,<br />and she was lying in a bed made of black wood, still wearing the clothes she’d worn the<br />night before. She slid out of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and looked<br />around for her backpack.<br />She found it easily, propped on a black leather chair. There were no windows in the<br />room; the only light came from a pendant glass light fixture overhead made of cut black<br />glass. She swept her hand through the pack and realized to her annoyance, although<br />without surprise, that someone had already gone through the contents. Her art box was<br />gone, including her stele. All that remained was her hairbrush and a change of jeans and<br />underwear. At least the gold ring was still on her finger.<br />She touched it lightly and thought at Simon. I’m in.<br />Nothing.<br />Simon?<br />There was no response. She swallowed back her uneasiness. She had no idea where<br />she was, what time it was, or how long she’d been out cold. Simon could be asleep. She<br />couldn’t panic and assume the rings didn’t work. She had to go on autopilot. Check out<br />where she was, learn what she could. She’d try Simon again later.<br />She took a deep breath and tried to focus on her immediate surroundings. Two doors<br />led off the bedroom. She tried the first, and found that it opened onto a small glass-andchrome<br />bathroom with a copper claw-footed bathtub. There were no windows in here<br />either. She showered quickly and dried herself with a fluffy white towel, then changed<br />into clean jeans and a sweater before padding back into the bedroom, picking up her<br />shoes, and trying the second door.<br />Bingo. Here was the rest of the—house? Apartment? She was in a large room, half of<br />which was devoted to a long glass table. More of the black pendant cut-glass lights hung<br />from the ceiling, sending dancing shadows against the walls. Everything was very<br />modern, from the black leather chairs to the large fireplace, framed in washed chrome.<br />There was a fire blazing in it. So someone else must be home, or must have been very<br />recently.<br />The other half of the room was taken up with a large television screen, a glossy black<br />coffee table on which were scattered games and controllers, and low leather couches. A<br />set of glass stairs led upward in a spiral. After a glance around Clary began to climb them.<br />The glass was perfectly clear, and lent the impression that she was climbing an invisible<br />staircase into the sky.<br />The second floor was much like the first—pale walls, black floor, a long corridor with<br />doors opening off it. The first door led into what was clearly a master bedroom. A huge<br />rosewood bed, hung with gauzy white curtains, took up most of the space. There were<br />windows in here, tinted a dark blue. Clary went across the room to look out.<br />She wondered for a moment if she was back in Alicante. She was looking across a canal<br />at another building, its windows covered in closed green shutters. The sky above was<br />gray, the canal a dark greenish-blue, and there was a bridge visible just at her right,<br />crossing the canal. Two people were standing on the bridge. One of them held a camera<br />to his face and was industriously taking photos. Not Alicante, then. Amsterdam? Venice?<br />She looked everywhere for a way to open the window, but there didn’t appear to be one;<br />she banged on the glass and shouted, but the bridge-crossers took no notice. After a few<br />moments they moved on.<br />Clary turned back into the bedroom and went to one of the wardrobes, and threw it<br />open. Her heart skipped a beat. The wardrobe was full of clothes—women’s clothes.<br />Gorgeous dresses—lace and satin and beads and flowers. The drawers held camisoles<br />and underwear, tops in cotton and silk, skirts but no jeans or pants. There were even<br />shoes lined up, sandals and heels, and folded pairs of stockings. For a moment she just<br />stared, wondering if there were another girl staying here, or if Sebastian had taken to<br />cross-dressing. But the clothes all had the tags on them, and all of them were near her<br />size. Not only that, she realized slowly, staring. They were exactly the shapes and colors<br />that would suit her—blues and greens and yellows, cut for a petite frame. Eventually she<br />drew out one of the simpler tops, a dark green cap-sleeved blouse with silk lacing up the<br />front. After discarding her worn top on the floor, she shrugged the blouse on and glanced<br />at the mirror hanging inside the wardrobe.<br />It fit perfectly. Made the most of her small figure, clinging to her waist, darkening the<br />green of her eyes. She yanked the tag off, not wanting to see how much it had cost, and<br />hurried out of the room, feeling a shiver run down her spine.<br />The next room was clearly Jace’s. She knew it the minute she walked in. It smelled like<br />him, like his cologne and soap and the scent of his skin. The bed was ebonized wood with<br />white sheets and blankets, perfectly made. It was as neat as his room at the Institute.<br />Books were stacked by his bed, the titles in Italian and French and Latin. The silver<br />Herondale dagger with its pattern of birds was jammed into the plaster wall. When she<br />looked closer, she could see that it was pinning a photograph in place. A photograph of<br />herself and Jace, taken by Izzy. She remembered it, a clear day in early October, Jace<br />sitting on the front steps of the Institute, a book on his lap. She was sitting a step above<br />him, her hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to see what he was reading. His hand<br />covered hers, almost absently, and he was smiling. She hadn’t been able to see his face<br />that day, hadn’t known he was smiling like that, not until now. Her throat contracted, and<br />she went out of the room, catching her breath.<br />She couldn’t act like this, she told herself sternly. As if each sight of Jace the way he<br />was now was a sucker punch to the gut. She had to pretend that it didn’t matter, as if she<br />noticed no difference. She went into the next room, another bedroom, much like the one<br />before it, but this one was a mess—the bed a tangle of black silk sheets and comforter, a<br />glass and steel desk covered with books and papers, boy clothes scattered everywhere.<br />Jeans and jackets and T-shirts and gear. Her eye fell on something that gleamed silver,<br />propped on the nightstand near the bed. She moved forward, staring, unable to believe<br />her eyes.<br />It was the small box of her mother’s, the one with the initials J.C. on it. The one her<br />mother used to take out every year, once a year, and weep over silently, the tears<br />running down her face to splash onto her hands. Clary knew what was in the box—a lock<br />of hair, as fine and white as dandelion fluff; scraps from a child’s shirt; a baby shoe, small<br />enough to fit inside the palm of her hand. Bits and pieces of her brother, a sort of collage<br />of the child her mother had wanted to have, had dreamed of having, before Valentine had<br />done what he had and turned his own son into a monster.<br />J.C.<br />Jonathan Christopher.<br />Her stomach twisted, and she backed up quickly out of the room—directly into a wall of<br />living flesh. Arms came around her, wrapping her tight, and she saw that they were slim<br />and muscular, downed with fine pale hair, and for a moment she thought it was Jace<br />holding her. She began to relax.<br />“What were you doing in my room?” Sebastian said into her ear.<br />Isabelle had been trained to wake early every morning, rain or shine, and a slight<br />hangover did nothing to prevent it from happening again. She sat up slowly and blinked<br />down at Simon.<br />She’d never spent an entire night in a bed with anyone else, unless you counted<br />crawling into her parents’ bed when she was four and afraid of thunderstorms. She<br />couldn’t help staring at Simon as if he were some exotic species of animal. He lay on his<br />back, his mouth slightly open, his hair in his eyes. Ordinary brown hair, ordinary brown<br />eyes. His T-shirt was pulled up slightly. He wasn’t muscular like a Shadowhunter. He had<br />a smooth flat stomach but no six-pack, and there was still a hint of softness to his face.<br />What was it about him that fascinated her? He was plenty cute, but she had dated<br />gorgeous faerie knights, sexy Shadowhunters.…<br />“Isabelle,” Simon said without opening his eyes. “Quit staring at me.”<br />Isabelle sighed irritably and swung herself out of bed. She rummaged in her bag for her<br />gear, retrieved it, and headed out to find the bathroom.<br />It was halfway down the hall, and the door was just opening, Alec emerging in a cloud<br />of steam. He had a towel around his waist and another around his shoulders and was<br />rubbing energetically at his wet black hair. Isabelle supposed she shouldn’t be surprised<br />to see him; he’d been trained to wake up early in the morning just like she had.<br />“You smell like sandalwood,” she said by way of greeting. She hated the smell of<br />sandalwood. She liked sweet scents—vanilla, cinnamon, gardenia.<br />Alec looked at her. “We like sandalwood.”<br />Isabelle made a face. “Either that’s the royal ‘we’ or you and Magnus are turning into<br />one of those couples that think they’re one person. ‘We like sandalwood.’ ‘We adore the<br />symphony.’ ‘ We hope you enjoy our Christmas present’—which, if you ask me, is just a<br />cheap way of avoiding having to buy two gifts.”<br />Alec blinked wet lashes at her. “You’ll understand—”<br />“If you tell me I’ll understand when I’m in love, I’ll smother you with that towel.”<br />“And if you keep preventing me from going back to my room and getting dressed, I’ll<br />get Magnus to summon up pixies to tie your hair in knots.”<br />“Oh, get out of my way.” Isabelle kicked at Alec’s ankle until he moved, unhurriedly,<br />down the hall. She had the feeling if she turned around and looked at him he’d be sticking<br />his tongue out at her, so she didn’t look. Instead she locked herself in the bathroom and<br />turned on the shower, full steam. Then she looked at the rack of shower products and<br />said an unladylike word.<br />Sandalwood shampoo, conditioner, and soap. Ugh.<br />When she finally emerged, dressed in her gear and with her hair up, she found Alec,<br />Magnus, and Jocelyn waiting for her in the living room. There were doughnuts, which she<br />didn’t want, and coffee, which she did. She poured a liberal amount of milk into it and sat<br />back, looking at Jocelyn, who was also dressed—to Isabelle’s surprise—in Shadowhunter<br />gear.<br />It was odd, she mused. People often told her she looked like her mother, though she<br />didn’t see it herself, and she wondered now if it was in the same way that Clary looked<br />like Jocelyn. The same color hair, yes, but also the same cast of features, the same tilt of<br />the head, the same stubborn set to the jaw. The same sense that this person might look<br />like a porcelain doll but was steel underneath. Although, Isabelle wished that, in the<br />same way that Clary had gotten her mother’s green eyes, she’d gotten Maryse and<br />Robert’s blue ones. Blue was so much more interesting than black.<br />“As with the Silent City, there is only one Adamant Citadel, but there are many doors<br />through which one may find it,” said Magnus. “The closest to us is the old Augustinian<br />Monastery on Grymes Hill, in Staten Island. Alec and I will Portal with you there and wait<br />for you to return, but we can’t go with you all the way.”<br />“I know,” said Isabelle. “Because you’re boys. Cooties.”<br />Alec pointed a finger at her. “Take this seriously, Isabelle. The Iron Sisters aren’t like<br />the Silent Brothers. They’re way less friendly and they don’t like being bothered.”<br />“I promise I’ll be on my best behavior,” Isabelle said, and set her empty coffee mug<br />down on the table. “Let’s go.”<br />Magnus looked at her suspiciously for a moment, then shrugged. His hair was gelled up<br />today into a million sharp points, and his eyes were smudged with black, making them<br />look more catlike than ever. He moved past her to the wall, already murmuring in Latin;<br />the familiar outline of a Portal, its arcane door shape outlined with glittering symbols,<br />began to take form. Wind rose, cool and sharp, blowing back the tendrils of Isabelle’s<br />hair.<br />Jocelyn stepped forward first, and walked through the Portal. It was a little like<br />watching someone disappear into the side of a wave of water: A silvery haze seemed to<br />swallow her in, dulling the color of her red hair as she vanished into it with a faint<br />shimmer.<br />Isabelle went next. She was used to the stomach-dropping feeling of transportation by<br />Portal. There was a soundless roar in her ears and no air in her lungs. She closed her<br />eyes, then opened them again as the whirlwind released her and she fell into dry brush.<br />She rose to her feet, brushing dead grass from her knees, and saw Jocelyn looking at her.<br />Clary’s mother opened her mouth—and closed it again as Alec appeared, dropping into<br />the vegetation beside Isabelle, and then Magnus, the shimmering half-seen Portal closing<br />behind him.<br />Even the trip through the Portal had not disarranged Magnus’s hair spikes. He tugged<br />on one proudly. “Check it out,” he said to Isabelle.<br />“Magic?”<br />“Hair gel. $3.99 at Ricky’s.”<br />Isabelle rolled her eyes at him and turned to take in her new surroundings. They stood<br />atop a hill, its peak covered in dry brush and withered grass. Lower down were autumnblackened<br />trees, and in the far distance Isabelle saw cloudless sky and the top of the<br />Verrazano-Narrows Bridge connecting Staten Island to Brooklyn. As she turned, Isabelle<br />saw the monastery behind her, rising out of the dull foliage. It was a large building of red<br />brick, most of its windows smashed out or boarded over. It was tagged here and there<br />with graffiti. Turkey vultures, disturbed by the travelers’ arrival, circled the dilapidated<br />bell tower.<br />Isabelle squinted at it, wondering if there was a glamour to be peeled off. If so, it was<br />a strong one. Try as she might, she couldn’t see anything but the ruinous building before<br />her.<br />“There’s no glamour,” said Jocelyn, startling Isabelle. “What you see is what you get.”<br />Jocelyn trudged toward it, her boots crushing down the dry vegetation in front of her.<br />After a moment Magnus shrugged and followed her, and Isabelle and Alec came after.<br />There was no path; branches grew in tangles, dark against the clear air, and the foliage<br />underfoot crackled with dryness. As they neared the building, Isabelle saw that patches of<br />the dry grass were burned away where pentagrams and runic circles had been spraypainted<br />into the grass.<br />“Mundanes,” said Magnus, lifting a branch out of Isabelle’s way. “Playing their little<br />games with magic, not really understanding it. They’re often drawn to places like this—<br />centers of power—without really knowing why. They drink and hang out and spray-paint<br />the walls, like you could leave a human mark on magic. You can’t.” They had reached a<br />boarded-up door in the brick wall. “We’re here.”<br />Isabelle looked hard at the door. Again there was no sense that a glamour covered it,<br />although if she concentrated hard, a faint shimmer grew visible, like sunshine glancing off<br />water. A look passed between Jocelyn and Magnus. Jocelyn turned to Isabelle. “You’re<br />ready?”<br />Isabelle nodded, and without further ado Jocelyn stepped forward and vanished<br />through the boards of the door. Magnus looked expectantly at Isabelle.<br />Alec leaned closer to her, and she felt the brush of his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t<br />worry,” he said. “You’ll be fine, Iz.”<br />She raised her chin. “I know,” she said, and followed Jocelyn through the door.<br />Clary sucked in her breath, but before she could reply, there was a step on the stairs, and<br />Jace appeared at the end of the hallway. Sebastian immediately let her go and spun her<br />around. With a smile like a wolf’s, he ruffled her hair. “Good to see you, little sister.”<br />Clary was speechless. Jace, though, wasn’t; he moved toward them soundlessly. He<br />was wearing a black leather jacket, a white T-shirt and jeans, and was barefoot. “Were<br />you hugging Clary?” He looked at Sebastian in amazement.<br />Sebastian shrugged. “She’s my sister. I’m pleased to see her.”<br />“You don’t hug people,” Jace said.<br />“I ran out of time to bake a casserole.”<br />“It was nothing,” Clary said, waving a dismissive hand at her brother. “I tripped. He<br />was just keeping me from falling over.”<br />If Sebastian was surprised to hear her defend him, he didn’t show it. He was<br />expressionless as she moved across the corridor, toward Jace, who kissed her on the<br />cheek, his fingers cool against her skin. “What were you doing up here?” Jace asked.<br />“Looking for you.” She shrugged. “I woke up and couldn’t find you. I thought maybe you<br />were asleep.”<br />“I see you discovered the clothes stash.” Sebastian indicated her shirt with a gesture.<br />“Do you like them?”<br />Jace shot him a look. “We were out getting food,” he said to Clary. “Nothing fancy.<br />Bread and cheese. You want lunch?”<br />Which was how, several minutes later, Clary found herself installed at the big glass and<br />steel table. From the comestibles spread out over the table, she figured that her second<br />guess had been right. They were in Venice. There was bread, Italian cheeses, salami and<br />prosciutto, grapes and fig jam, and bottles of Italian wine. Jace sat across from her,<br />Sebastian at the head of the table. She was eerily reminded of the night she had met<br />Valentine, at Renwick’s in New York, how he had put himself between Jace and Clary at<br />the head of a table, how he had offered them wine and told them they were brother and<br />sister.<br />She sneaked a glance at her real brother now. She thought of how her mother had<br />looked when she’d seen him. Valentine. But Sebastian wasn’t a carbon copy of their<br />father. She had seen pictures of Valentine when he was their age. Sebastian’s face<br />tempered her father’s hard features with her mother’s prettiness; he was tall but less<br />broad-shouldered, more lithe and catlike. He had Jocelyn’s cheekbones and fine soft<br />mouth, Valentine’s dark eyes and white-blond hair.<br />He looked up then, as if he had caught her staring at him. “Wine?” He offered the<br />bottle.<br />She nodded, though she had never much liked the taste of wine, and since Renwick’s<br />she had hated it. She cleared her throat as Sebastian filled the glass. “So,” she said. “This<br />place—is it yours?”<br />“It was our father’s,” said Sebastian, setting the bottle down. “Valentine’s. It moves, in<br />and out of worlds—ours and others. He used to use it as a retreat as well as a mode of<br />travel. He brought me here a few times, showed me how to get in and out and how to<br />make it travel.”<br />“There’s no front door.”<br />“There is if you know how to find it,” said Sebastian. “Dad was very clever about this<br />place.”<br />Clary looked at Jace, who shook his head. “He never showed it to me. I wouldn’t have<br />guessed it existed either.”<br />“It’s very… bachelor pad,” Clary said. “I wouldn’t have thought of Valentine as…”<br />“Owning a flat-screen TV?” Jace grinned at her. “Not that it gets channels, but you can<br />watch DVDs on it. Back at the manor we had an old icebox powered by witchlight. Here<br />he’s got a Sub-Zero fridge.”<br />“That was for Jocelyn,” said Sebastian.<br />Clary looked up. “What?”<br />“All the modern stuff. The appliances. And the clothes. Like that shirt you’re wearing.<br />They were for our mother. In case she decided to come back.” Sebastian’s dark eyes met<br />hers. She felt a little sick. This is my brother, and we’re talking about our parents. She felt<br />dizzy—too much happening too fast to take in, to process. She had never had time to<br />think about Sebastian as her living, breathing brother. By the time she’d found out who<br />he really was, he’d been dead.<br />“Sorry if it’s weird,” Jace said apologetically, indicating her shirt. “We can buy you some<br />other clothes.”<br />Clary touched the sleeve lightly. The fabric was silky, fine, expensive. Well, that<br />explained that—everything close to her size, everything in colors that suited her. Because<br />she looked just like her mother.<br />She took a deep breath. “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s just—What do you do exactly? Just<br />travel around inside this apartment and…”<br />“See the world?” Jace said lightly. “There’s worse things.”<br />“But you can’t do that forever.”<br />Sebastian hadn’t eaten much, but he’d drunk two glasses of wine. He was on his third,<br />and his eyes were glittering. “Why not?”<br />“Well, because—because the Clave is looking for both of you, and you can’t spend<br />forever running and hiding…” Clary’s voice trailed off as she looked from one of them to<br />the other. They were sharing a look—the look of two people who knew something,<br />together, that no one else did. It was not a look Jace had shared with someone else in<br />front of her in a very long time.<br />Sebastian spoke softly and slowly. “Are you asking a question or making an<br />observation?”<br />“She has a right to know our plans,” Jace said. “She came here knowing she couldn’t go<br />back.”<br />“A leap of faith,” said Sebastian, running his finger around the rim of his glass. It was<br />something Clary had seen Valentine do. “In you. She loves you. That’s why she’s here.<br />Isn’t it?”<br />“So what if it is?” Clary said. She supposed she could pretend there was another<br />reason, but Sebastian’s eyes were dark and sharp, and she doubted he’d believe her. “I<br />trust Jace.”<br />“But not me,” Sebastian said.<br />Clary chose her next words with extreme care. “If Jace trusts you, then I want to trust<br />you,” she said. “And you’re my brother. That counts for something.” The lie tasted bitter<br />in her mouth. “But I don’t really know you.”<br />“Then, maybe you should spend a little time getting to know me,” Sebastian said. “And<br />then we’ll tell you our plans.”<br />We’ll tell you. Our plans. In his mind there was a him and Jace; there was no Jace and<br />Clary.<br />“I don’t like keeping her in the dark,” Jace said.<br />“We’ll tell her in a week. What difference does a week make?”<br />Jace gave him a look. “Two weeks ago you were dead.”<br />“Well, I wasn’t suggesting two weeks,” said Sebastian. “That would be insane.”<br />Jace’s mouth quirked up at the corner. He looked at Clary.<br />“I’m willing to wait for you to trust me,” she said, knowing it was the right, smart thing<br />to say. Hating to say it. “However long it takes.”<br />“A week,” Jace said.<br />“A week,” agreed Sebastian. “And that means she stays here in the apartment. No<br />communication with anyone. No unlocking the door for her, no going in and out.”<br />Jace leaned back. “What if I’m with her?”<br />Sebastian gave him a long look from under lowered eyelashes. His look was<br />calculating. He was deciding what he was going to allow Jace to do, Clary realized. He<br />was deciding how much leash to give his “brother.” “Fine,” he said at last, his voice rich<br />with condescension. “If you’re with her.”<br />Clary looked down at her wineglass. She heard Jace reply in a mumur but couldn’t look<br />at him. The idea of a Jace who was allowed to do things—Jace, who always did whatever<br />he wanted—made her sick to her stomach. She wanted to get up and smash the wine<br />bottle over Sebastian’s head, but she knew it was impossible. Cut one, and the other<br />bleeds.<br />“How’s the wine?” It was Sebastian’s voice, an undercurrent of amusement plain in his<br />tone.<br />She drained the glass, choking on the bitter flavor. “Delicious.”<br />Isabelle emerged in an alien landscape. A deep green plain swept out before her under a<br />lowering gray-black sky. Isabelle pulled up the hood of her gear and peered out,<br />fascinated. She had never seen such a great, overarching expanse of sky, or such a vast<br />plain—it was shimmering, jewel-toned, the shade of moss. As Isabelle took a step<br />forward, she realized it was moss, growing on and around the black rocks scattered<br />across the coal-colored earth.<br />“It’s a volcanic plain,” Jocelyn said. She was standing beside Isabelle, and the wind was<br />pulling red-gold strands of her hair out of its tightly pinned bun. She looked so much like<br />Clary that it was eerie. “These were lava beds once. The whole area is probably volcanic<br />to some degree. Working with adamas, the Sisters need incredible heat for their forges.”<br />“You’d think it would be a little warmer, then,” Isabelle muttered.<br />Jocelyn cast her a dry look, and started walking, in what seemed to Isabelle a randomly<br />chosen direction. She scrambled to follow. “Sometimes you’re so much like your mother<br />you astound me a little, Isabelle.”<br />“I take that as a compliment.” Isabelle narrowed her eyes. No one insulted her family.<br />“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”<br />Isabelle kept her eyes on the horizon, where the dark sky met the jewel-green ground.<br />“How well did you know my parents?”<br />Jocelyn gave her a quick sideways look. “Well enough, when we were all in Idris<br />together. I hadn’t seen them for years until recently.”<br />“Did you know them when they got married?”<br />The path Jocelyn was taking had begun to slant uphill, so her reply was slightly<br />breathless. “Yes.”<br />“Were they… in love?”<br />Jocelyn stopped short and turned to look at Isabelle. “Isabelle, what is this about?”<br />“Love?” Isabelle suggested, after a moment’s pause.<br />“I don’t know why you’d think I’d be an expert on that.”<br />“Well, you managed to keep Luke hanging around for his whole life, basically, before<br />you agreed to marry him. That’s impressive. I wish I had that kind of power over a guy.”<br />“You do,” said Jocelyn. “Have it, I mean. And it isn’t something to wish for.” She pushed<br />her hands up through her hair, and Isabelle felt a little jolt. For all that Jocelyn looked like<br />her daughter, her thin long hands, flexible and delicate, were Sebastian’s. Isabelle<br />remembered slicing one of those hands off, in a valley in Idris, her whip cutting through<br />skin and bone. “Your parents aren’t perfect, Isabelle, because no one’s perfect. They’re<br />complicated people. And they just lost a child. So if this is about your father staying in<br />Idris—”<br />“My father cheated on my mother,” Isabelle blurted out, and nearly covered her own<br />mouth with her hand. She had kept this secret, kept it for years, and to say it out loud to<br />Jocelyn seemed like a betrayal, despite everything.<br />Jocelyn’s face changed. It held sympathy now. “I know.”<br />Isabelle took a sharp breath. “Does everyone know?”<br />Jocelyn shook her head. “No. A few people. I was… in a privileged position to know. I<br />can’t say more than that.”<br />“Who was it?” Isabelle demanded. “Who did he cheat on her with?”<br />“It was no one you know, Isabelle—”<br />“You don’t know who I know!” Isabelle’s voice rose. “And stop saying my name that<br />way, as if I’m a little kid.”<br />“It’s not my place to tell you,” Jocelyn said flatly, and began to walk again.<br />Isabelle scrambled after her, even as the path took a steeper turn upward, a wall of<br />green rising to meet the thunderous sky. “I have every right to know. They’re my parents.<br />And if you don’t tell me, I—”<br />She stopped, inhaling sharply. They had reached the top of the ridge, and somehow, in<br />front of them, a fortress had sprung like a fast-blooming flower out of the ground. It was<br />carved of white-silver adamas, reflecting the cloud-streaked sky. Towers topped with<br />electrum reached toward the sky, and the fortress was surrounded by a high wall, also of<br />adamas, in which was set a single gate, formed of two great blades plunged into the<br />ground at angles, so that they resembled a monstrous pair of scissors.<br />“The Adamant Citadel,” said Jocelyn.<br />“Thanks,” Isabelle snapped. “I figured that out.”<br />Jocelyn made the noise that Isabelle was familiar with from her own parents. Isabelle<br />was pretty sure it was parent-speak for “Teenagers.” Then Jocelyn started down the hill<br />to the fortress. Isabelle, tired of scrambling, stalked ahead of her. She was taller than<br />Clary’s mother and had longer legs, and saw no reason why she should wait for Jocelyn if<br />the other woman was going to persist in treating her like a child. She stomped down the<br />hill, crushing moss under her boots, ducked through the scissorlike gates—<br />And froze. She was standing on a small outcropping of rock. In front of her the earth<br />dropped away into a vast chasm, at the bottom of which boiled a river of red-gold lava,<br />encircling the fortress. Across the chasm, much too far to jump—even for a Shadowhunter<br />—was the only visible entrance to the fortress, a closed drawbridge.<br />“Some things,” said Jocelyn at her elbow, “are not as simple as they first appear.”<br />Isabelle jumped, then glared. “So not the place to sneak up on someone.”<br />Jocelyn simply crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. “Surely Hodge<br />taught you the proper method of approaching the Adamant Citadel,” she said. “After all, it<br />is open to all female Shadowhunters in good standing with the Clave.”<br />“Of course he did,” said Isabelle haughtily, scrambling mentally to remember. Only<br />those with Nephilim blood… She reached up and took one of the metal chopsticks from<br />her hair. When she twisted its base, it popped and clicked and unfolded into a dagger<br />with a Rune of Courage on the blade.<br />Isabelle raised her hands over the chasm. “Ignis aurum probat,” she said, and used the<br />dagger to cut open her left palm; it was a swift searing pain, and blood ran from the cut,<br />a ruby stream that splattered into the chasm below. There was a flash of blue light, and a<br />creaking noise. The drawbridge was slowly lowering.<br />Isabelle smiled and wiped the blade of her knife on her gear. After another twist, it had<br />become a slim metal chopstick again. She slid it back into her hair.<br />“Do you know what that means?” asked Jocelyn, her eyes on the lowering bridge.<br />“What?”<br />“What you just said. The motto of the Iron Sisters.”<br />The drawbridge was almost flat. “It means ‘Fire tests gold.’”<br />“Right,” said Jocelyn. “They don’t just mean forges and metalwork. They mean that<br />adversity tests one’s strength of character. In difficult times, in dark times, some people<br />shine.”<br />“Oh, yeah?” said Izzy. “Well, I’m sick of dark and difficult times. Maybe I don’t want to<br />shine.”<br />The drawbridge crashed at their feet. “If you’re anything like your mother,” said<br />Jocelyn, “you won’t be able to help it.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-21853764406501172432013-02-18T05:23:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.643-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Clary was on her third cup of coffee at Taki’s when Simon finally walked in. He was in<br />jeans, a red zip-up sweatshirt (why bother with wool coats when you didn’t feel the<br />cold?), and engineer boots. People turned to look at him as he wove his way through the<br />tables toward her. Simon had cleaned up nicely since Isabelle had started getting on his<br />case about his clothes, Clary thought as he headed toward her among the tables. There<br />were flakes of snow caught in his dark hair, but where Alec’s cheeks had been scarlet<br />from the cold, Simon’s remained colorless and pale. He slid into the booth across from her<br />and looked at her, his dark eyes reflective and shining.<br />“You called?” he asked, making his voice deep and resonant so that he sounded like<br />Count Dracula.<br />“Technically, I texted.” She slid the menu across the table toward him, flipping it to the<br />page for vampires. She’d glanced at it before, but the thought of blood pudding and blood<br />milk shakes made her shudder. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”<br />“Oh, no,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe where I was…” His voice trailed off as he saw<br />the expression on her face. “Hey.” His fingers were suddenly under her chin, lifting her<br />head. The laughter was gone from his eyes, replaced by concern. “What happened? Is<br />there more news about Jace?”<br />“Do you know what you want?” It was Kaelie, the blue-eyed faerie waitress who had<br />given Clary the Queen’s bell. She looked at Clary now and grinned, a superior grin that<br />made Clary grit her teeth.<br />Clary ordered a piece of apple pie; Simon ordered a mix of hot chocolate and blood.<br />Kaelie took the menus away, and Simon looked at Clary with concern. She took a deep<br />breath and told him about the night, every gritty detail—Jace’s appearance, what he had<br />said to her, the confrontation in the living room, and what had happened to Luke. She<br />told him what Magnus had said about dimensional pockets and other worlds, and how<br />there was no way to track someone hidden in a dimensional pocket or get a message<br />through to them. Simon’s eyes grew darker as she spoke, and by the end of the story, he<br />had his head in his hands.<br />“Simon?” Kaelie had come and gone, leaving their food, which was untouched. Clary<br />touched his shoulder. “What is it? Is it Luke—”<br />“It’s my fault.” He looked up at her, eyes dry. Vampires cried tears mixed with blood,<br />she thought; she had read that somewhere. “If I hadn’t bitten Sebastian…”<br />“You did it for me. So I’d live.” Her voice was gentle. “You saved my life.”<br />“You’ve saved mine six or seven times. It seemed fair.” His voice cracked; she recalled<br />him retching up Sebastian’s black blood, on his knees in the roof garden.<br />“Assigning blame doesn’t get us anywhere,” Clary said. “And this isn’t why I dragged<br />you here, just to tell you what happened. I mean, I would have told you anyway, but I<br />would have waited for tomorrow if it weren’t that…”<br />He looked at her warily and took a sip from his mug. “Weren’t that what?”<br />“I have a plan.”<br />He groaned. “I was afraid of that.”<br />“My plans are not terrible.”<br />“Isabelle’s plans are terrible.” He pointed a finger at her. “ Your plans are suicidal. At<br />best.”<br />She sat back, her arms crossed over her chest. “Do you want to hear it or not? You<br />have to keep it a secret.”<br />“I would pluck out my own eyes with a fork before I would give away your secrets,”<br />Simon said, then looked anxious. “Wait a second. Do you think that’s likely to be<br />required?”<br />“I don’t know.” Clary covered her face with her hands.<br />“Just tell me.” He sounded resigned.<br />With a sigh she reached into her pocket and drew out a small velvet bag, which she<br />upended on the table. Two gold rings fell out, landing with a soft clink.<br />Simon looked at them, puzzled. “You want to get married?”<br />“Don’t be an idiot.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Simon, these are the<br />rings. The ones the Seelie Queen wanted.”<br />“I thought you said you never got them—” He broke off, raising his eyes to her face.<br />“I lied. I did take them. But after I saw Jace in the library, I didn’t want to give them to<br />the Queen anymore. I had a feeling we might need them sometime. And I realized she<br />was never going to give us any useful information. The rings seemed more valuable than<br />another round with the Queen.”<br />Simon caught them up in his hand, hiding them from sight as Kaelie passed by. “Clary,<br />you can’t just take things the Seelie Queen wants and keep them for yourself. She’s a<br />very dangerous enemy to have.”<br />She looked at him pleadingly. “Can we at least see if they work?”<br />He sighed and handed her one of the rings; it felt light but was as soft as real gold. She<br />worried for a moment that it wouldn’t fit, but as soon as she slipped it onto her right<br />index finger, it seemed to mold to the shape of her finger, until it sat perfectly in the<br />space below her knuckle. She saw Simon glancing down at his right hand, and realized<br />the same thing had happened to him.<br />“Now we talk, I guess,” he said. “Say something to me. You know, mentally.”<br />Clary turned to Simon, feeling absurdly as if she were being asked to perform in a play<br />whose lines she hadn’t memorized. Simon?<br />Simon blinked. “I think—Could you do that again?”<br />This time Clary concentrated, trying to focus her mind on Simon—the Simon-ness of<br />him, the shape of the way he thought, the feeling of hearing his voice, the sense of him<br />close. His whispers, his secrets, the way he made her laugh. So, she thought<br />conversationally, now that I’m in your mind, want to see some naked mental pictures of<br />Jace?<br />Simon jumped. “I heard that! And, no.”<br />Excitement fizzed in Clary’s veins; it was working. “Think something back to me.”<br />It took less than a second. She heard Simon, the way she heard Brother Zachariah, a<br />voice without sound inside her mind. You’ve seen him naked?<br />Well, not entirely. But I—<br />“Enough,” he said out loud, and though his voice was caught between amusement and<br />anxiety, his eyes sparked. “They work. Holy crap. They really work.”<br />She leaned forward. “So can I tell you my idea?”<br />He touched the ring on his finger, feeling its delicate tracery, the leaf-veins carved<br />under his fingertips. Sure.<br />She began to explain, but she hadn’t yet reached the end of her description when<br />Simon interrupted, out loud this time. “No. Absolutely not.”<br />“Simon,” she said. “It’s a perfectly fine plan.”<br />“The plan where you follow Jace and Sebastian off to some unknown dimensional<br />pocket and we use these rings to communicate so those of us over here in the regular<br />dimension of Earth can track you down? That plan?”<br />“Yes.”<br />“No,” he said. “No, it isn’t.”<br />Clary sat back. “You don’t just get to say no.”<br />“This plan involves me! I get to say no! No.”<br />“Simon—”<br />Simon patted the seat beside him as if someone were sitting there. “Let me introduce<br />you to my good friend No.”<br />“Maybe we can compromise,” she suggested, taking a bite of pie.<br />“No.”<br />“SIMON.”<br />“‘No’ is a magical word,” he told her. “Here’s how it goes. You say, ‘Simon, I have an<br />insane, suicidal plan. Would you like to help me carry it out?’ And I say, ‘Why, no.’”<br />“I’ll do it anyway,” she said.<br />He stared at her across the table. “What?”<br />“I’ll do it whether you help me or not,” she said. “If I can’t use the rings, I’ll still follow<br />Jace to wherever he is and try to get word back to you guys by sneaking away, finding<br />telephones, whatever. If it’s possible. I’m going to do it, Simon. I just have a better<br />chance of surviving if you help me. And there’s no risk to you.”<br />“ I don’t care about risk to me,” he hissed, leaning forward across the table. “I care<br />about what happens to you! Dammit, I’m practically indestructible. Let me go. You stay<br />behind.”<br />“Yes,” Clary said, “Jace won’t find that odd at all. You can just tell him you’ve always<br />been secretly in love with him and you can’t stand being parted.”<br />“I could tell him I’ve given it thought and I completely agree with his and Sebastian’s<br />philosophy and decided to throw in my lot with theirs.”<br />“You don’t even know what their philosophy is.”<br />“There is that. I might have better luck telling him I’m in love with him. Jace thinks<br />everyone’s in love with him anyway.”<br />“But I,” said Clary, “actually am.”<br />Simon looked at her for a long time over the table, silently. “You’re serious,” he said<br />finally. “You’d actually do this. Without me—without any safety net.”<br />“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Jace.”<br />Simon leaned his head back against the plastic booth seat. The Mark of Cain glowed a<br />gentle silver against his skin. “Don’t say that,” he said.<br />“Wouldn’t you do anything for the people you love?”<br />“I’d do almost anything for you,” Simon said quietly. “I’d die for you. You know that. But<br />would I kill someone else, someone innocent? What about a lot of innocent lives? What<br />about the whole world? Is it really love to tell someone that if it came down to picking<br />between them and every other life on the planet, you’d pick them? Is that—I don’t know,<br />is that a moral sort of love at all?”<br />“Love isn’t moral or immoral,” said Clary. “It just is.”<br />“I know,” Simon said. “But the actions we take in the name of love, those are moral or<br />immoral. And normally it wouldn’t matter. Normally—whatever I think of Jace being<br />annoying—he’d never ask you to do anything that went against your nature. Not for him,<br />not for anyone. But he isn’t exactly Jace anymore, is he? And I just don’t know, Clary. I<br />don’t know what he might ask you to do.”<br />Clary leaned her elbow on the table, suddenly very tired. “Maybe he isn’t Jace. But he’s<br />the closest thing to Jace I’ve got. There’s no way back to Jace without him.” She raised<br />her eyes to Simon’s. “Or are you telling me it’s hopeless?”<br />There was a long silence. Clary could see Simon’s innate honesty warring with his<br />desire to protect his best friend. Finally he said, “I’d never say that. I’m still Jewish, you<br />know, even if I am a vampire. In my heart I remember and believe, even the words I<br />can’t say. G—” He choked and swallowed. “He made a covenant with us, just like the<br />Shadowhunters believe Raziel made a covenant with them. And we believe in his<br />promises. Therefore you can never lose hope—hatikva—because if you keep hope alive, it<br />will keep you alive.” He looked faintly embarrassed. “My rabbi used to say that.”<br />Clary slid her hand across the table and laid it atop Simon’s. He rarely talked about his<br />religion with her or anyone, though she knew he believed. “Does that mean you agree?”<br />He groaned. “I think it means you crushed my spirit and beat me down.”<br />“Fantastic.”<br />“Of course you realize you’re leaving me in the position of being the one to tell<br />everyone—your mother, Luke, Alec, Izzy, Magnus…”<br />“I guess I shouldn’t have said there would be no risk to you,” Clary said meekly.<br />“That’s right,” said Simon. “Just remember, when your mother’s gnawing my ankle like<br />a furious mama bear separated from her cub, I did it for you.”<br />Jordan had only just fallen back asleep when the banging on the front door came again.<br />He rolled over and groaned. The clock by the bed said 4:00 a.m. in blinking yellow<br />numbers.<br />More banging. Jordan rolled reluctantly to his feet, dragged on his jeans, and staggered<br />out into the hallway. Blearily he jerked the door open. “Look—”<br />The words died on his lips. Standing in the hallway was Maia. She was wearing jeans<br />and a caramel-colored leather jacket, and her hair was pulled up behind her head with<br />bronze chopsticks. A single loose curl fell against her temple. Jordan’s fingers itched to<br />reach out and tuck it behind her ear. Instead he jammed his hands into the pockets of his<br />jeans.<br />“Nice shirt,” she said with a dry glance at his bare chest. There was a backpack slung<br />over one of her shoulders. For a moment his heart jumped. Was she leaving town? Was<br />she leaving town to get away from him? “Look, Jordan—”<br />“Who is it?” The voice behind Jordan was husky, as rumpled as the bed she’d probably<br />just climbed out of. He saw Maia’s mouth drop open, and he looked back over his<br />shoulder to see Isabelle, wearing only one of Simon’s T-shirts, standing behind him and<br />rubbing at her eyes.<br />Maia’s mouth snapped shut. “It’s me,” she said in a not particularly friendly tone. “Are<br />you… visiting Simon?”<br />“What? No, Simon’s not here.” Shut up, Isabelle, Jordan thought frantically. “He’s…”<br />She gestured vaguely. “Out.”<br />Maia’s cheeks reddened. “It smells like a bar in here.”<br />“Jordan’s cheap tequila,” said Isabelle with a wave of her hand. “You know…”<br />“Is that his shirt, too?” Maia inquired.<br />Isabelle glanced down at herself, and then back up at Maia. Belatedly she seemed to<br />realize what the other girl was thinking. “Oh. No. Maia—”<br />“So first Simon cheated on me with you, and now you and Jordan—”<br />“Simon,” Isabelle said, “also cheated on me with you. Anyway, nothing’s going on with<br />me and Jordan. I came over to see Simon, but he wasn’t here so I decided to crash in his<br />room. And I’m going back in there now.”<br />“No,” Maia said sharply. “Don’t. Forget about Simon and Jordan. What I have to say, it’s<br />something you need to hear too.”<br />Isabelle froze, one hand on Simon’s door, her sleep-flushed face slowly paling. “Jace,”<br />she said. “Is that why you’re here?”<br />Maia nodded.<br />Isabelle sagged against the door. “Is he—” Her voice cracked. She started again. “Have<br />they found—”<br />“He came back,” said Maia. “For Clary.” She paused. “He had Sebastian with him. There<br />was a fight, and Luke was injured. He’s dying.”<br />Isabelle made a dry little sound in her throat. “Jace? Jace hurt Luke?”<br />Maia avoided her eyes. “I don’t know what happened exactly. Only that Jace and<br />Sebastian came for Clary, and there was a fight. Luke was hurt.”<br />“Clary—”<br />“Is all right. She’s at Magnus’s with her mother.” Maia turned to Jordan. “Magnus called<br />me and asked me to come and see you. He tried to reach you, but he couldn’t. He wants<br />you to put him in touch with the Praetor Lupus.”<br />“Put him in touch with…” Jordan shook his head. “You can’t just call the Praetor. It’s not<br />like 1-800-WEREWOLF.”<br />Maia crossed her arms. “Well, how do you reach them, then?”<br />“I have a supervisor. He reaches me when he wants to, or I can call on him in an<br />emergency—”<br />“This is an emergency.” Maia hooked her thumbs through the belt loops on her jeans.<br />“Luke could die, and Magnus says the Praetor might have information that could help.”<br />She looked at Jordan, her eyes big and dark. He ought to tell her, he thought. That the<br />Praetor didn’t like getting mixed up in affairs of the Clave; that they kept to themselves<br />and their mission—to help new Downworlders. That there was no guarantee they would<br />agree to help, and every likelihood that they would resent the request.<br />But Maia was asking him. This was something he could do for her that might be a step<br />down the long road of making it up to her for what he’d done before.<br />“Okay,” he said. “Then, we go to their headquarters and present ourselves in person.<br />They’re out on the North Fork of Long Island. Pretty far from anywhere. We can take my<br />truck.”<br />“Fine.” Maia hoisted her backpack higher. “I thought we might have to go somewhere;<br />that’s why I brought my stuff.”<br />“Maia.” It was Isabelle. She hadn’t said anything in so long that Jordan had almost<br />forgotten she was there; he turned and saw her leaning against the wall by Simon’s door.<br />She was hugging herself as if she were cold. “Is he all right?”<br />Maia winced. “Luke? No, he—”<br />“Jace.” Isabelle’s voice was an indrawn breath. “Is Jace all right? Did they hurt him or<br />catch him or—”<br />“He’s fine,” Maia said flatly. “And he’s gone. He disappeared with Sebastian.”<br />“And Simon?” Isabelle’s gaze flicked to Jordan. “You said he was with Clary—”<br />Maia shook her head. “He wasn’t. He wasn’t there.” Her hand was tight on the strap of<br />her backpack. “But there’s one thing we know now, and you’re not going to like it. Jace<br />and Sebastian are connected somehow. Hurt Jace, you hurt Sebastian. Kill him, and<br />Sebastian dies. And vice versa. Straight from Magnus.”<br />“Does the Clave know?” Isabelle demanded instantly. “They didn’t tell the Clave, did<br />they?”<br />Maia shook her head. “Not yet.”<br />“They’ll find out,” said Isabelle. “The whole pack knows. Someone will tell. Then it’ll be<br />a manhunt. They’ll kill him just to kill Sebastian. They’ll kill him anyway.” She reached up<br />and pushed her hands through her thick black hair. “I want my brother,” she said. “I want<br />to see Alec.”<br />“Well, that’s good,” Maia said. “Because after Magnus called me, he sent a follow-up<br />text. He said he had a feeling you’d be here, and he had a message for you. He wants<br />you to go to his apartment in Brooklyn, right away.”<br />It was freezing out, so cold that even the thermis rune she’d put on herself—and the thin<br />parka she’d swiped from Simon’s closet—weren’t doing much to keep Isabelle from<br />shivering as she pushed open the door of Magnus’s apartment building and ducked inside.<br />After being buzzed up, she headed up the stairs, trailing her hand along the splintering<br />banister. Part of her wanted to rush up the steps, knowing Alec was there and would<br />understand what she was feeling. The other part of her, the part that had hidden her<br />parents’ secret from her brothers all her life, wanted to curl up on the landing and be<br />alone with her misery. The part that hated relying on anyone else—because wouldn’t they<br />just let you down?—and was proud to say that Isabelle Lightwood didn’t need anyone<br />reminded herself that she was here because they had asked for her. They needed her.<br />Isabelle didn’t mind being needed. Liked it, in fact. It was why it had taken her longer<br />to warm up to Jace when he had first stepped through the Portal from Idris, a thin tenyear-<br />old boy with haunted pale gold eyes. Alec had been delighted with him immediately,<br />but Isabelle had resented his self-possession. When her mother had told her that Jace’s<br />father had been murdered in front of him, she’d imagined him coming to her tearfully, for<br />comfort and even advice. But he hadn’t seemed to need anyone. Even at ten years old<br />he’d had a sharp, defensive wit and an acidic temperament. In fact, Isabelle had thought,<br />dismayed, that he was just like her.<br />In the end it was Shadowhunting they had bonded over—a shared love of sharp-edged<br />weapons, gleaming seraph blades, the painful pleasure of burning Marks, the thoughtnumbing<br />swiftness of battle. When Alec had wanted to go out hunting alone with Jace,<br />leaving Izzy behind, Jace had spoken up for her: “We need her with us; she’s the best<br />there is. Aside from me, of course.”<br />She had loved him just for that.<br />She was at the front door of Magnus’s apartment now. Light poured through the crack<br />under the door, and she heard murmuring voices. She pushed the door open, and a wave<br />of warmth enveloped her. She stepped gratefully forward.<br />The warmth came from a fire leaping in the grated fireplace—though there were no<br />chimneys in the building, and the fire had the blue-green tinge of enchanted flame.<br />Magnus and Alec sat on one of the couches grouped near the fireplace. As she came in,<br />Alec looked up and saw her, and sprang to his feet, hurrying barefoot across the room—<br />he was wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt with a torn collar—to put his arms<br />around her.<br />For a moment she stood still in the circle of his arms, hearing his heartbeat, his hands<br />patting half-awkwardly up and down her back, her hair. “Iz,” he said. “It’s going to be<br />okay, Izzy.”<br />She pushed away from him, wiping at her eyes. God, she hated crying. “How can you<br />say that?” she snapped. “How can anything possibly be okay after this?”<br />“Izzy.” Alec drew his sister’s hair over one shoulder and tugged gently at it. It reminded<br />her of the years when she used to wear her hair in braids and Alec would yank on them,<br />with considerably less gentleness than he was showing now. “Don’t go to pieces. We<br />need you.” He dropped his voice. “Also, did you know you smell like tequila?”<br />She looked over at Magnus, who was watching them from the sofa with his unreadable<br />cat’s eyes. “Where’s Clary?” she said. “And her mother? I thought they were here.”<br />“Asleep,” said Alec. “We thought they needed a rest.”<br />“And I don’t?”<br />“Did you just see your fiancé or your stepfather nearly murdered in front of your eyes?”<br />Magnus inquired dryly. He was wearing striped pajamas with a black silk dressing gown<br />thrown over them. “Isabelle Lightwood,” he said, sitting up and loosely clasping his hands<br />in front of him. “As Alec said, we need you.”<br />Isabelle straightened up, putting her shoulders back. “Need me for what?”<br />“To go to the Iron Sisters,” said Alec. “We need a weapon that will divide Jace and<br />Sebastian so that they can be hurt separately—Well, you know what I mean. So<br />Sebastian can be killed without hurting Jace. And it’s a matter of time before the Clave<br />knows that Jace isn’t Sebastian’s prisoner, that he’s working with him—”<br />“It’s not Jace,” Isabelle protested.<br />“It may not be Jace,” said Magnus, “but if he dies, your Jace dies right along with him.”<br />“As you know, the Iron Sisters will speak only to women,” said Alec. “And Jocelyn can’t<br />go alone because she isn’t a Shadowhunter anymore.”<br />“What about Clary?”<br />“She’s still in training. She won’t know the right questions to ask or the way to address<br />them. But you and Jocelyn will. And Jocelyn says she’s been there before; she can help<br />guide you once we Portal you to the edge of the wards around the Adamant Citadel.<br />You’ll be going, both of you, in the morning.”<br />Isabelle considered it. The idea of finally having something to do, something definite<br />and active and important, was a relief. She would have preferred a task that had<br />something to do with killing demons or chopping off Sebastian’s legs, but this was better<br />than nothing. The legends surrounding the Adamant Citadel made it sound like a<br />forbidding, distant place, and the Iron Sisters were seen far more rarely than the Silent<br />Brothers. Isabelle had never met one.<br />“When do we leave?” she said.<br />Alec smiled for the first time since she’d arrived, and reached to ruffle her hair. “That’s<br />my Isabelle.”<br />“Quit it.” She ducked out from his reach and saw Magnus grinning at them from the<br />sofa. He levered himself up and ran a hand through his already explosively spiky black<br />hair.<br />“I’ve got three spare rooms,” he said. “Clary’s in one; her mother’s in the other. I’ll<br />show you the third.”<br />The rooms all branched off a narrow, windowless hallway that led from the living room.<br />Two of the doors were closed; Magnus drew Isabelle through the third, into a room<br />whose walls were painted hot-pink. Black curtains hung from silver bars over the<br />windows, secured by handcuffs. The bedspread had a print of dark red hearts on it.<br />Isabelle glanced around. She felt jittery and nervous and not in the least like going to<br />sleep. “Nice handcuffs. I can see why you didn’t put Jocelyn in here.”<br />“I needed something to hold the curtains back.” Magnus shrugged. “Do you have<br />anything to sleep in?”<br />Isabelle just nodded, not wanting to admit she’d brought Simon’s shirt with her from his<br />apartment. Vampires didn’t really smell like anything, but the shirt still carried with it the<br />faint, reassuring scent of his laundry soap. “It’s kind of weird,” she said. “You demanding I<br />come over right away, only to put me to bed and tell me we’re getting started tomorrow.”<br />Magnus leaned against the wall by the door, his arms over his chest, and looked at her<br />through slitted cat eyes. For a moment he reminded her of Church, only less likely to bite.<br />“I love your brother,” he said. “You know that, right?”<br />“If you want my permission to marry him, go right ahead,” said Isabelle. “Autumn’s a<br />nice time for it too. You could wear an orange tux.”<br />“He isn’t happy,” said Magnus, as if she hadn’t spoken.<br />“Of course he isn’t,” Isabelle snapped. “Jace—”<br />“Jace,” said Magnus, and his hands made fists at his sides. Isabelle stared at him. She<br />had always thought that he didn’t mind Jace; liked him, even, once the question of Alec’s<br />affections had been settled.<br />Out loud, she said, “I thought you and Jace were friends.”<br />“It’s not that,” said Magnus. “There are some people—people the universe seems to<br />have singled out for special destinies. Special favors and special torments. God knows<br />we’re all drawn toward what’s beautiful and broken; I have been, but some people cannot<br />be fixed. Or if they can be, it’s only by love and sacrifice so great that it destroys the<br />giver.”<br />Isabelle shook her head slowly. “You’ve lost me. Jace is our brother, but for Alec—He’s<br />Jace’s parabatai, too.”<br />“I know about parabatai,” said Magnus. “I’ve known parabatai so close they were<br />almost the same person. Do you know what happens, when one of them dies, to the one<br />who’s left—”<br />“Stop it!” Isabelle clapped her hands over her ears, then lowered them slowly. “How<br />dare you, Magnus Bane?” she said. “How dare you make this worse than it is.”<br />“Isabelle.” Magnus’s hands loosened; he looked a little wide-eyed, as if his outburst had<br />startled even him. “I am sorry. I forget, sometimes… that with all your self-control and<br />strength, you possess the same vulnerability that Alec does.”<br />“There is nothing weak about Alec,” said Isabelle.<br />“No,” said Magnus. “To love as you choose, that takes strength. The thing is, I wanted<br />you here for him. There are things I can’t do for him, can’t give him.” For a moment<br />Magnus looked oddly vulnerable himself. “You have known Jace as long as he has. You<br />can give him understanding I can’t. And he loves you.”<br />“Of course he loves me. I’m his sister.”<br />“Blood isn’t love,” said Magnus, and his voice was bitter. “Just ask Clary.”<br />Clary shot through the Portal as if through the barrel of a rifle and flew out the other end.<br />She tumbled toward the ground and struck hard on her feet, sticking the landing at first.<br />The pose lasted only a moment before, too dizzy from the Portal to concentrate, she<br />overbalanced and hit the ground, her backpack cushioning her fall. She sighed—someday<br />all the training really would kick in—and got to her feet, brushing dust from the seat of<br />her jeans.<br />She was standing in front of Luke’s house. The river sparkled over her shoulder, the city<br />rising behind it like a forest of lights. Luke’s house was just as they had left it, hours ago,<br />locked and dark. Clary, standing on the dirt and stone path that led up to the front steps,<br />swallowed hard.<br />Slowly she touched the ring on her right hand with the fingers of her left. Simon?<br />The reply came immediately. Yeah?<br />Where are you?<br />Walking toward the subway. Did you Portal home?<br />Luke’s. If Jace comes like I think he will, this is where he’ll come to.<br />A silence. Then, Well, I guess you know how to get me if you need me.<br />I guess I do. Clary took a deep breath. Simon?<br />Yeah?<br />I love you.<br />A pause. I love you, too.<br />And that was all. There was no click, as when you hung up a phone; Clary just sensed a<br />severing of their connection, as if a cord had been cut inside her head. She wondered if<br />this was what Alec meant when he talked about the breaking of the parabatai bond.<br />She moved toward Luke’s house and slowly mounted the stairs. This was her home. If<br />Jace was going to come back for her, as he had mouthed to her that he would, this is<br />where he would come. She sat down on the top step, pulled her backpack onto her lap,<br />and waited.<br />Simon stood in front of the refrigerator in his apartment and took a last swallow of cold<br />blood as the memory of Clary’s silent voice faded out of his mind. He had just gotten<br />home, and the apartment was dark, the hum of the refrigerator loud, and the place<br />smelled oddly of—tequila? Maybe Jordan had been drinking. His bedroom door was<br />closed, anyway, not that Simon blamed him for being asleep; it was after four in the<br />morning.<br />He shoved the bottle back into the fridge and headed for his room. It would be the first<br />night he’d slept at home in a week. He’d grown used to having someone to share a bed<br />with, a body to roll against in the middle of the night. He liked the way Clary fit against<br />him, curled asleep with her head on her hand; and, if he had to admit it to himself, he<br />liked that she couldn’t sleep unless he was with her. It made him feel indispensable and<br />needed—even if the fact that Jocelyn didn’t appear to care whether he slept in her<br />daughter’s bed or not did underscore that Clary’s mother apparently regarded him as<br />about as sexually threatening as a goldfish.<br />Of course, he and Clary had shared beds often, from the time they were five until they<br />were about twelve. That might have had something to do with it, he mused, pushing his<br />bedroom door open. Most of those nights they’d spent engaged in torrid activities, like<br />having contests to see who could take the longest to eat a single Reese’s Peanut Butter<br />Cup. Or they’d sneaked in a portable DVD player and—<br />He blinked. His room looked the same—bare walls, stacked plastic shelves with his<br />clothes on them, his guitar hanging on the wall, and a mattress on the floor. But on the<br />bed was a single piece of paper—a white square against the frayed black blanket. The<br />scrawled, looping hand was familiar. Isabelle’s.<br />He picked it up and read:<br />Simon, I’ve been trying to call you, but it seems like your phone is turned off. I<br />don’t know where you are right now. I don’t know if Clary’s already told you what<br />happened tonight. But I have to go to Magnus’s and I’d really like you to be there.<br />I’m never scared, but I’m scared for Jace. I’m scared for my brother. I never ask<br />you for anything, Simon, but I’m asking you now. Please come.<br />Isabelle.<br />Simon let the letter fall from his hand. He was out of the apartment and on his way<br />down the steps before it had even hit the floor.<br />When Simon came into Magnus’s apartment, it was quiet. There was a fire flickering in<br />the grate, and Magnus sat in front of it on an overstuffed sofa, his feet up on the coffee<br />table. Alec was asleep, his head in Magnus’s lap, and Magnus was twirling strands of<br />Alec’s black hair between his fingers. The warlock’s gaze, on the flames, was remote and<br />distant, as if he were looking back into the past. Simon couldn’t help but remember what<br />Magnus had said to him once, about living forever:<br />Someday you and I will be the only two left.<br />Simon shuddered, and Magnus looked up. “Isabelle called you over, I know.” he said,<br />speaking in a low voice so as not to wake Alec. “She’s down the hall that way—the first<br />bedroom on the left.”<br />Simon nodded and, with a salute in Magnus’s direction, headed off down the hall. He<br />felt unusually nervous, as if he were prepping for a first date. Isabelle, to his recollection,<br />had never demanded his help or his presence before, had never acknowledged that she<br />needed him in any way.<br />He pushed open the door to the first bedroom on the left and stepped inside. It was<br />dark, the lights off; if Simon hadn’t had vampire sight, he probably would have seen only<br />blackness. As it was, he saw the outlines of a wardrobe, chairs with clothes thrown over<br />them, and a bed, covers thrown back. Isabelle was asleep on her side, her black hair<br />fanning out across the pillow.<br />Simon stared. He’d never seen Isabelle sleeping before. She looked younger than she<br />usually did, her face relaxed, her long eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones. Her<br />mouth was slightly open, her feet curled up under her. She was wearing only a T-shirt<br />—his T-shirt, a worn blue tee that said THE LOCH NESS MONSTER ADVENTURE CLUB: FINDING<br />ANSWERS, IGNORING FACTS across the front.<br />Simon closed the door behind him, feeling more disappointed than he had expected. It<br />hadn’t occurred to him that she’d already be asleep. He’d been wanting to talk to her, to<br />hear her voice. He kicked his shoes off and lay down beside her. She certainly took up<br />more real estate on the bed than Clary did. Isabelle was tall, almost his height, although<br />when he put his hand on her shoulder, her bones felt delicate under his touch. He ran his<br />hand down her arm. “Iz?” he said. “Isabelle?”<br />She murmured and turned her face into the pillow. He leaned closer—she smelled like<br />alcohol and rose perfume. Well, that answered that. He had been thinking about pulling<br />her into his arms and kissing her gently, but “Simon Lewis, Molester of Passed-Out<br />Women” wasn’t really the epitaph by which he wanted to be remembered.<br />He lay down flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Cracked plaster, marked by<br />water stains. Magnus really ought to get someone in here to do something about that. As<br />if sensing his presence, Isabelle rolled sideways against him, her soft cheek against his<br />shoulder. “Simon?” she said groggily.<br />“Yeah.” He touched her face lightly.<br />“You came.” She stretched her arm across his chest, moving so that her head fit<br />against his shoulder. “I didn’t think you would.”<br />His fingers traced patterns on her arm. “Of course I came.”<br />Her next words were muffled against his neck. “Sorry I’m asleep.”<br />He smiled to himself, a little, in the dark. “It’s okay. Even if all you wanted was for me<br />to come here and hold you while you sleep, I would have done it.”<br />He felt her stiffen, and then relax. “Simon?”<br />“Yeah?”<br />“Can you tell me a story?”<br />He blinked. “What kind of story?”<br />“Something where the good guys win and the bad guys lose. And stay dead.”<br />“So, like a fairy tale?” he said. He racked his brain. He knew only the Disney versions of<br />fairy tales, and the first image that came to mind was Ariel in her seashell bra. He’d had a<br />crush on her when he was eight. Not that this seemed like the time to mention it.<br />“No.” The word was an exhaled breath. “We study fairy tales in school. A lot of that<br />magic is real—but, anyway. No, I want something I haven’t heard yet.”<br />“Okay. I’ve got a good one.” Simon stroked Isabelle’s hair, feeling her lashes flutter<br />against his neck as she closed her eyes. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”<br />Clary didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on Luke’s front steps when the sun began to<br />come up. It rose behind his house, the sky turning a dark pinkish-rose, the river a strip of<br />steely blue. She was shivering, had been shivering so long that her whole body seemed<br />to have contracted into a single hard shudder of cold. She had used two warming runes,<br />but they hadn’t helped; she had a feeling the shivering was psychological as much as<br />anything else.<br />Would he come? If he was still as much Jace inside as she thought he was, he would;<br />when he had mouthed that he would come back for her, she had known that he had<br />meant as soon as possible. Jace was not patient. And he didn’t play games.<br />But there was only so long she could wait. Eventually the sun would rise. The next day<br />would begin, and her mother would be watching her again. She would have to give up on<br />Jace, for at least another day, if not longer.<br />She shut her eyes against the brightness of the sunrise, resting her elbows on the step<br />above and behind her. For just a moment she let herself float in the fantasy that<br />everything was as it had been, that nothing had changed, that she would meet Jace this<br />afternoon for practice, or tonight for dinner, and he would hold her and make her laugh<br />the way he always did.<br />Warm tendrils of sunlight touched her face. Reluctantly her eyes fluttered open.<br />And he was there, walking toward her up the steps, as soundless as a cat, as always.<br />He wore a dark blue sweater that made his hair look like sunlight. She sat up straight, her<br />heart pounding. The brilliant sunshine seemed to outline him in light. She thought of that<br />night in Idris, how the fireworks had streaked across the sky and she had thought of<br />angels, falling in fire.<br />He reached her and held his hands out; she took them, and let him pull her to her feet.<br />His pale gold eyes searched her face. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”<br />“Since when have you not been sure of me?”<br />“You were pretty angry before.” He cupped the side of her face in his hand. There was<br />a rough scar across his palm; she could feel it against her skin.<br />“So if I hadn’t been here, what would you have done?”<br />He drew her close. He was shivering too, and the wind was blowing his curling hair,<br />messy and bright. “How is Luke?”<br />At the sound of Luke’s name, another shudder went through her. Jace, thinking she was<br />cold, pulled her more tightly against him. “He’ll be all right,” she said guardedly. It’s your<br />fault, your fault, your fault.<br />“I never meant for him to get hurt.” Jace’s arms were around her, his fingers tracing a<br />slow line up and down her spine. “Do you believe me?”<br />“Jace… ,” Clary said. “Why are you here?”<br />“To ask you again. To come with me.”<br />She closed her eyes. “And you won’t tell me where that is?”<br />“Faith,” he said softly. “You have to have faith. But you also have to know—once you<br />come with me, there’s no going back. Not for a long time.”<br />She thought of the moment when she’d stepped outside of Java Jones and seen him<br />waiting for her there. Her life had changed in that moment in a way that could never be<br />undone.<br />“There never has been any going back,” she said. “Not with you.” She opened her eyes.<br />“We should go.”<br />He smiled, as brilliant as the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and she felt his<br />body relax. “You’re sure?”<br />“I’m sure.”<br />He leaned forward and kissed her. Reaching up to hold him, she tasted something<br />bitter on his lips; then darkness came down like a curtain signaling the end of the act of a<br />play.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-42004702512800765222013-02-18T05:20:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.729-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 6<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Little flakes of early snow had begun to fall from the steel-gray sky like feathers as<br />Clary and her mother hurried along Greenpoint Avenue, their heads bent against the chill<br />wind coming off the East River.<br />Jocelyn had not spoken a word since they had left Luke at the disused police station<br />that served as pack headquarters. The whole thing had been a blur—the pack carrying<br />their leader in, the healing kit, Clary and her mother struggling to get a glimpse of Luke<br />as the wolves seemed to close ranks against them. She knew why they couldn’t take him<br />to a mundane hospital, but it had been hard, beyond hard, to leave him there in the<br />whitewashed room that served as their infirmary.<br />It wasn’t that the wolves didn’t like Jocelyn or Clary. It was that Luke’s fiancée and her<br />daughter weren’t part of the pack. They never would be. Clary had looked around for<br />Maia, for an ally, but she hadn’t been there. Eventually Jocelyn had sent Clary out to wait<br />in the corridor since the room had been too crowded, and Clary had slumped on the floor,<br />cradling her knapsack on her lap. It had been two in the morning, and she had never felt<br />so alone. If Luke died…<br />She could barely remember a life without him. Because of him and her mother, she<br />knew what it was like to be loved unconditionally. Luke swinging her up to perch her in<br />the fork of an apple tree on his farm upstate was one of her earliest memories. In the<br />infirmary he had been taking rattling breaths while his third in command, Bat, had<br />unpacked the healing kit. People were supposed to take rattling breaths when they died,<br />she’d remembered. She couldn’t remember the last thing she’d said to Luke. Weren’t you<br />supposed to remember the last thing you said to someone before they died?<br />When Jocelyn had come out of the infirmary at last, looking exhausted, she’d held out a<br />hand to Clary and had helped her up off the floor.<br />“Is he… ,” Clary had begun.<br />“He’s stabilized,” Jocelyn had said. She’d looked up and down the hallway. “We should<br />go.”<br />“Go where?” Clary had been bewildered. “I thought we’d stay here, with Luke. I don’t<br />want to leave him.”<br />“Neither do I.” Jocelyn had been firm. Clary had thought of the woman who’d turned<br />her back on Idris, on everything she’d ever known, and had walked away from it to start a<br />new life alone. “But we can’t lead Jace and Jonathan here either. It’s not safe for the<br />pack, or Luke. And this is the first place Jace will look for you.”<br />“Then where… ,” Clary had started, but she’d realized, even before she’d finished her<br />own sentence, and had shut her mouth. Where did they ever go when they needed help<br />these days?<br />Now there was a sugary dusting of white along the cracked pavement of the avenue.<br />Jocelyn had put on a long coat before they’d left the house, but beneath it she still wore<br />the clothes that were stained with Luke’s blood. Her mouth was set, her gaze unwavering<br />on the road before her. Clary wondered if this was how her mother had looked walking<br />out of Idris, her boots clogged with ashes, the Mortal Cup hidden in her coat.<br />Clary shook her head to clear it. She was being fanciful, imagining things she hadn’t<br />been present to see, her mind skittering away, perhaps, from the awfulness of what she<br />just had seen.<br />Unbidden, the image of Sebastian driving the knife into Luke came into her head, and<br />the sound of Jace’s familiar and beloved voice saying “collateral damage.”<br />For as is often the happenstance with that which is precious and lost, when you find<br />him again, he may well not be quite as you left him.<br />Jocelyn shivered and flipped her hood up to cover her hair. White flakes of snow had<br />already begun to mix with the bright red strands. She was still silent, and the street, lined<br />with Polish and Russian restaurants in between barbershops and beauty parlors, was<br />deserted in the white and yellow night. A memory flashed before the backs of Clary’s<br />eyelids—a real one this time, not a wisp of imagination. Her mother was hurrying her<br />down a night-black street between piles of heaped and dirty snow. A lowering sky, gray<br />and leaden…<br />She had seen the image before, the first time the Silent Brothers had dug into her<br />mind. She realized what it was now. Her memory of a time her mother had taken her to<br />Magnus’s to have her memories altered. It must have been in the dead of winter, but she<br />recognized Greenpoint Avenue in the memory.<br />The redbrick warehouse Magnus lived in rose above them. Jocelyn pushed open the<br />glass doors to the entryway, and they crowded inside, Clary trying to breathe through her<br />mouth as her mother pushed the buzzer for Magnus one, two, and three times. At last the<br />door opened and they hurried up the stairs. The door to Magnus’s apartment was open,<br />and the warlock was leaning against the architrave, waiting for them. He was wearing<br />canary-yellow pajamas, and on his feet were green slippers with alien faces, complete<br />with sproingy antennae. His hair was a tangled, curly, spiky mass of black, and his goldgreen<br />eyes blinked tiredly at them.<br />“Saint Magnus’s Home for Wayward Shadowhunters,” he said in a deep voice.<br />“Welcome.” He threw an arm wide. “Spare bedrooms are that way. Wipe your boots on<br />the mat.” He stepped back into the apartment, letting them pass through in front of him<br />before shutting the door. Today the place was done up in a sort of faux-Victorian decor,<br />with high-backed sofas and large gilt mirrors everywhere. The pillars were strung with<br />lights in the shape of flowers.<br />There were three spare rooms down a short corridor off the main living room; at<br />random Clary chose one on the right. It was painted orange, like her old bedroom in Park<br />Slope, and had a sofa bed and a small window that looked out on the darkened windows<br />of a closed diner. Chairman Meow was curled up on the bed, nose tucked under his tail.<br />She sat down beside him and petted his ears, feeling the purring that vibrated through his<br />small furry body. As she stroked him, she caught sight of the sleeve of her sweater. It<br />was stained dark and crusted with blood. Luke’s blood.<br />She stood up and yanked the sweater off violently. From her backpack she took a clean<br />pair of jeans and a black V-necked thermal shirt and changed into them. She glanced at<br />herself briefly in the window, which showed her a pale reflection, her hair hanging limply,<br />damp with snow, her freckles standing out like paint splotches. Not that it mattered what<br />she looked like. She thought of Jace kissing her—it felt like days ago instead of hours—<br />and her stomach hurt as if she’d swallowed tiny knives.<br />She held on to the edge of the bed for a long moment until the pain subsided. Then she<br />took a deep breath and went back out into the living room.<br />Her mother was seated on one of the gilt-backed chairs, her long artist’s fingers<br />wrapped around a mug of hot water with lemon. Magnus was slumped on a hot-pink sofa,<br />his green slippers up on the coffee table. “The pack stabilized him,” Jocelyn was saying in<br />an exhausted voice. “They don’t know for how long, though. They thought there might<br />have been silver powder on the blade, but it appears to be something else. The tip of the<br />knife—” She glanced up, saw Clary, and fell silent.<br />“It’s okay, Mom. I’m old enough to hear what’s wrong with Luke.”<br />“Well, they don’t know exactly what it is,” Jocelyn said softly. “The tip of the blade<br />Sebastian used broke off against one of his ribs and lodged in the bone. But they can’t<br />retrieve it. It… moves.”<br />“It moves?” Magnus looked puzzled.<br />“When they tried to dig it out, it burrowed into the bone and nearly snapped it,” Jocelyn<br />said. “He’s a werewolf, he heals fast, but it’s in there gashing up his internal organs,<br />keeping the wound from closing.”<br />“Demon metal,” said Magnus. “Not silver.”<br />Jocelyn leaned forward. “Do you think you can help him? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay—”<br />Magnus stood up. His alien slippers and rumpled bed-head seemed extremely<br />incongruous given the gravity of the situation. “I don’t know.”<br />“But you healed Alec,” said Clary. “When the Greater Demon wounded him…”<br />Magnus had begun to pace. “I knew what was wrong with him. I don’t know what kind<br />of demon metal this is. I could experiment, try different healing spells, but it won’t be the<br />fastest way to help him.”<br />“What’s the fastest way?” Jocelyn said.<br />“The Praetor,” said Magnus. “The Wolf Guard. I knew the man who founded it—<br />Woolsey Scott. Because of certain… incidents, he was fascinated with minutiae about the<br />way demon metals and demon drugs act on lycanthropes, the same way the Silent<br />Brothers keep records of the ways Nephilim can be healed. Over the years the Praetor<br />have become very closed-off and secretive, unfortunately. But a member of the Praetor<br />could access their information.”<br />“Luke’s not a member,” Jocelyn said. “And their roster is secret—”<br />“But Jordan,” said Clary. “Jordan’s a member. He can find out. I’ll call him—”<br />“I’ll call him,” said Magnus. “I can’t get into Praetor headquarters, but I can pass on a<br />message that ought to hold some extra weight. I’ll be back.” He padded off to the<br />kitchen, the antennae on his slippers waving gently like seaweed in a current.<br />Clary turned back to her mother, who was staring down at her mug of hot water. It was<br />one of her favorite restoratives, though Clary could never figure out why anyone would<br />want to drink warm sour water. The snow had soaked her mother’s hair, and now that it<br />was drying, it was beginning to curl, like Clary’s did in humid weather.<br />“Mom,” Clary said, and her mother looked up. “That knife you threw—back at Luke’s—<br />was it at Jace?”<br />“It was at Jonathan.” She would never call him Sebastian, Clary knew.<br />“It’s just…” Clary took a deep breath. “It’s almost the same thing. You saw. When you<br />stabbed Sebastian, Jace started to bleed. It’s like they’re—mirrored in some way. Cut<br />Sebastian, Jace bleeds. Kill him, and Jace dies.”<br />“Clary.” Her mother rubbed her tired eyes. “Can we not discuss this now?”<br />“But you said you think he’ll come back for me. Jace, I mean. I need to know that you<br />won’t hurt him—”<br />“Well, you can’t know that. Because I won’t promise it, Clary. I can’t.” Her mother<br />looked at her with unflinching eyes. “I saw the two of you come out of your bedroom.”<br />Clary flushed. “I don’t want to—”<br />“To what? Talk about it? Well, too bad. You brought it up. You’re lucky I’m not in the<br />Clave anymore, you know. How long have you known where Jace was?”<br />“ I don’t know where he is. Tonight is the first time I’ve talked to him since he<br />disappeared. I saw him in the Institute with Seb—with Jonathan, yesterday. I told Alec<br />and Isabelle and Simon. But I couldn’t tell anyone else. If the Clave got hold of him—I<br />can’t let that happen.”<br />Jocelyn raised her green eyes. “And why not?”<br />“Because he’s Jace. Because I love him.”<br />“He’s not Jace. That’s just it, Clary. He’s not who he was. Can’t you see that—”<br />“Of course I can see it. I’m not stupid. But I have faith. I saw him possessed before,<br />and I saw him break free of it. I think Jace is still inside there somewhere. I think there’s<br />a way to save him.”<br />“What if there isn’t?”<br />“Prove it.”<br />“You can’t prove a negative, Clarissa. I understand that you love him. You always have<br />loved him, too much. You think I didn’t love your father? You think I didn’t give him every<br />chance? And look what came of that. Jonathan. If I hadn’t stayed with your father, he<br />wouldn’t exist—”<br />“Neither would I,” said Clary. “In case you forgot, I came after my brother, not before.”<br />She looked at her mother, hard. “Are you saying it would be worth it never to have had<br />me, if you could get rid of Jonathan?”<br />“No, I—”<br />There was the grating sound of keys in a lock, and the apartment door swung open. It<br />was Alec. He wore a long leather duster open over a blue sweater, and there were white<br />flakes of snow in his black hair. His cheeks were candy-apple red from the cold, but his<br />face was otherwise pale.<br />“Where’s Magnus?” he said. As he looked toward the kitchen, Clary saw a bruise on his<br />jaw, below his ear, about the size of a thumbprint.<br />“Alec!” Magnus came skidding into the living room and blew a kiss to his boyfriend<br />across the room. Having discarded his slippers, he was barefoot now. His cat’s eyes shone<br />as he looked at Alec.<br />Clary knew that look. That was herself looking at Jace. Alec didn’t return the gaze,<br />though. He was shucking off his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall. He was visibly<br />upset. His hands were trembling, his broad shoulders tightly set.<br />“You got my text?” Magnus asked.<br />“Yeah. I was only a few blocks away anyway.” Alec looked at Clary, and then at her<br />mother, anxiety and uncertainty warring in his expression. Though Alec had been invited<br />to Jocelyn’s reception party, and had met her several times besides that, they did not by<br />any measure know each other well. “It’s true, what Magnus said? You saw Jace again?”<br />“And Sebastian,” said Clary.<br />“But Jace,” Alec said. “How was—I mean, how did he seem?”<br />Clary knew exactly what he was asking; for once she and Alec understood each other<br />better than anyone else in the room. “He’s not playing a trick on Sebastian,” she replied<br />softly. “He really has changed. He isn’t like himself at all.”<br />“How?” Alec demanded, with an odd blend of anger and vulnerability. “How is he<br />different?”<br />There was a hole in the knee of Clary’s jeans; she picked at it, scraping the skin<br />underneath. “The way he talks—he believes in Sebastian. Believes in what he’s doing,<br />whatever that is. I reminded him that Sebastian killed Max, and he didn’t even seem to<br />care.” Her voice cracked. “He said Sebastian was just as much his brother as Max was.”<br />Alec whitened, the red spots on his cheeks standing out like bloodstains. “Did he say<br />anything about me? Or Izzy? Did he ask about us?”<br />Clary shook her head, hardly able to stand the look on Alec’s face. Out of the corner of<br />her eye, she could see Magnus watching Alec too, his face almost blank with sadness. She<br />wondered if he was jealous of Jace still, or just hurt on Alec’s behalf.<br />“Why did he come to your house?” Alec shook his head. “I don’t get it.”<br />“He wanted me to come with him. To join him and Sebastian. I guess he wants their<br />evil little duo to be an evil little trio.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s lonely. Sebastian can’t<br />be the greatest company.”<br />“We don’t know that. He could be absolutely fantastic at Scrabble,” said Magnus.<br />“He’s a murdering psychopath,” said Alec flatly. “And Jace knows it.”<br />“But Jace isn’t Jace right now—,” Magnus began, and broke off as the phone rang. “I’ll<br />get that. Who knows who else might be on the run from the Clave and need a place to<br />stay? It’s not like there are hotels in this city.” He padded off toward the kitchen.<br />Alec flung himself down on the sofa. “He’s working too hard,” he said, looking worriedly<br />after his boyfriend. “He’s been up all night every night trying to decipher those runes.”<br />“Is the Clave employing him?” Jocelyn wanted to know.<br />“No,” Alec said slowly. “He’s doing it for me. Because of what Jace means to me.” He<br />raised his sleeve, showing Jocelyn the parabatai rune on his inner forearm.<br />“You knew Jace wasn’t dead,” Clary said, her mind beginning to tick over thoughts.<br />“Because you’re parabatai, because of that tie between you. But you said you felt<br />something wrong.”<br />“Because he’s possessed,” Jocelyn said. “It’s changed him. Valentine said that when<br />Luke became a Downworlder, he felt it. That sense of wrongness.”<br />Alec shook his head. “But when Jace was possessed by Lilith, I didn’t feel it,” he said.<br />“Now I can feel something… wrong. Something off.” He looked down at his shoes. “You<br />can feel it when your parabatai dies—like there was a cord tying you to something and it<br />has snapped, and now you’re falling.” He looked at Clary. “I felt it, once, in Idris, during<br />the battle. But it was so brief—and when I returned to Alicante, Jace was alive. I<br />convinced myself I had imagined it.”<br />Clary shook her head, thinking of Jace and the blood-soaked sand by Lake Lyn. You<br />didn’t.<br />“What I feel now is different,” he went on. “I feel like he’s absent from the world but<br />not dead. Not imprisoned… Just not here.”<br />“That’s just it,” Clary said. “Both times I’ve seen him and Sebastian, they’ve vanished<br />into thin air. No Portal, just one minute they were here and the next they were gone.”<br />“When you talk about there or here,” said Magnus, coming back into the room with a<br />yawn, “and this world and that world, what you’re talking about are dimensions. There<br />are only a few warlocks who can do dimensional magic. My old friend Ragnor could.<br />Dimensions don’t lie side by side—they’re folded together, like paper. Where they<br />intersect, dimensional pockets can be created that prevent magic from being able to find<br />you. After all, you’re not here—you’re there.”<br />“Maybe that’s why we can’t track him? Why Alec can’t feel him?” said Clary.<br />“Could be.” Magnus sounded almost impressed. “It would mean there’s literally no way<br />to find them if they don’t want to be found. And no way to get a message back to us if<br />y o u did find them. That’s complicated, expensive magic. Sebastian must have some<br />connections—” The door buzzer sounded, and they all jumped. Magnus rolled his eyes.<br />“Everyone calm down,” he said, and vanished into the entryway. He was back a moment<br />later with a man wrapped in a long parchment-colored robe, the back and sides inked<br />with patterns of runes in dark red-brown. Though his hood was up, shadowing his face, he<br />looked completely dry, as if not a flake of snow had fallen on him. When he pushed the<br />hood back, Clary was not at all surprised to see the face of Brother Zachariah.<br />Jocelyn set her mug down suddenly on the coffee table. She was looking at the Silent<br />Brother. With his hood pushed back, you could see his dark hair, but his face was<br />shadowed so that Clary could not see his eyes, only his high, rune-scarred cheekbones.<br />“You,” Jocelyn said, her voice trailing off. “But Magnus told me that you would never—”<br />Unexpected events call for unexpected measures. Brother Zachariah’s voice floated out,<br />touching the inside of Clary’s head; she knew from the expressions on the faces of the<br />others that they could hear him too. I will say nothing to the Clave or Council of anything<br />that transpires tonight. If the chance comes before me to save the last of the Herondale<br />bloodline, I consider that of higher importance than the fealty I render the Clave.<br />“So that’s settled,” Magnus said. He made a strange pair with the Silent Brother beside<br />him, one of them pale and blanched in robes, the other in bright yellow pajamas. “Any<br />new insight into Lilith’s runes?”<br />I have studied the runes carefully and listened to all the testimony given in the Council,<br />said Brother Zachariah. I believe that her ritual was twofold. First she used the<br />Daylighter’s bite to revive Jonathan Morgenstern’s consciousness. His body was still weak,<br />but his mind and will were alive. I believe that when Jace Herondale was left alone on<br />the roof with him, Jonathan drew on the power of Lilith’s runes and forced Jace to enter<br />the enspelled circle that surrounded him. At that point Jace’s will would have been<br />subject to his. I believe he would have drawn on Jace’s blood for the strength to rise and<br />escape the roof, taking Jace with him.<br />“And somehow all that created a connection between them?” Clary said. “Because<br />when my mother stabbed Sebastian, Jace started to bleed.”<br />Yes. What Lilith did was a sort of twinning ritual, not unlike our own parabatai<br />ceremony but much more powerful and dangerous. The two are now bound inextricably.<br />Should one die, the other will follow. No weapon in this world can wound only one of<br />them.<br />“When you say they’re bound inextricably,” Alec said, leaning forward, “does that mean<br />—I mean, Jace hates Sebastian. Sebastian murdered our brother.”<br />“And I don’t see how Sebastian can be all that fond of Jace, either. He was horribly<br />jealous of him all his life. He thought Jace was Valentine’s favorite,” added Clary.<br />“Not to mention,” Magnus noted, “that Jace killed him. That would put anyone off.”<br />“It’s like Jace doesn’t remember that any of these things happened,” Clary said in<br />frustration. “No, not like he doesn’t remember them—like he doesn’t believe them.”<br />He remembers them. But the power of the binding is such that Jace’s thoughts will pass<br />over and around those facts, like water passing around rocks in a riverbed. It was like the<br />spell that Magnus cast upon your mind, Clarissa. When you saw pieces of the Invisible<br />World, your mind would reject them, turn away from them. There is no point reasoning<br />with Jace about Jonathan. The truth cannot break their connection.<br />Clary thought of what had happened when she had reminded Jace that Sebastian had<br />killed Max, how his face had temporarily furrowed in thought, then smoothed out as if he<br />had forgotten what she had said as quickly as she’d said it.<br />Take some small comfort in the fact that Jonathan Morgenstern is as bound as your<br />Jace is. He cannot harm or hurt Jace, nor would he want to, Zachariah added.<br />Alec threw his hands up. “So they love each other now? They’re best friends?” The hurt<br />and jealousy was plain in his tone.<br />No. They are each other now. They see as the other sees. They know the other is<br />somehow indispensable to them. Sebastian is the leader, the primary of the two. What he<br />believes, Jace will believe. What he wants, Jace will do.<br />“So he’s possessed,” Alec said flatly.<br />In a possession there is often some part of the person’s original consciousness left<br />intact. Those who have been possessed speak of watching their own actions from the<br />outside, crying out but unable to be heard. But Jace is fully inhabiting his body and mind.<br />He believes himself sane. He believes that this is what he wants.<br />“So what did he want from me?” Clary demanded in a shaking voice. “Why did he come<br />to my room tonight?” She hoped her cheeks didn’t burn. She tried to push back the<br />memory of kissing him, the pressure of his body against hers in the bed.<br />He still loves you, said Brother Zachariah, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. You are<br />the central point about which his world spins. That has not changed.<br />“And that’s why we had to leave,” Jocelyn said tensely. “He’ll come back for her. We<br />couldn’t stay at the police station. I don’t know where will be safe—”<br />“Here,” Magnus said. “I can put up wards that will keep Jace and Sebastian out.”<br />Clary saw relief flood her mother’s eyes. “Thank you,” Jocelyn said.<br />Magnus waved an arm. “It’s a privilege. I do love fending off angry Shadowhunters,<br />especially of the possessed variety.”<br />He is not possessed, Brother Zachariah reminded them.<br />“Semantics,” said Magnus. “The question is, what are the two of them up to? What are<br />they planning?”<br />“Clary said that when she saw them in the library, Sebastian told Jace he’d be running<br />the Institute soon enough,” said Alec. “So they’re up to something.”<br />“Carrying on Valentine’s work, probably,” said Magnus. “Down with Downworlders, kill<br />all recalcitrant Shadowhunters, blah blah.”<br />“Maybe.” Clary wasn’t sure. “Jace said something about Sebastian serving a greater<br />cause.”<br />“The Angel only knows what that indicates,” Jocelyn said. “I was married to a zealot for<br />years. I know what ‘a greater cause’ means. It means torturing the innocent, brutal<br />murder, turning your back on your former friends, all in the name of something that you<br />believe is bigger than yourself but is no more than greed and childishness dressed up in<br />fanciful language.”<br />“Mom,” Clary protested, worried to hear Jocelyn sound so bitter.<br />But Jocelyn was looking at Brother Zachariah. “You said no weapon in this world can<br />wound only one of them,” she said. “No weapon you know of…”<br />Magnus’s eyes glowed suddenly, like a cat’s when caught in a beam of light. “You<br />think…”<br />“The Iron Sisters,” said Jocelyn. “They are the experts on weapons and weaponry. They<br />might perhaps have an answer.”<br />The Iron Sisters, Clary knew, were the sister sect to the Silent Brothers; unlike their<br />brethren, they did not have their mouths or eyes sewed shut but instead lived in almost<br />total solitude in a fortress whose location was unknown. They were not fighters—they<br />were creators, the hands who shaped the weapons, the steles, the seraph blades that<br />kept the Shadowhunters alive. There were runes only they could carve, and only they<br />knew the secrets of molding the silvery-white substance called adamas into demon<br />towers, steles, and witchlight rune-stones. Rarely seen, they did not attend Council<br />meetings or venture into Alicante.<br />It is possible, Brother Zachariah said after a long pause.<br />“If Sebastian could be killed—if there is a weapon that could kill him but leave Jace<br />alive—does that mean Jace would be free of his influence?” Clary asked.<br />There was an even longer pause. Then, Yes, said Brother Zachariah. That would be the<br />most likely outcome.<br />“Then, we should go to see the Sisters.” Exhaustion hung on Clary like a cloak,<br />weighting her eyes, souring the taste in her mouth. She rubbed her eyes, trying to scrub<br />it away. “Now.”<br />“I can’t go,” said Magnus. “Only female Shadowhunters can enter the Adamant Citadel.”<br />“And you’re not going,” Jocelyn said to Clary in her sternest No-you-are-not-going-outclubbing-<br />with-Simon-after-midnight voice. “You’re safer here, where you’re warded.”<br />“Isabelle,” said Alec. “Isabelle can go.”<br />“Do you have any idea where she is?” Clary said.<br />“Home, I’d imagine,” said Alec, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I can call her—”<br />“I’ll take care of it,” Magnus said, smoothly removing his cell phone from his pocket and<br />punching in a text with the skill of the long-practiced. “It’s late, and we don’t need to<br />wake her up. Everyone needs rest. If I’m to send any of you through to the Iron Sisters, it<br />will be tomorrow.”<br />“I’ll go with Isabelle,” Jocelyn said. “No one’s looking for me specifically, and it’s better<br />that she not go alone. Even if I’m not technically a Shadowhunter, I was once. It’s only<br />required that one of us be in good standing.”<br />“This isn’t fair,” Clary said.<br />Her mother didn’t even look at her. “Clary…”<br />Clary rose to her feet. “I’ve been practically a prisoner for the past two weeks,” she<br />said in a shaking voice. “The Clave wouldn’t let me look for Jace. And now that he came<br />to me—to me—you won’t even let me come with you to the Iron Sisters—”<br />“It isn’t safe. Jace is probably tracking you—”<br />Clary lost it. “Every time you try to keep me safe, you wreck my life!”<br />“No, the more involved you get with Jace the more you wreck your life!” her mother<br />snapped back. “Every risk you’ve taken, every danger you’ve been in, is because of him!<br />He held a knife to your throat, Clarissa—”<br />“That wasn’t him,” Clary said in the softest, deadliest voice she could imagine. “Do you<br />think I’d stay for one second with a boy who threatened me with a knife, even if I loved<br />him? Maybe you’ve been living too long in the mundane world, Mom, but there is magic.<br />The person who hurt me wasn’t Jace. It was a demon wearing his face. And the person<br />we’re looking for now isn’t Jace. But if he dies…”<br />“There’s no chance of getting Jace back,” said Alec.<br />“There may already be no chance,” said Jocelyn. “God, Clary, look at the evidence. You<br />thought you and Jace were brother and sister! You sacrificed everything to save his life,<br />and a Greater Demon used him to get to you! When are you going to face the fact that<br />the two of you are not meant to be together?”<br />Clary jerked back as if her mother had hit her. Brother Zachariah stood as still as a<br />statue, as if no one were shouting at all. Magnus and Alec were staring; Jocelyn was redcheeked,<br />her eyes glittering with anger. Not trusting herself to speak, Clary spun on her<br />heel, stalked down the hallway to Magnus’s spare bedroom, and slammed the door<br />behind her.<br />“All right, I’m here,” Simon said. A cold wind was blowing across the flat expanse of the<br />roof garden, and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He didn’t really feel<br />the cold, but he felt like he ought to. He raised his voice. “I showed up. Where are you?”<br />The roof garden of the Greenwich Hotel—now closed, and therefore empty of people—<br />was done up like an English garden, with carefully shaped dwarf box trees, elegantly<br />scattered wicker and glass furniture, and Lillet umbrellas that flapped in the stiff wind.<br />The trellises of climbing roses, bare in the cold, spider-webbed the stone walls that<br />surrounded the roof, above which Simon could see a gleaming view of downtown New<br />York. “I am here,” said a voice, and a slender shadow detached itself from a wicker<br />armchair and rose. “I had begun to wonder if you were coming, Daylighter.”<br />“Raphael,” Simon said in a resigned voice. He walked forward, across the hardwood<br />planks that wound between the flower borders and artificial pools lined with shining<br />quartz. “I was wondering myself.”<br />As he came closer, he could see Raphael clearly. Simon had excellent night vision, and<br />only Raphael’s skill at blending with the shadows had kept him hidden before. The other<br />vampire was wearing a black suit, turned up at the cuffs to show the gleam of cuff links in<br />the shape of chains. He still had the face of a little boy angel, though his gaze as he<br />regarded Simon was cold. “When the head of the Manhattan vampire clan calls you,<br />Lewis, you come.”<br />“And what would you do if I didn’t? Stake me?” Simon spread his arms wide. “Take a<br />shot. Do whatever you want to me. Go nuts.”<br />“Dios, but you are boring,” said Raphael. Behind him, by the wall, Simon could see the<br />chrome gleam of the vampire motorcycle he’d ridden to get here.<br />Simon lowered his arms. “You’re the one who asked me to meet you.”<br />“I have a job offer for you,” said Raphael.<br />“Seriously? You short-staffed at the hotel?”<br />“I need a bodyguard.”<br />Simon eyed him. “Have you been watching The Bodyguard? Because I am not going to<br />fall in love with you and carry you around in my burly arms.”<br />Raphael looked at him sourly. “I would pay you extra money to remain entirely silent<br />while you worked.”<br />Simon stared at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”<br />“I would not bother coming to see you if I were not serious. If I were in a joking mood,<br />I would spend that time with someone I liked.” Raphael sat back down in the armchair.<br />“Camille Belcourt is free in the city of New York. The Shadowhunters are entirely caught<br />up with this stupid business with Valentine’s son and will not be bothered to track her<br />down. She represents an immediate danger to me, for she wishes to reassert her control<br />of the Manhattan clan. Most are loyal to me. Killing me would be the fastest way for her<br />to put herself back at the top of the hierarchy.”<br />“Okay,” Simon said slowly. “But why me?”<br />“You are a Daylighter. Others can protect me during the night, but you can protect me<br />in the day, when most of our kind are helpless. And you carry the Mark of Cain. With you<br />between me and her, she would not dare to strike at me.”<br />“That’s all true, but I’m not doing it.”<br />Raphael looked incredulous. “Why not?”<br />The words exploded out of Simon. “Are you kidding? Because you have never done one<br />single thing for me in the entire time since I became a vampire. Instead you have done<br />your level best to make my life miserable and then end it. So—if you want it in vampire<br />language—it affords me great pleasure, my liege, to say to you now: Hell, no.”<br />“It is not wise for you to make an enemy of me, Daylighter. As friends—”<br />Simon laughed incredulously. “Wait a second. Were we friends? That was friends?”<br />Raphael’s fang teeth snapped out. He was very angry indeed, Simon realized. “I know<br />why you refuse me, Daylighter, and it is not out of some pretended sense of rejection.<br />You are so involved with the Shadowhunters, you think you are one of them. We have<br />seen you with them. Instead of spending your nights in the hunt, as you should, you<br />spend them with Valentine’s daughter. You live with a werewolf. You are a disgrace.”<br />“Do you act like this with every job interview?”<br />Raphael bared his teeth. “You must decide if you are a vampire or a Shadowhunter,<br />Daylighter.”<br />“I’ll take Shadowhunter, then. Because from what I’ve experienced of vampires, you<br />mostly suck. No pun intended.”<br />Raphael stood up. “You are making a grave mistake.”<br />“I already told you—”<br />The other vampire waved a hand, cutting him off. “There is a great darkness coming. It<br />will sweep the Earth with fire and shadow, and when it is gone, there will be no more of<br />your precious Shadowhunters. We, the Night Children, will survive it, for we live in<br />darkness. But if you persist in denying what you are, you too will be destroyed, and none<br />shall lift a hand to help you.”<br />Without thinking, Simon raised his hand to touch the Mark on his forehead.<br />Raphael laughed soundlessly. “Ah, yes, the Angel’s brand upon you. In the time of<br />darkness even the angels will be destroyed. Their strength will not aid you. And you had<br />better pray, Daylighter, that you do not lose that Mark before the war comes. For if you<br />do, there will be a line of enemies waiting their turn to kill you. And I will be at the head<br />of it.”<br />Clary had been lying on her back on Magnus’s sofa bed for a long time. She had heard her<br />mother come down the hall and go into one of the other spare bedroom, shutting the<br />door behind her. Through her own door she could hear Magnus and Alec talking in low<br />voices in the living room. She supposed she could wait for them to go to sleep, but Alec<br />had said Magnus had been up until all hours lately studying the runes; even though<br />Brother Zachariah appeared to have interpreted them, she couldn’t trust that Alec and<br />Magnus would retire soon.<br />She sat up on the bed next to Chairman Meow, who made a fuzzy noise of protest, and<br />rummaged in her backpack. She drew out of it a clear plastic box and flipped it open.<br />There were her Prismacolor pencils, some stumps of chalk—and her stele.<br />She stood up, slipping the stele into her jacket pocket. Taking her phone off the desk,<br />she texted MEET ME AT TAKI ’S. She watched as the message went through, then tucked the<br />phone into her jeans and took a deep breath.<br />This wasn’t fair to Magnus, she knew. He’d promised her mother he’d look after her,<br />and that didn’t include her sneaking out of his apartment. But she had kept her mouth<br />shut. She hadn’t promised anything. And besides, it was Jace.<br />You would do anything to save him, whatever it cost you, whatever you might owe to<br />Hell or Heaven, would you not?<br />She took out her stele, set the tip to the orange paint of the wall, and began to draw a<br />Portal.<br />The sharp banging noise woke Jordan out of a sound sleep. He bolted upright instantly<br />and rolled out of bed to land in a crouch on the floor. Years of training with the Praetor<br />had left him with fast reflexes and a permanent habit of sleeping lightly. A quick sightscent<br />scan told him the room was empty—just moonlight pooling on the floor at his feet.<br />The banging came again, and this time he recognized it. It was the sound of someone<br />pounding on the front door. He usually slept in just his boxer shorts; yanking on jeans and<br />a T-shirt, he kicked the door of his room open and strode out into the hallway. If this was<br />a bunch of drunk college kids amusing themselves by knocking on all the doors in the<br />building, they were about to get a faceful of angry werewolf.<br />He reached the door—and paused. The image came to him again, as it had in the hours<br />it had taken him to fall asleep, of Maia running away from him at the navy yard. The look<br />on her face when she’d pulled away from him. He’d pushed her too far, he knew, asked<br />for too much, too fast. Blown it completely, probably. Unless—maybe she’d reconsidered.<br />There had been a time when their relationship had been all passionate fights and equally<br />passionate make-up sessions.<br />His heart pounding, he threw the door open. And blinked. On the doorstep stood<br />Isabelle Lightwood, her long black glossy hair falling almost to her waist. She wore black<br />suede knee-high boots, tight jeans, and a red silky top with her familiar red pendant<br />around her throat, glittering darkly.<br />“Isabelle?” He couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice, or, he suspected, the<br />disappointment.<br />“Yeah, well, I wasn’t looking for you, either,” she said, pushing past him into the<br />apartment. She smelled of Shadowhunter—a smell like sun-warmed glass—and<br />underneath that, a rosy perfume. “I was looking for Simon.”<br />Jordan squinted at her. “It’s two in the morning.”<br />She shrugged. “He’s a vampire.”<br />“But I’m not.”<br />“Ohhhhh?” Her red lips curled up at the corners. “Did I wake you up?” She reached out<br />and flicked the top button on his jeans, the tip of her fingernail scraping across his flat<br />stomach. He felt his muscles jump. Izzy was gorgeous, there was no denying that. She<br />was also a little terrifying. He wondered how unassuming Simon managed to handle her<br />at all. “You might want to button these all the way up. Nice boxers, by the by.” She<br />moved past him, toward Simon’s bedroom. Jordan followed, buttoning his jeans and<br />muttering about how there was nothing strange about having a pattern of dancing<br />penguins on your underwear.<br />Isabelle ducked her head into Simon’s room. “He’s not here.” She slammed the door<br />behind her and leaned back against the wall, looking at Jordan. “You did say it was two in<br />the morning?”<br />“Yeah. He’s probably at Clary’s. He’s been sleeping there a lot lately.”<br />Isabelle bit her lip. “Right. Of course.”<br />Jordan was beginning to get that feeling he got sometimes, that he was saying<br />something unfortunate, without knowing exactly what that thing was. “Is there a reason<br />you came over here? I mean, did something happen? Is something wrong?”<br />“Wrong?” Isabelle threw up her hands. “You mean other than the fact that my brother<br />has disappeared and has probably been brainwashed by the evil demon who murdered<br />my other brother, and my parents are getting divorced and Simon is off with Clary—”<br />She stopped abruptly and stalked past him into the living room. He hurried after her. By<br />the time he caught up, she was in the kitchen, rifling through the pantry shelves. “Do you<br />have anything to drink? A nice Barolo? Sagrantino?”<br />Jordan took her by the shoulders and moved her gently out of the kitchen. “Sit,” he<br />said. “I’ll get you some tequila.”<br />“Tequila?”<br />“Tequila’s what we have. That and cough syrup.”<br />Sitting down at one of the stools that lined the kitchen counter, she waved a hand at<br />him. He would have expected her to have long red or pink fingernails, buffed to<br />perfection, to match the rest of her, but no—she was a Shadowhunter. Her hands were<br />scarred, the nails squared off and filed down. The Voyance rune shone blackly on her<br />right hand. “Fine.”<br />Jordan grabbed the bottle of Cuervo, uncapped it, and poured her a shot. He pushed<br />the glass across the counter. She downed it instantly, frowned, and slammed the glass<br />down.<br />“Not enough,” she said, reached across the counter, and took the bottle out of his<br />hand. She tilted her head back and swallowed once, twice, three times. When she set the<br />bottle back down, her cheeks were flushed.<br />“Where’d you learn to drink like that?” He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or<br />frightened.<br />“The drinking age in Idris is fifteen. Not that anyone pays attention. I’ve been drinking<br />wine mixed with water along with my parents since I was a kid.” Isabelle shrugged. The<br />gesture lacked a little of her usual fluid coordination.<br />“Okay. Well, is there a message you want me to give Simon, or anything I can say or—”<br />“No.” She took another swig out of the bottle. “I got all liquored up and came over to<br />talk to him, and of course he’s at Clary’s. Figures.”<br />“I thought you were the one who told him he ought to go over there in the first place.”<br />“Yeah.” Isabelle fiddled with the label on the tequila bottle. “I did.”<br />“So,” Jordan said, in what he thought was a reasonable tone. “Tell him to stop.”<br />“I can’t do that.” She sounded exhausted. “I owe her.”<br />Jordan leaned on the counter. He felt a little like a bartender in a TV show, dispensing<br />sage advice. “What do you owe her?”<br />“Life,” Isabelle said.<br />Jordan blinked. This was a little beyond his bartending and advice-offering skills. “She<br />saved your life?”<br />“She saved Jace’s life. She could have had anything from the Angel Raziel, and she<br />saved my brother. I’ve only ever trusted a few people in my life. Really trusted. My<br />mother, Alec, Jace, and Max. I lost one of them already. Clary’s the only reason I didn’t<br />lose another.”<br />“Do you think you’ll ever be able to really trust someone you aren’t related to?”<br />“I’m not related to Jace. Not really.” Isabelle avoided his gaze.<br />“You know what I mean,” said Jordan, with a meaningful glance at Simon’s room.<br />Izzy frowned. “Shadowhunters live by an honor code, werewolf,” she said, and for a<br />moment she was all arrogant Nephilim, and Jordan remembered why so many<br />Downworlders disliked them. “Clary saved a Lightwood. I owe her my life. If I can’t give<br />her that—and I don’t see how she has any use for it—I can give her whatever will make<br />her less unhappy.”<br />“You can’t give her Simon. Simon’s a person, Isabelle. He goes where he wants.”<br />“Yeah,” she said. “Well, he doesn’t seem to mind going where she is, does he?”<br />Jordan hesitated. There was something about what Isabelle was saying that seemed<br />off, but she wasn’t completely wrong either. Simon had with Clary an ease that he never<br />seemed to show with anyone else. Having been in love with only one girl in his life, and<br />having stayed in love with her, Jordan didn’t feel he was qualified to hand out advice on<br />that front—though he remembered Simon warning him, with wryness, that Clary had “the<br />nuclear bomb of boyfriends.” Whether there had been jealousy under that wryness,<br />Jordan wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure whether you could ever completely forget the first girl<br />you loved either. Especially when she was right there in front of you, every day.<br />Isabelle snapped her fingers. “Hey, you. Are you even paying attention?” She tilted her<br />head to the side, blowing dark strands of hair out of her face, and looked at him hard.<br />“What’s going on with you and Maia, anyway?”<br />“Nothing.” The single word held volumes. “I’m not sure she’s ever going to stop hating<br />me.”<br />“She might not, at that,” Isabelle said. “She’s got good reason.”<br />“Thanks.”<br />“I don’t do false reassurances,” Izzy said, and pushed the tequila bottle away from her.<br />Her eyes, on Jordan, were lively and dark. “Come here, werewolf boy.”<br />She’d dropped her voice. It was soft, seductive. Jordan swallowed against a suddenly<br />dry throat. He remembered seeing Isabelle in her red dress outside the Ironworks and<br />thinking, That’s the girl Simon was messing around on Maia with? Neither of them was<br />the sort of girl who gave the impression you could cheat on her and survive it.<br />And neither one of them was the sort of girl you said no to. Warily he moved around<br />the counter toward Isabelle. He was a few steps away when she reached out and pulled<br />him toward her by the wrists. Her hands slid up his arms, over the swell of his biceps, the<br />muscles of his shoulders. His heartbeat quickened. He could feel the warmth coming off<br />her and could smell her perfume and sweet tequila. “You’re gorgeous,” she said. Her<br />hands slid around to flatten themselves against his chest. “You know that, right?”<br />Jordan wondered if she could feel his heart beating through his shirt. He knew the way<br />girls looked at him on the street—boys, too, sometimes—knew what he saw in the mirror<br />every day, but he never thought about it much. He had been so focused on Maia for so<br />long that it never seemed to matter beyond whether she would still find him attractive if<br />they ever saw each other again. He’d been chatted up plenty, but not often by girls who<br />looked like Isabelle, and never by anyone so blunt. He wondered if she was going to kiss<br />him. He hadn’t kissed anyone but Maia since he was fifteen. But Isabelle was looking up<br />at him, and her eyes were big and dark, and her lips were slightly parted and the color of<br />strawberries. He wondered if they would taste like strawberries if he kissed her.<br />“And I just don’t care,” she said.<br />“Isabelle, I don’t think—Wait. What?”<br />“I should care,” she said. “I mean, there’s Maia to think about, so I probably wouldn’t<br />just rip your clothes off blithely anyway, but the thing is, I don’t want to. Normally I would<br />want to.”<br />“Ah,” Jordan said. He felt relief, and also the tiniest twinge of disappointment. “Well…<br />that’s good?”<br />“I think about him all the time,” she said. “It’s awful. Nothing like this has ever<br />happened to me before.”<br />“You mean Simon?”<br />“Scrawny little mundane bastard,” she said, and took her hands off Jordan’s chest.<br />“Except he isn’t. Scrawny, anymore. Or a mundane. And I like spending time with him. He<br />makes me laugh. And I like the way he smiles. You know, one side of his mouth goes up<br />before the other one—Well, you live with him. You must have noticed.”<br />“Not really,” said Jordan.<br />“I miss him when he’s not around,” Isabelle confessed. “I thought… I don’t know, after<br />what happened that night with Lilith, things changed between us. But now he’s with Clary<br />all the time. And I can’t even be angry with her.”<br />“You lost your brother.”<br />Isabelle looked up at him. “What?”<br />“Well, he’s knocking himself out to make Clary feel better because she lost Jace,” said<br />Jordan. “But Jace is your brother. Shouldn’t Simon be knocking himself out to make you<br />feel better too? Maybe you’re not mad at her, but you could be mad at him.”<br />Isabelle looked at him for a long moment. “But we’re not anything,” she said. “He’s not<br />my boyfriend. I just like him.” She frowned. “Crap. I can’t believe I said that. I must be<br />drunker than I thought.”<br />“I kind of figured it out from what you were saying before.” He smiled at her.<br />She didn’t smile back, but she lowered her lashes and looked up at him through them.<br />“You’re not so bad,” she said. “If you want, I can say nice things to Maia about you.”<br />“No, thanks,” said Jordan, who wasn’t sure what Izzy’s version of nice things was, and<br />feared finding out. “You know, it’s normal, when you’re going through a tough time, to<br />want to be with the person you—” He was about to say “love,” realized she had never<br />used the word, and switched gears. “Care about. But I don’t think Simon knows you feel<br />that way about him.”<br />Her lashes fluttered back up. “Does he ever say anything about me?”<br />“He thinks you’re really strong,” Jordan said. “And that you don’t need him at all. I think<br />he feels… superfluous to your life. Like, what can he give you when you’re already<br />perfect? Why would you want a guy like him?” Jordan blinked; he hadn’t meant to run on<br />like that, and he wasn’t sure how much of what he’d said applied to Simon, and how<br />much to himself and Maia.<br />“So you mean I should tell him how I feel?” said Isabelle in a small voice.<br />“Yes. Definitely. Tell him how you feel.”<br />“Okay.” She grabbed for the tequila bottle and took a swig. “I’ll go over to Clary’s right<br />now and I’ll tell him.”<br />A small flower of alarm blossomed in his chest. “You can’t. It’s practically three in the<br />morning—”<br />“If I wait, I’ll lose my nerve,” she said, in that reasonable tone that only very drunk<br />people ever employed. She took another swig out of the bottle. “I’ll just go over there,<br />and I’ll knock on the window, and I’ll tell him how I feel.”<br />“Do you even know which window is Clary’s?”<br />She squinted. “Nooo.”<br />The horrible vision of a drunk Isabelle waking up Jocelyn and Luke floated through<br />Jordan’s head. “Isabelle, no.” He reached up to take the tequila bottle from her, and she<br />jerked it away from him.<br />“I think I’m changing my mind about you,” she said in a semi-threatening tone that<br />would have been more frightening if she’d been able to focus her eyes on him directly. “I<br />don’t think I like you so much after all.” She stood up, looked down at her feet with a<br />surprised expression—and fell over backward. Only Jordan’s quick reflexes allowed him to<br />catch her before she hit the floor.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-65353649699640464942013-02-13T06:22:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.818-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 5<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />She was dreaming of icy landscapes again. Bitter tundra that stretched in all directions,<br />ice floes drifting out on the black waters of the Arctic sea, snow-capped mountains, and<br />cities carved out of ice whose towers sparkled like the demon towers of Alicante.<br />In front of the frozen city was a frozen lake. Clary was skidding down a steep slope,<br />trying to reach the lake, though she was not sure why. Two dark figures stood out in the<br />center of the frozen water. As she neared the lake, skidding on the surface of the slope,<br />her hands burning from contact with the ice, and snow filling her shoes, she saw that one<br />was a boy with black wings that spread out from his back like a crow’s. His hair was as<br />white as the ice all around them. Sebastian. And beside Sebastian was Jace, his gold hair<br />the only color in the frozen landscape that was not black or white.<br />As Jace turned away from Sebastian and began to walk toward Clary, wings burst from<br />his back, white-gold and shimmering. Clary slid the last few feet to the frozen surface of<br />the lake and collapsed to her knees, exhausted. Her hands were blue and bleeding, her<br />lips cracked, her lungs seared with each icy breath.<br />“Jace,” she whispered.<br />And he was there, lifting her to her feet, his wings wrapping around her, and she was<br />warm again, her body thawing from her heart down through her veins, bringing her hands<br />and feet to life with half-painful, half-pleasurable tingles. “Clary,” he said, stroking her<br />hair tenderly. “Can you promise me that you won’t scream?”<br />Clary’s eyes opened. For a moment she was so disoriented that the world seemed to<br />swing around her like the view from a moving carousel. She was in her bedroom at Luke’s<br />—the familiar futon beneath her, the wardrobe with its cracked mirror, the strip of<br />windows that looked out onto the East River, the radiator spitting and hissing. Dim light<br />spilled through the windows, and a faint red glow came from the smoke alarm over the<br />closet. Clary was lying on her side, under a heap of blankets, and her back was deliciously<br />warm. An arm was draped along her side. For a moment, in the half-conscious dizzy<br />space between waking and sleeping, she wondered if Simon had crawled in the window<br />while she slept and lain down beside her, the way they used to sleep in the same bed<br />together when they were children.<br />But Simon had no body heat.<br />Her heart skittered in her chest. Now entirely awake, she twisted around under the<br />covers. Beside her was Jace, lying on his side, looking down at her, his head propped on<br />his hand. Dim moonlight made a halo out of his hair, and his eyes glittered gold like a<br />cat’s. He was fully dressed, still wearing the short-sleeved white T-shirt she had seen him<br />in earlier that day, and his bare arms were twined with runes like climbing vines.<br />She sucked in a startled breath. Jace, her Jace, had never looked at her like that. He<br />had looked at her with desire, but not with this lazy, predatory, consuming look that<br />made her heart pulse unevenly in her chest.<br />She opened her mouth—to say his name or to scream, she wasn’t sure, and she never<br />got the chance to find out; Jace moved so fast she didn’t even see it. One moment he<br />was lying beside her, and the next he was on top of her, one hand clamped down over<br />her mouth. His legs straddled her hips; she could feel his lean, muscled body pressed<br />against hers.<br />“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “I’d never hurt you. But I don’t want you<br />screaming. I need to talk to you.”<br />She glared at him.<br />To her surprise he laughed. His familiar laugh, hushed to a whisper. “I can read your<br />expressions, Clary Fray. The minute I take my hand off your mouth, you’re going to yell.<br />Or use your training and break my wrists. Come on, promise me you won’t. Swear on the<br />Angel.”<br />This time she rolled her eyes.<br />“Okay, you’re right,” he said. “You can’t exactly swear with my hand over your mouth.<br />I’m going to take it off. And if you yell—” He tilted his head to the side; pale gold hair fell<br />across his eyes. “I’ll disappear.”<br />He took his hand away. She lay still, breathing hard, the pressure of his body on hers.<br />She knew he was faster than her, that there was no move she could make that he<br />wouldn’t outpace, but for the moment he seemed to be treating their interaction as a<br />game, something playful. He bent closer to her, and she realized her tank top had pulled<br />up, and she could feel the muscles of his flat, hard stomach against her bare skin. Her<br />face flushed.<br />Despite the heat in her face, it felt as if cold needles of ice were running up and down<br />her veins. “What are you doing here?”<br />He drew back slightly, looking disappointed. “That isn’t really an answer to my<br />question, you know. I was expecting more of a ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’ I mean, it’s not every<br />day your boyfriend comes back from the dead.”<br />“I already knew you weren’t dead.” She spoke through numb lips. “I saw you in the<br />library. With—”<br />“Colonel Mustard?”<br />“Sebastian.”<br />He let his breath out in a low chuckle. “I knew you were there too. I could feel it.”<br />She felt her body tighten. “You let me think you were gone,” she said. “Before that. I<br />thought you—I really thought there was a chance you were—” She broke off; she couldn’t<br />say it. Dead. “It’s unforgivable. If I’d done that to you—”<br />“Clary.” He leaned down over her again; his hands were warm on her wrists, his breath<br />soft in her ear. She could feel everywhere that their bare skin touched. It was horribly<br />distracting. “I had to do it. It was too dangerous. If I’d told you, you would have had to<br />choose between telling the Council I was still alive—and letting them hunt me—and<br />keeping a secret that would make you an accomplice in their eyes. Then, when you saw<br />me in the library, I had to wait. I needed to know if you still loved me, if you would go to<br />the Council or not about what you’d seen. You didn’t. I had to know you cared more about<br />me than the Law. You do, don’t you?”<br />“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know. Who are you?”<br />“I’m still Jace,” he said. “I still love you.”<br />Hot tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked, and they spilled down her face. Gently he<br />ducked his head and kissed her cheeks, and then her mouth. She tasted her own tears,<br />salty on his lips, and he opened her mouth with his, carefully, gently. The familiar taste<br />and feel of him washed over her, and she leaned into him for a split second, her doubts<br />subsumed in her body’s blind, unreasoning recognition of the need to keep him close, to<br />keep him there—just as the door of her bedroom opened.<br />Jace let go of her. Clary instantly jerked away from him, scrambling to pull down her<br />tank top. Jace stretched himself into a sitting position with unhurried, lazy grace, and<br />grinned up at the person standing in the doorway. “Well, well,” Jace said. “You may have<br />the worst timing since Napoléon decided the dead of winter was the right moment to<br />invade Russia.”<br />It was Sebastian.<br />Close up, Clary could more clearly see the differences in him since she had known him<br />in Idris. His hair was paper white, his eyes black tunnels fringed by lashes as long as<br />spider’s legs. He wore a white shirt, the sleeves pulled up, and she could see a red scar<br />ringing his right wrist, like a ridged bracelet. There was a scar across the palm of his<br />hand, too, looking new and harsh.<br />“That’s my sister you’re defiling there, you know,” he said, moving his black gaze to<br />Jace. There was amusement in his expression.<br />“Sorry.” Jace didn’t sound sorry. He was leaning back against the blankets, catlike. “We<br />got carried away.”<br />Clary sucked in a breath. It sounded harsh in her own ears. “Get out,” she said, to<br />Sebastian.<br />He leaned against the door frame, elbow and hip, and she was struck by the similarity<br />in movement between him and Jace. They didn’t look alike, but they moved alike. As if—<br />As if they’d been trained to move by the same person.<br />“Now,” he said, “is that any way to talk to your big brother?”<br />“Magnus should have left you a coatrack,” Clary spat.<br />“Oh, you remember that, do you? I thought we had a pretty good time that day.” He<br />smirked a little, and Clary, with a sick drop in her stomach, remembered how he had<br />taken her to the burned remains of her mother’s house, how he had kissed her among the<br />rubble, knowing all along who they really were to each other and delighting in the fact<br />that she didn’t.<br />She glanced sideways at Jace. He knew perfectly well that Sebastian had kissed her.<br />Sebastian had taunted him with it, and Jace had nearly killed him. But he didn’t look<br />angry now; he looked amused, and mildly annoyed to have been interrupted.<br />“We should do it again,” Sebastian said, examining his nails. “Have some family time.”<br />“I don’t care what you think. You’re not my brother,” Clary said. “You’re a murderer.”<br />“I really don’t see how those things cancel each other out,” said Sebastian. “It’s not like<br />they did in the case of dear old Dad.” His gaze drifted lazily back to Jace. “Normally I’d<br />hate to get in the way of a friend’s love life, but I really don’t care for standing out here in<br />this hallway indefinitely. Especially since I can’t turn on any lights. It’s boring.”<br />Jace sat up, tugging his shirt down. “Give us five minutes.”<br />Sebastian sighed an exaggerated sigh and swung the door shut. Clary stared at Jace.<br />“What the f—”<br />“Language, Fray.” Jace’s eyes danced. “Relax.”<br />Clary jabbed her hand toward the door. “You heard what he said. About that day he<br />kissed me. He knew I was his sister. Jace—”<br />Something flashed in his eyes, darkening their gold, but when he spoke again, it was as<br />if her words had hit a Teflon surface and bounced off, making no impression.<br />She drew back from him. “Jace, aren’t you listening to anything I’m saying?”<br />“Look, I understand if you’re uncomfortable with your brother waiting outside in the<br />hallway. I wasn’t planning on kissing you.” He grinned in a way that at another time she<br />would have found adorable. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”<br />Clary scrambled out of the bed, staring down at him. She reached for the robe that<br />hung on the post of her bed and wrapped it around herself. Jace watched, making no<br />move to stop her, though his eyes shone in the dark. “I—I don’t even understand. First<br />you disappear, and now you come back with him, acting like I’m not even supposed to<br />notice or care or remember—”<br />“I told you,” he said. “I had to be sure of you. I didn’t want to put you in the position of<br />knowing where I was while the Clave was still investigating you. I thought it would be<br />hard for you—”<br />“Hard for me?” She was almost breathless with rage. “Tests are hard. Obstacle courses<br />are hard. You disappearing like that practically killed me, Jace. And what do you think<br />you’ve done to Alec? Isabelle? Maryse? Do you know what it’s been like? Can you<br />imagine? Not knowing, the searching—”<br />That odd look passed over his face again, as if he were hearing her but not hearing her<br />at the same time. “Oh, yes, I was going to ask.” He smiled like an angel. “Is everyone<br />looking for me?”<br />“Is everyone—” She shook her head, pulling the robe closer. Suddenly she wanted to be<br />covered up in front of him, in front of all that familiarity and beauty and that lovely<br />predatory smile that said he was willing to do whatever with her, to her, no matter who<br />was waiting in the hall.<br />“I was hoping they’d put up flyers like they do for lost cats,” he said. “Missing, one<br />stunningly attractive teenage boy. Answers to ‘Jace,’ or ‘Hot Stuff.’”<br />“You did not just say that.”<br />“You don’t like ‘Hot Stuff’? You think ‘Sweet Cheeks’ might be better? ‘Love Crumpet’?<br />Really, that last one’s stretching it a bit. Though, technically, my family is British—”<br />“Shut up,” she said savagely. “And get out.”<br />“I…” He looked taken aback, and she remembered how surprised he’d been outside the<br />Manor, when she’d pushed him away. “All right, fine. I’ll be serious. Clarissa, I’m here<br />because I want you to come with me.”<br />“Come where with you?”<br />“Come with me,” he said, and then hesitated, “and Sebastian. And I’ll explain<br />everything.”<br />For a moment she was frozen, her eyes locked on his. Silvery moonlight outlined the<br />curves of his mouth, the shape of his cheekbones, the shadow of his lashes, the arch of<br />his throat. “The last time I ‘came with you somewhere,’ I wound up knocked unconscious<br />and dragged into the middle of a black magic ceremony.”<br />“That wasn’t me. That was Lilith.”<br />“The Jace Lightwood I know wouldn’t be in the same room with Jonathan Morgenstern<br />without killing him.”<br />“I think you’ll find that would be self-defeating,” Jace said lightly, shoving his feet into<br />his boots. “We are bound, he and I. Cut him and I bleed.”<br />“Bound? What do you mean, bound?”<br />He tossed his light hair back, ignoring her question. “This is bigger than you<br />understand, Clary. He has a plan. He’s willing to work, to sacrifice. If you’d give me a<br />chance to explain—”<br />“He killed Max, Jace,” she said. “Your little brother.”<br />He flinched, and for a moment of wild hope she thought she’d broken through to him—<br />but his expression smoothed over like a wrinkled sheet pulled tight. “That was—it was an<br />accident. Besides, Sebastian’s just as much my brother.”<br />“No.” Clary shook her head. “He’s not your brother. He’s mine. God knows, I wish it<br />weren’t true. He should never have been born—”<br />“How can you say that?” Jace demanded. He swung his legs out of the bed. “Have you<br />ever considered that maybe things aren’t so black and white as you think?” He bent over<br />to grab his weapons belt and buckle it on. “There was a war, Clary, and people got hurt,<br />but—things were different then. Now I know Sebastian would never harm anyone I loved<br />intentionally. He’s serving a greater cause. Sometimes there’s collateral damage—”<br />“Did you just call your own brother collateral damage?” Her voice rose in an incredulous<br />half shout. She felt as if she could barely breathe.<br />“Clary, you’re not listening. This is important—”<br />“Like what Valentine thought he was doing was important?”<br />“Valentine was wrong,” he said. “He was right that the Clave was corrupt but wrong<br />about how to go about fixing things. But Sebastian is right. If you’d just hear us out—”<br />“‘Us,’” she said. “God. Jace…” He was staring at her from the bed, and even as she felt<br />her heart breaking, her mind was racing, trying to remember where she had left her stele,<br />wondering if she could get to the X-Acto knife in the drawer of her nightstand. Wondering<br />if she could bring herself to use it if she did.<br />“Clary?” Jace tilted his head to the side, studying her face. “You do—you still love me,<br />don’t you?”<br />“I love Jace Lightwood,” she said. “I don’t know who you are.”<br />His face changed, but before he could speak, a scream shattered the silence. A scream,<br />and the sound of breaking glass.<br />Clary knew the voice instantly. It was her mother.<br />Without another glance at Jace, she yanked the bedroom door open and bolted down<br />the hallway, into the living room. The living room in Luke’s house was large, divided from<br />the kitchen by a long counter. Jocelyn, in yoga pants and a frayed T-shirt, her hair pulled<br />back in a messy bun, stood by the counter. She had clearly come into the kitchen for<br />something to drink. A glass lay shattered at her feet, the water soaking into the gray<br />carpeting.<br />All the color had drained from her face, leaving her as pale as bleached sand. She was<br />staring across the room, and even before Clary turned her head, she knew what her<br />mother was looking at.<br />Her son.<br />Sebastian was leaning against the living room wall, near the door, with no expression<br />on his angular face. He lowered his eyelids and looked at Jocelyn through his lashes.<br />Something about his posture, the look of him, could have stepped out of Hodge’s<br />photograph of Valentine at seventeen years old.<br />“Jonathan,” Jocelyn whispered. Clary stood frozen, even as Jace burst out of the<br />hallway, took in the scene in front of him in one moment, and came to a halt. His left<br />hand was at his weapons belt; his slim fingers were inches from the hilt of one of his<br />daggers, but Clary knew it would take him less than seconds to free it.<br />“I go by ‘Sebastian’ now,” said Clary’s brother. “I concluded that I wasn’t interested in<br />keeping the name you and my father gave me. Both of you betrayed me, and I would<br />prefer as little association with you as possible.”<br />Water spread out from the pool of broken glass at Jocelyn’s feet in a dark ring. She<br />took a step forward, her eyes searching, running up and down Sebastian’s face. “I thought<br />you were dead,” she whispered. “Dead. I saw your bones turned to ashes.”<br />Sebastian looked at her, his black eyes quiet and narrow. “If you were a real mother,”<br />he said, “a good mother, you would have known I was alive. There was a man once who<br />said that mothers carry the key of our souls with them all our lives. But you threw mine<br />away.”<br />Jocelyn made a sound in the back of her throat. She was leaning against the counter<br />for support. Clary wanted to run to her, but her feet felt frozen to the ground. Whatever<br />was happening between her brother and her mother, it was something that had nothing<br />to do with her.<br />“Don’t tell me you aren’t even a little glad to see me, Mother,” Sebastian said, and<br />though his words were pleading, his voice was flat. “Aren’t I everything you could want in<br />a son?” He spread his arms wide. “Strong, handsome, looks just like dear old Dad.”<br />Jocelyn shook her head, her face gray. “What do you want, Jonathan?”<br />“I want what everyone wants,” said Sebastian. “I want what’s owed to me. In this case<br />the Morgenstern legacy.”<br />“The Morgenstern legacy is blood and devastation,” said Jocelyn. “We are not<br />Morgensterns here. Not me, and not my daughter.” She straightened up. Her hand was<br />still gripping the counter, but Clary could see some of the old fire returning to her<br />mother’s expression. “If you go now, Jonathan, I won’t tell the Clave you were ever here.”<br />Her eyes flicked to Jace. “Or you. If they knew you were cooperating, they would kill you<br />both.”<br />Clary moved to stand in front of Jace, reflexively. He looked past her, over her<br />shoulder, at her mother. “You care if I die?” Jace said.<br />“I care about what it would do to my daughter,” said Jocelyn. “And the Law is hard<br />—too hard. What has happened to you—maybe it can be undone.” Her eyes moved back<br />to Sebastian. “But for you—my Jonathan—it’s much too late.”<br />The hand that had been gripping the counter swept forward, holding Luke’s longhandled<br />kindjal blade. Tears shone on Jocelyn’s face. But her grip on the knife was<br />steady.<br />“I look just like him, don’t I?” Sebastian said, not moving. He seemed barely to notice<br />the knife. “Valentine. That’s why you’re looking at me like that.”<br />Jocelyn shook her head. “You look like you always did, from the moment I first saw<br />you. You look like a demon thing.” Her voice was achingly sad. “I’m so sorry.”<br />“Sorry for what?”<br />“For not killing you when you were born,” she said, and came out from behind the<br />counter, spinning the kindjal in her hand.<br />Clary tensed, but Sebastian didn’t move. His dark eyes followed his mother as she<br />came toward him. “Is that what you want?” he said. “For me to die?” He opened his arms,<br />as if he meant to embrace Jocelyn, and took a step forward. “Go ahead. Commit filicide. I<br />won’t stop you.”<br />“Sebastian,” said Jace. Clary shot him an incredulous look. Did he actually sound<br />concerned?<br />Jocelyn moved another step forward. The knife was a blur in her hand. When it came to<br />a stop, the tip was pointed directly at Sebastian’s heart.<br />Still, he didn’t move.<br />“Do it,” he said softly. He cocked his head to the side. “Or can you bring yourself to?<br />You could have killed me when I was born. But you didn’t.” His voice lowered. “Maybe<br />you know that there is no such thing as conditional love for a child. Maybe if you loved me<br />enough, you could save me.”<br />For a moment they stared at each other, mother and son, ice-green eyes meeting coalblack<br />ones. There were sharp lines at the corners of Jocelyn’s mouth that Clary could<br />have sworn hadn’t been there two weeks ago. “You’re pretending,” she said, her voice<br />shaking. “You don’t feel anything, Jonathan. Your father taught you to feign human<br />emotion the way one might teach a parrot to repeat words. It doesn’t understand what<br />it’s saying, and neither do you. I wish—oh, God, I wish—that you did. But—”<br />Jocelyn brought the blade up in a swift, clean, cutting arc. A perfectly placed blow, it<br />should have driven up under Sebastian’s ribs and into his heart. It would have, if he had<br />not moved even faster than Jace; he spun away and back, and the tip of the blade cut<br />only a shallow slash along his chest.<br />Beside Clary, Jace sucked in his breath. She whirled to look at him. There was a<br />spreading red stain across the front of his shirt. He touched his hand to it; his fingertips<br />came away bloody. We are bound. Cut him and I bleed.<br />Without another thought Clary darted across the room, throwing herself between<br />Jocelyn and Sebastian. “Mom,” she gasped. “Stop.”<br />Jocelyn was still holding the knife, her eyes on Sebastian. “Clary, get out of the way.”<br />Sebastian began to laugh. “Sweet, isn’t it?” he said. “A little sister defending her big<br />brother.”<br />“I’m not defending you.” Clary kept her eyes fixed on her mother’s face. “Whatever<br />happens to Jonathan happens to Jace. Do you understand, Mom? If you kill him, Jace<br />dies. He’s already bleeding. Mom, please.”<br />Jocelyn was still gripping the knife, but her expression was uncertain. “Clary…”<br />“Gracious, how awkward,” Sebastian observed. “I’ll be interested to see how you<br />resolve this. After all, I’ve got no reason to leave.”<br />“Yes, actually,” came a voice from the hallway, “you do.”<br />It was Luke, barefoot and in jeans and an old sweater. He looked tousled, and oddly<br />younger without his glasses. He also had a sawed-off shotgun balanced at his shoulder,<br />the barrel trained directly on Sebastian. “This is a Winchester twelve-gauge pump-action<br />shotgun. The pack uses it to put down wolves who’ve gone rogue,” he said. “Even if I<br />don’t kill you, I can blow your leg off, Valentine’s son.”<br />It was as if everyone in the room took a quick gasp of breath all at once—everyone<br />except Luke. And Sebastian, who, a grin splitting his face in half, turned and walked<br />toward Luke, as if oblivious of the gun. “‘Valentine’s son,’” he said. “Is that really how you<br />think of me? Under other circumstances you could have been my godfather.”<br />“Under other circumstances,” said Luke, sliding his finger onto the trigger, “you could<br />have been human.”<br />Sebastian stopped in his tracks. “The same could be said of you, werewolf.”<br />The world seemed to have slowed down. Luke sighted along the barrel of the rifle.<br />Sebastian stood smiling.<br />“Luke,” Clary said. It was like one of those dreams, a nightmare where she wanted to<br />scream but all that would scrape past her throat was a whisper. “Luke, don’t do it.”<br />Her stepfather’s finger tightened on the trigger—and then Jace exploded into<br />movement, launching himself from beside Clary, flipping over the sofa, and slamming into<br />Luke just as the shotgun went off.<br />The shot flew wide; one of the windows shattered outward as the bullet struck it. Luke,<br />knocked off balance, staggered back. Jace yanked the gun from his hands and threw it. It<br />hurtled through the broken window, and Jace turned back toward the older man.<br />“Luke—,” he began.<br />Luke hit him.<br />Even knowing everything she knew, the shock of it, seeing Luke, who had stood up for<br />Jace countless times to her mother, to Maryse, to the Clave—Luke, who was basically<br />gentle and kind—seeing him actually strike Jace across the face was as if he had hit Clary<br />instead. Jace, totally unprepared, was thrown backward into the wall.<br />And Sebastian, who had so far shown no real emotion beyond mockery and disgust,<br />snarled—snarled and drew from his belt a long, thin dagger. Luke’s eyes widened, and he<br />began to twist away, but Sebastian was faster than him—faster than anyone else Clary<br />had ever seen. Faster than Jace. He drove the dagger into Luke’s chest, twisting it hard<br />before jerking it back out, red to the hilt. Luke fell back against the wall—then slid down<br />it, leaving a smear of blood behind as Clary stared in horror.<br />Jocelyn screamed. The sound was worse than the sound of the bullet shattering the<br />window, though Clary heard it as if it came from a distance away, or underwater. She was<br />staring at Luke, who had collapsed to the floor, the carpet around him rapidly turning red.<br />Sebastian raised the dagger again—and Clary flung herself at him, slamming as hard as<br />she could into his shoulder, trying to knock him off balance. She barely moved him, but he<br />did drop the dagger. He turned on her. He was bleeding from a split lip. Clary didn’t know<br />why, not until Jace swung into her field of vision and she saw the blood on his mouth<br />where Luke had hit him.<br />“Enough!” Jace grabbed Sebastian by the back of the jacket. He was pale, not looking<br />at Luke, or at Clary, either. “Stop it. This isn’t why we came here.”<br />“Let me go—”<br />“No.” Jace reached around Sebastian and grabbed his hand. His eyes met Clary’s. His<br />lips shaped words—there was a flash of silver, the ring on Sebastian’s finger—and then<br />both of them were gone, winking out of existence between one breath and another. Just<br />as they vanished, a streak of something metallic shot through the air where they had<br />been standing, and buried itself in the wall.<br />Luke’s kindjal.<br />Clary turned to look at her mother, who had thrown the knife. But Jocelyn wasn’t<br />looking at Clary. She was darting to Luke’s side, dropping to her knees on the bloody<br />carpet, and pulling him up into her lap. His eyes were closed. Blood trickled from the<br />corners of his mouth. Sebastian’s silver dagger, smeared with more blood, lay a few feet<br />away.<br />“Mom,” Clary whispered. “Is he—”<br />“The dagger was silver.” Jocelyn’s voice shook. “He won’t heal fast like he should, not<br />without special treatment.” She touched Luke’s face with her fingertips. His chest was<br />rising and falling, Clary saw with relief, if shallowly. She could taste tears burning in the<br />back of her throat and for a moment was amazed at her mother’s calm. But then this was<br />the woman who had once stood in the ashes of her home, surrounded by the blackened<br />bodies of her family, including her parents and son, and had gone on from that. “Get<br />some towels from the bathroom,” her mother said. “We have to stop the bleeding.”<br />Clary staggered to her feet and went almost blindly into Luke’s small, tiled bathroom.<br />There was a gray towel hanging from the back of the door. She yanked it down, went<br />back into the living room. Jocelyn was holding Luke in her lap with one hand; the other<br />hand held a cell phone. She dropped it and reached for the towel as Clary came in.<br />Folding it in half, she laid it over the wound in Luke’s chest and pressed down. Clary<br />watched as the edges of the gray towel began to turn scarlet with blood.<br />“Luke,” Clary whispered. He didn’t move. His face was an awful gray color.<br />“I just called his pack,” Jocelyn said. She didn’t look at her daughter; Clary realized<br />Jocelyn had not asked her a single question about Jace and Sebastian, or why she and<br />Jace had emerged from her bedroom, or what they had been doing there. She was<br />entirely focused on Luke. “They have some members patrolling the area. As soon as they<br />get here, we have to leave. Jace will come back for you.”<br />“You don’t know that—,” Clary began, whispering past her dry throat.<br />“I do,” said Jocelyn. “Valentine came back for me after fifteen years. That’s what the<br />Morgenstern men are like. They don’t ever give up. He’ll come for you again.”<br />Jace isn’t Valentine. But the words died on Clary’s lips. She wanted to drop to her knees<br />and take Luke’s hand, hold it tightly, tell him she loved him. But she remembered Jace’s<br />hands on her in the bedroom and didn’t. This was her fault. She didn’t deserve to get to<br />comfort Luke, or herself. She deserved the pain, the guilt.<br />The scrape of footsteps sounded on the porch, the low murmur of voices. Jocelyn’s<br />head jerked up. The pack.<br />“Clary, go and get your things,” she said. “Take what you think you’ll need but not<br />more than you can carry. We’re not coming back to this house.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-13415895664809584832013-02-13T06:21:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.906-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />“And you’re totally sure it was Jace?” Isabelle asked, for what seemed to Clary like the<br />forty-seventh time.<br />Clary bit down on her already sore lip and counted to ten. “It’s me, Isabelle,” she said.<br />“You honestly think I wouldn’t recognize Jace?” She looked up at Alec standing over them,<br />his blue scarf fluttering like a pennant in the wind. “Could you mistake someone else for<br />Magnus?”<br />“No. Not ever,” he said without missing a beat. His blue eyes were troubled, dark with<br />worry. “I just—I mean, of course we’re asking. It doesn’t make any sense.”<br />“He could be a hostage,” said Simon, leaning back against a boulder. The autumn<br />sunlight turned his eyes the color of coffee grounds. “Like, Sebastian is threatening him<br />that if Jace doesn’t go along with his plans, Sebastian will hurt someone he cares about.”<br />All eyes went to Clary, but she shook her head in frustration. “You didn’t see them<br />together. Nobody acts like that when they’re a hostage. He seemed totally happy to be<br />there.”<br />“Then he’s possessed,” Alec said. “Like he was by Lilith.”<br />“That was what I thought at first. But when he was possessed by Lilith, he was like a<br />robot. He just kept saying the same things over and over. But this was Jace. He was<br />making jokes like Jace does. Smiling like him.”<br />“Maybe he has Stockholm syndrome,” Simon suggested. “You know, when you get<br />brainwashed and start sympathizing with your captor.”<br />“It takes months to develop Stockholm syndrome,” Alec objected. “How did he look?<br />Hurt, or sick in any way? Can you describe them both?”<br />It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. The wind blew dry leaves around their feet as Clary<br />told them again how Jace had looked—vibrant and healthy. Sebastian, too. They had<br />seemed completely calm. Jace’s clothes had been clean, stylish, ordinary. Sebastian had<br />been wearing a long black wool trench coat that had looked expensive.<br />“Like an evil Burberry ad,” Simon said when she was done.<br />Isabelle shot him a look. “Maybe Jace has a plan,” she said. “Maybe he’s tricking<br />Sebastian. Trying to get into his good graces, figure out what his plans are.”<br />“You’d think that if he were doing that, he’d have figured out a way to tell us about it,”<br />Alec said. “Not to leave us panicking. That’s too cruel.”<br />“Unless he couldn’t risk sending a message. He’d believe we would trust him. We do<br />trust him.” Isabelle’s voice rose, and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. The<br />trees lining the gravel path they stood on rattled their bare branches.<br />“Maybe we should tell the Clave,” Clary said, hearing her own voice as if from a<br />distance. “This is—I don’t see how we can handle this on our own.”<br />“We can’t tell the Clave.” Isabelle’s voice was hard.<br />“Why not?”<br />“If they think he’s cooperating with Sebastian, the mandate will be to kill him on sight,”<br />Alec said. “That’s the Law.”<br />“Even if Isabelle’s right? Even if he’s just playing along with Sebastian?” Simon said, a<br />note of doubt in his voice. “Trying to get on his side to get information?”<br />“There’s no way to prove it. And if we claimed it was what he’s doing, and that got<br />back to Sebastian, he’d probably kill Jace,” said Alec. “If Jace is possessed, the Clave will<br />kill him themselves. We can’t tell them anything.” His voice was hard. Clary looked at him<br />in surprise; Alec was normally the most rule-abiding of them all.<br />“This is Sebastian we’re talking about,” said Izzy. “There’s no one the Clave hates<br />more, except Valentine, and he’s dead. But practically everyone knows someone who<br />died in the Mortal War, and Sebastian’s the one who took the wards down.”<br />Clary scuffed at the gravel underfoot with her sneaker. The whole situation seemed like<br />a dream, like she might wake up at any moment. “Then, what next?”<br />“We talk to Magnus. See if he has any insight.” Alec tugged on the corner of his scarf.<br />“He won’t go to the Council. Not if I ask him not to.”<br />“He’d better not,” said Isabelle indignantly. “Otherwise, worst boyfriend ever.”<br />“I said he wouldn’t—”<br />“Is there any point now?” Simon said. “In seeing the Seelie Queen? Now that we know<br />Jace is possessed, or maybe hiding out on purpose—”<br />“You don’t miss an appointment with the Seelie Queen,” Isabelle said firmly. “Not if you<br />value your skin the way it is.”<br />“But she’ll just take away the rings from Clary and we won’t learn anything,” Simon<br />argued. “We know more now. We have different questions for her now. She won’t answer<br />them, though. She’ll just answer the old ones. That’s how faeries work. They don’t do<br />favors. It’s not like she’s going to let us go talk to Magnus and then come back.”<br />“It doesn’t matter.” Clary rubbed her hands across her face. They came away dry. At<br />some point her tears had stopped coming, thank God. She hadn’t wanted to face the<br />Queen looking like she’d just been bawling her eyes out. “I never got the rings.”<br />Isabelle blinked. “What?”<br />“After I saw Jace and Sebastian, I was too shaken to get them. I just raced out of the<br />Institute and Portaled here.”<br />“Well, we can’t see the Queen, then,” said Alec. “If you didn’t do what she asked you<br />to, she’ll be furious.”<br />“She’ll be more than furious,” said Isabelle. “You saw what she did to Alec last time we<br />went to the Court. And that was just a glamour. She’ll probably turn Clary into a lobster or<br />something.”<br />“She knew,” Clary said. “She said, ‘When you find him again, he may well not be quite<br />as you left him.’” The Seelie Queen’s voice drifted through Clary’s head. She shivered. She<br />could understand why Simon hated faeries so much. They always knew exactly the right<br />words that would lodge like a splinter in your brain, painful and impossible to ignore or<br />remove. “She’s just playing around with us. She wants those rings, but I don’t think<br />there’s any chance she’ll really help us.”<br />“Okay,” Isabelle said doubtfully. “But if she knew that much, she might know more. And<br />who else is going to be able to help us, since we can’t go to the Clave?”<br />“Magnus,” Clary said. “He’s been trying to decode Lilith’s spell all this time. Maybe if I<br />tell him what I saw, it’ll help.”<br />Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s a good thing we know the person who’s dating Magnus,” he<br />said. “Otherwise, I get the feeling we’d all just lie around all the time wondering what the<br />hell to do next. Or try to raise the money to hire Magnus by selling lemonade.”<br />Alec looked merely irritated by this comment. “The only way you could raise enough<br />money to hire Magnus by selling lemonade is if you put meth in it.”<br />“It’s an expression. We are all aware that your boyfriend is expensive. I just wish we<br />didn’t have to go running to him with every problem.”<br />“So does he,” said Alec. “Magnus has another job today, but I’ll talk to him tonight and<br />we can all meet at his loft tomorrow morning.”<br />Clary nodded. She couldn’t even imagine getting up the next morning. She knew the<br />sooner they talked to Magnus the better, but she felt drained and exhausted, as if she’d<br />left pints of her blood on the library floor in the Institute.<br />Isabelle had moved closer to Simon. “I guess that leaves us the rest of the afternoon,”<br />she said. “Should we go to Taki’s? They’ll serve you blood.”<br />Simon glanced over at Clary, clearly worried. “Do you want to come?”<br />“No, it’s okay. I’ll grab a cab back to Williamsburg. I should spend some time with my<br />mom. All of this stuff with Sebastian has her falling apart already, and now…”<br />Isabelle’s black hair flew in the wind as she whipped her head back and forth. “You<br />can’t tell her what you saw. Luke’s on the Council. He can’t keep it from them, and you<br />can’t ask her to keep it from him.”<br />“I know.” Clary looked at the three anxious gazes fixed on her. How had this<br />happened? she thought. She, who had never kept secrets from Jocelyn—not real ones,<br />anyway—was about to go home and hide something enormous from both her mother and<br />Luke. Something she could talk about only with people like Alec and Isabelle Lightwood<br />and Magnus Bane, people that six months ago she hadn’t known existed. It was strange<br />how your world could shift on its axis and everything you trusted could invert itself in<br />what seemed like no time at all.<br />At least she still had Simon. Constant, permanent Simon. She kissed him on the cheek,<br />waved her good-bye to the others, and turned away, aware that all three of them were<br />watching her worriedly as she strode away across the park, the last of the dead fall<br />leaves crunching under her sneakers as if they were tiny bones.<br />Alec had lied. It wasn’t Magnus who had something to do that afternoon. It was himself.<br />He knew what he was doing was a mistake, but he couldn’t help himself: it was like a<br />drug, this needing to know more. And now, here he was, underground, holding his<br />witchlight and wondering just what the hell he was doing.<br />Like all New York subway stations, this one smelled of rust and water, metal and<br />decay. But unlike any other station Alec had ever been in, it was eerily quiet. Aside from<br />the marks of water damage, the walls and platform were clean. Vaulted ceilings,<br />punctuated by the occasional chandelier, rose above him, the arches patterned in green<br />tile. The nameplate tiles on the wall read CITY HALL in block lettering.<br />The City Hall subway station had been out of use since 1945, though the city still kept<br />it in order as a landmark; the 6 train ran through it on occasion to make a turnaround, but<br />no one ever stood on this platform. Alec had crawled through a hatch in City Hall Park<br />surrounded by dogwood trees to reach this place, dropping down a distance that would<br />probably have broken a mundane’s legs. Now he stood, breathing in the dusty air, his<br />heart rate quickening.<br />This was where the letter the vampire subjugate had handed him in Magnus’s entryway<br />had directed him to go. At first he had determined he would never use the information.<br />But he had not been able to bring himself to throw it away. He had balled it up and<br />shoved it into his jeans pocket, and all through the day, even in Central Park, it had eaten<br />at the back of his mind.<br />It was like the whole situation with Magnus. He couldn’t seem to help worrying at it the<br />way one might worry at a diseased tooth, knowing you were making the situation worse<br />but not being able to stop. Magnus had done nothing wrong. It wasn’t his fault he was<br />hundreds of years old, and that he had been in love before. But it corroded Alec’s peace<br />of mind just the same. And now, knowing both more and less about Jace’s situation than<br />he had yesterday—it was too much. He needed to talk to someone, go somewhere, do<br />something.<br />So here he was. And here she was, he was sure of it. He moved slowly down the<br />platform. The ceiling vaulted overhead, a central skylight letting in light from the park<br />above, four lines of tiles radiating out from it like a spider’s legs. At the end of a platform<br />was a short staircase, which led up into gloom. Alec could detect the presence of a<br />glamour: any mundane looking up would see a concrete wall, but he saw an open<br />doorway. Silently, he headed up the steps.<br />He found himself in a gloomy, low-ceilinged room. An amethyst-glass skylight let in a<br />little light. In a shadowy corner of the room sat an elegant velvet sofa with an arched,<br />gilded back, and on the sofa sat Camille.<br />She was as beautiful as Alec remembered, though she had not been at her best the last<br />time he had seen her, filthy and chained to a pipe in a building under construction. She<br />wore a neat black suit now with high-heeled red shoes, and her hair spilled down her<br />shoulders in waves and curls. She had a book open on her lap—La Place de l’Étoile by<br />Patrick Modiano. He knew enough French to translate the title. “The Place of the Star.”<br />She looked at Alec as if she had expected to see him.<br />“Hello, Camille,” he said.<br />She blinked slowly. “Alexander Lightwood,” she said. “I recognized your footsteps on<br />the stairs.”<br />She put the back of her hand against her cheek and smiled at him. There was<br />something distant about her smile. It had all the warmth of dust. “I don’t suppose you<br />have a message from Magnus for me.”<br />Alec said nothing.<br />“Of course not,” she said. “Silly me. As if he knows where you are.”<br />“How did you know it was me?” he said. “On the stairway.”<br />“You’re a Lightwood,” she said. “Your family never gives up. I knew you wouldn’t let<br />well enough alone after what I said to you that night. The message today was just to<br />prod your memory.”<br />“I didn’t need to be reminded of what you promised me. Or were you lying?”<br />“I would have said anything to get free that night,” she said. “But I wasn’t lying.” She<br />leaned forward, her eyes bright and dark at the same time. “You are Nephilim, of the<br />Clave and Council. There is a price on my head for murdering Shadowhunters. But I<br />already know you have not come here to bring me to them. You want answers.”<br />“I want to know where Jace is,” he said.<br />“You want to know that,” she said. “But you know there’s no reason I’d have the<br />answer, and I don’t. I’d give it to you if I did. I know he was taken by Lilith’s son, and I<br />have no reason to have any loyalty to her. She is gone. I know there have been patrols<br />out looking for me, to discover whatever I might know. I can tell you now, I know<br />nothing. I would tell you where your friend is if I knew. I have no reason to further<br />antagonize the Nephilim.” She ran a hand through her thick blond hair. “But that’s not<br />why you’re here. Admit it, Alexander.”<br />Alec felt his breath quicken. He had thought of this moment, lying awake at night<br />beside Magnus, listening to the warlock breathing, hearing his own breaths, numbering<br />them out. Each breath a breath closer to aging and dying. Each night spinning him closer<br />to the end of everything.<br />“You said you knew a way to make me immortal,” said Alec. “You said you knew a way<br />Magnus and I could be together forever.”<br />“I did, didn’t I? How interesting.”<br />“I want you to tell it to me now.”<br />“And I will,” she said, setting down her book. “For a price.”<br />“No price,” said Alec. “I freed you. Now you’ll tell me what I want to know. Or I’ll give<br />you to the Clave. They’ll chain you on the roof of the Institute and wait for sunrise.”<br />Her eyes went hard and flat. “I do not care for threats.”<br />“Then give me what I want.”<br />She stood up, brushing her hands down the front of her jacket, smoothing the wrinkles.<br />“Come and take it from me, Shadowhunter.”<br />It was as if all the frustration, panic, and despair of the past weeks exploded out of<br />Alec. He leaped for Camille, just as she started for him, her fang teeth snapping outward.<br />Alec barely had time to draw his seraph blade from his belt before she was on him. He<br />had fought vampires before; their swiftness and force was stunning. It was like fighting<br />the leading edge of a tornado. He threw himself to the side, rolled onto his feet, and<br />kicked a fallen ladder in her direction; it stopped her briefly enough for him to lift the<br />blade and whisper, “Nuriel.”<br />The light of the seraph blade shot up like a star, and Camille hesitated—then flung<br />herself at him again. She attacked, ripping her long nails along his cheek and shoulder.<br />He felt the warmth and wetness of blood. Spinning, he slashed at her, but she rose into<br />the air, darting just out of reach, laughing and taunting him.<br />He ran for the stairs leading down to the platform. She rushed after him; he dodged<br />aside, spun, and pushed off the wall into the air, leaping toward her just as she dived.<br />They collided in midair, her screaming and slashing at him, him keeping a firm hold on<br />her arm, even as they crashed to the ground, almost getting the wind knocked out of him.<br />Keeping her earthbound was the key to winning the fight, and he silently thanked Jace,<br />who had made him practice flips over and over in the training room until he could use<br />almost any surface to get himself airborne for at least a moment or two.<br />He slashed with the seraph blade as they rolled across the floor, and she deflected his<br />blows easily, moving so fast she was a blur. She kicked at him with her high heels,<br />stabbing his legs with their points. He winced and swore, and she responded with an<br />impressive torrent of filth that involved his sex life with Magnus, her sex life with Magnus,<br />and there might have been more had they not reached the center of the room, where the<br />skylight above beamed a circle of sunshine onto the floor. Seizing her wrist, Alec forced<br />Camille’s hand down, into the light.<br />She screamed as enormous white blisters appeared on her skin. Alec could feel the<br />heat from her bubbling hand. Fingers laced with hers, he jerked her hand upright, back<br />into the shadows. She snarled and snapped at him. He elbowed her in the mouth,<br />splitting her lip. Vampire blood—shimmering bright red, brighter than human blood—<br />dripped from the corner of her mouth.<br />“Have you had enough?” he snarled. “Do you want more?” He began to force her hand<br />back toward the sunlight. It had already begun to heal, the red, blistered skin fading to<br />pink.<br />“No!” She gasped, coughed, and began to tremble, her whole body spasming. After a<br />moment he realized she was laughing—laughing up at him through the blood. “That<br />made me feel alive, little Nephilim. A good fight like that—I should thank you.”<br />“Thank me by giving me the answer to my question,” Alec said, panting. “Or I’ll ash<br />you. I’m sick of your games.”<br />Her lips stretched into a smile. Her cuts had healed already, though her face was still<br />bloody. “There is no way to make you immortal. Not without black magic or turning you<br />into a vampire, and you have rejected both options.”<br />“But you said—you said there was another way we could be together—”<br />“Oh, there is.” Her eyes danced. “You may not be able to give yourself immortality,<br />little Nephilim, at least not on any terms that would be acceptable to you. But you can<br />take Magnus’s away.”<br />Clary sat in her bedroom at Luke’s, a pen clutched in her hand, a piece of paper spread<br />out on the desk in front of her. The sun had gone down, and the desk light was on,<br />blazing down on the rune she had just begun.<br />It had started to come to her on the L train home as she’d stared unseeingly out the<br />window. It was nothing that had ever existed before, and she had rushed home from the<br />station while the image was still fresh in her mind, brushing away her mother’s inquiries,<br />closing herself in her room, putting pen to paper—<br />A knock came on the door. Quickly Clary slid the paper she was drawing on under a<br />blank sheet as her mother came into the room.<br />“I know, I know,” Jocelyn said, holding up a hand against Clary’s protest. “You want to<br />be left alone. But Luke made dinner, and you should eat.”<br />Clary gave her mother a look. “So should you.” Jocelyn, like her daughter, was given to<br />loss of appetite under stress, and her face looked hollow. She should have been preparing<br />for her honeymoon now, getting ready to pack her bags for somewhere beautiful and far<br />away. Instead the wedding was postponed indefinitely, and Clary could hear her crying<br />through the walls at night. Clary knew that kind of crying, born out of anger and guilt, a<br />crying that said This is all my fault.<br />“I’ll eat if you will,” Jocelyn said, forcing a smile. “Luke made pasta.”<br />Clary turned her chair around, deliberately angling her body to block her mother’s view<br />of her desk. “Mom,” she said. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”<br />“What is it?”<br />Clary bit the end of her pen, a bad habit she’d had since she started to draw. “When I<br />was in the Silent City with Jace, the Brothers told me that there’s a ceremony performed<br />on Shadowhunters at birth, a ceremony that protects them. That the Iron Sisters and the<br />Silent Brothers have to perform it. And I was wondering…”<br />“If the ceremony was ever performed on you?”<br />Clary nodded.<br />Jocelyn exhaled and pushed her hands through her hair. “It was,” she said. “I arranged<br />it through Magnus. A Silent Brother was present, someone sworn to secrecy, and a female<br />warlock who took the place of the Iron Sister. I almost didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want<br />to think you could be in danger from the supernatural after I’d hidden you so carefully.<br />But Magnus talked me into it, and he was right.”<br />Clary looked at her curiously. “Who was the female warlock?”<br />“Jocelyn!” It was Luke calling from the kitchen. “The water’s boiling over!”<br />Jocelyn dropped a quick kiss on Clary’s head. “Sorry. Culinary emergency. See you in<br />five?”<br />Clary nodded as her mother hurried from the room, then turned back to her desk. The<br />rune she had been creating was still there, teasing the edge of her mind. She began to<br />draw again, completing the design she had started. As she finished, she sat back and<br />stared at what she’d made. It looked a little like the Opening rune but wasn’t. It was a<br />pattern as simple as a cross and as new to the world as a just-born baby. It held a<br />sleeping threat, a sense that it had been born out of her rage and guilt and impotent<br />anger.<br />It was a powerful rune. But though she knew exactly what it meant and how it could be<br />used, she couldn’t think of a single way in which it could possibly be helpful in the current<br />situation. It was like having your car break down on a lonely road, rooting desperately<br />around in the trunk, and triumphantly pulling out an electrical extension cord instead of<br />jumper cables.<br />She felt as if her own power was laughing at her. With a curse, she dropped her pen<br />onto the desk and put her face in her hands.<br />The inside of the old hospital had been carefully whitewashed, lending an eerie glow to<br />each of the surfaces. Most of the windows were boarded up, but even in the dim light<br />Maia’s enhanced sight could pick out details—the sifted dusting of plaster along the bare<br />hallway floors, the marks where construction lights had been put in, bits of wiring glued<br />to the walls by clumps of paint, mice scrabbling in the darkened corners.<br />A voice spoke from behind her. “I’ve searched the east wing. Nothing. What about<br />you?”<br />Maia turned. Jordan stood behind her, wearing dark jeans and a black sweater halfzipped<br />over a green T-shirt. She shook her head. “Nothing in the west wing either. Some<br />pretty rickety staircases. Nice architectural detailing, if that sort of thing interests you.”<br />He shook his head. “Let’s get out of here, then. This place gives me the creeps.”<br />Maia agreed, relieved not to be the one who had to say it. She fell into step beside<br />Jordan as they made their way down a set of stairs whose banister was so flaked with<br />crumbling plaster that it resembled snow. She wasn’t sure why exactly she’d agreed to<br />patrol with him, but she couldn’t deny that they made a decent team.<br />Jordan was easy to be with. Despite what had happened between them just before<br />Jace had disappeared, he was respectful, keeping his distance without making her feel<br />awkward. The moonlight was bright on both of them as they came out of the hospital and<br />into the open space in front of it. It was a great white marble building whose boardedover<br />windows looked like blank eyes. A crooked tree, shedding its last leaves, hunched<br />before the front doors.<br />“Well, that was a waste of time,” said Jordan. Maia looked over at him. He was staring<br />at the old naval hospital, which was how she preferred it. She liked looking at Jordan<br />when he wasn’t looking at her. That way she could watch the angle of his jawline, the<br />way his dark hair curled against the back of his neck, the curve of his collarbone under<br />the V of his T-shirt, without feeling like he expected anything from her for looking.<br />He’d been a pretty hipster boy when she’d met him, all angles and eyelashes, but he<br />was older-looking now, with scarred knuckles and muscles that moved smoothly under his<br />close-fitting green T-shirt. He still had the olive tone to his skin that echoed his Italian<br />heritage, and the hazel eyes she remembered, though they had the gold-ringed pupils of<br />lycanthropy now. The same pupils she saw when she looked in the mirror every morning.<br />The pupils she had because of him.<br />“Maia?” He was looking at her quizzically. “What do you think?”<br />“Oh.” She blinked. “I, ah—No, I don’t think there was much point in searching the<br />hospital. I mean, to be honest, I can’t see why they sent us down here at all. The<br />Brooklyn Navy Yard? Why would Jace be here? It’s not like he had a thing for boats.”<br />Jordan’s expression went from quizzical to something much darker. “When bodies wind<br />up in the East River, a lot of times they wash up here. The navy yard.”<br />“You think we’re looking for a body?”<br />“I don’t know.” With a shrug he turned and started walking. His boots rustled in the dry,<br />choppy grass. “Maybe at this point I’m just searching because it feels wrong to give up.”<br />His pace was slow, unhurried; they walked shoulder to shoulder, nearly touching. Maia<br />kept her eyes fixed on the Manhattan skyline across the river, a wash of brilliant white<br />light reflecting in the water. As they neared the shallow Wallabout Bay, the arch of the<br />Brooklyn Bridge came into view, and the lit-up rectangle of the South Street Seaport<br />across the water. She could smell the polluted miasma of the water, the dirt and diesel of<br />the navy yard, the scent of small animals moving in the grass.<br />“I don’t think Jace is dead,” she said finally. “I think he doesn’t want to be found.”<br />At that, Jordan did look at her. “Are you saying we shouldn’t be looking?”<br />“No.” She hesitated. They had come out by the river, near a low wall; she trailed her<br />hand along the top of it as they walked. There was a narrow strip of asphalt between<br />them and the water. “When I ran away to New York, I didn’t want to be found. But I<br />would have liked the idea that someone was looking for me as hard as everyone’s looking<br />for Jace Lightwood.”<br />“Did you like Jace?” Jordan’s voice was neutral.<br />“Like him? Well, not like that.”<br />Jordan laughed. “I didn’t mean like that. Although, he seems to be generally considered<br />stunningly attractive.”<br />“Are you going to pull that straight-guy thing where you pretend that you can’t tell<br />whether other guys are attractive or not? Jace, the hairy guy at the deli on Ninth, they all<br />look the same to you?”<br />“Well, the hairy guy has that mole, so I think Jace comes out slightly ahead. If you like<br />that whole chiseled, blond, Abercrombie-and-Fitch-wishes-they-could-afford-me thing.” He<br />looked at her through his eyelashes.<br />“I always liked dark-haired boys,” she said in a low voice.<br />He looked at the river. “Like Simon.”<br />“Well—yeah.” Maia hadn’t thought about Simon that way in a while. “I guess so.”<br />“And you like musicians.” He reached up and pulled a leaf off a low-hanging branch<br />overhead. “I mean, I’m a singer, and Bat was a DJ, and Simon—”<br />“I like music.” Maia pushed her hair back from her face.<br />“What else do you like?” Jordan tore at the leaf in his fingers. He paused and hoisted<br />himself up to sit on the low wall, swinging around to face her. “I mean, is there anything<br />you like so much you think you might want to do it for, like, a living?”<br />She looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”<br />“Do you remember when I got these?” He unzipped his sweater and shrugged it off.<br />The shirt he wore underneath was short-sleeved. Wrapped around each of his biceps<br />were the Sanskrit words of the Shanti Mantras. She remembered them well. Their friend<br />Valerie had inked them, after hours, for free, in her tattoo shop in Red Bank. Maia took a<br />step toward him. With him sitting and her standing, they were nearly eye to eye. She<br />reached out and hesitantly ran her fingers around the letters inked on his left arm. His<br />eyes fluttered shut at her touch.<br />“Lead us from the unreal to the real,” she read aloud. “Lead us from darkness to light.<br />Lead us from death to immortality.” His skin felt smooth under her fingertips. “From the<br />Upanishads.”<br />“They were your idea. You were the one who was always reading. You were the one<br />who knew everything.…” He opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were shades<br />lighter than the water behind him. “Maia, whatever you want to do, I’ll help you. I’ve<br />saved up a lot of my salary from the Praetor. I could give it to you.… It could cover your<br />tuition to Stanford. Well, most of it. If you still wanted to go.”<br />“I don’t know,” she said, her mind whirling. “When I joined the pack, I thought you<br />couldn’t be a werewolf and anything else. I thought it was just about living in the pack,<br />not really having an identity. I felt safer that way. But Luke, he has a life. He owns a<br />bookstore. And you, you’re in the Praetor. I guess… you can be more than one thing.”<br />“You always have been.” His voice was low, throaty. “You know, what you said earlier<br />—that when you ran away you would have liked to think someone was looking for you.”<br />He took a deep breath. “I was looking for you. I never stopped.”<br />She met his hazel eyes. He didn’t move, but his hands, gripping his knees, were whiteknuckled.<br />Maia leaned forward, close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, to<br />smell the scent of him, wolf-smell and toothpaste and boy. She placed her hands over his.<br />“Well,” she said. “You found me.”<br />Their faces were only inches away from each other. She felt his breath against her lips<br />before he kissed her, and she leaned into it, her eyes closing. His mouth was as soft as<br />she remembered, his lips brushing hers gently, sending shivers all through her. She raised<br />her arms to wind them around his neck, to slide her fingers under his curling dark hair, to<br />lightly touch the bare skin at the nape of his neck, the edge of the worn collar of his shirt.<br />He pulled her closer. He was shaking. She felt the heat of his strong body against hers<br />as his hands slid down her back. “Maia,” he whispered. He started to lift the hem of her<br />sweater, his fingers gripping the small of her back. His lips moved against hers. “I love<br />you. I never stopped loving you.”<br />You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.<br />Her heart hammering, she jerked away from him, pulling her sweater down. “Jordan—<br />stop.”<br />He looked at her, his expression dazed and worried. “I’m sorry. Was that not any good?<br />I haven’t kissed anyone but you, not since…” He trailed off.<br />She shook her head. “No, it’s just—I can’t.”<br />“All right,” he said. He looked very vulnerable, sitting there, dismay written all over his<br />face. “We don’t have to do anything—”<br />She groped for words. “It’s just too much.”<br />“It was only a kiss.”<br />“You said you loved me.” Her voice shook. “You offered to give me your savings. I can’t<br />take that from you.”<br />“Which?” he said, hurt sparking in his voice. “My money, or the love part?”<br />“Either. I just can’t, okay? Not with you, not right now.” She started to back away. He<br />was staring after her, his lips parted. “Don’t follow me, please,” she said, and turned to<br />hurry back the way they had come.<br /><div><br /></div>Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-73324216575408574102013-02-13T06:04:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:30.991-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />“Man, I thought you’d forgotten you lived here,” Jordan said the moment Simon walked<br />into the living room of their small apartment, his keys still dangling in his hand. Jordan<br />was usually to be found sprawled out on their futon, his long legs dangling over the side,<br />the controller for their Xbox in his hand. Today he was on the futon, but he was sitting up<br />straight, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the<br />controller nowhere to be seen. He sounded relieved to see Simon, and in a moment<br />Simon realized why.<br />Jordan wasn’t alone in the apartment. Sitting across from him in a nubbly orange velvet<br />armchair—none of Jordan’s furniture matched—was Maia, her wildly curling hair contained<br />in two braids. The last time Simon had seen her, she’d been glamorously dressed for a<br />party. Now she was back in uniform: jeans with frayed cuffs, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a<br />caramel leather jacket. She looked as uncomfortable as Jordan did, her back straight, her<br />gaze straying to the window. When she saw Simon, she clambered gratefully to her feet<br />and gave him a hug. “Hey,” she said. “I just stopped by to see how you were doing.”<br />“I’m fine. I mean, as fine as I could be with everything going on.”<br />“I didn’t mean about the whole Jace thing,” she said. “I meant about you. How are you<br />holding up?”<br />“Me?” Simon was startled. “I’m all right. Worried about Isabelle and Clary. You know<br />the Clave was investigating her—”<br />“And I heard she got cleared. That’s good.” Maia let him go. “But I was thinking about<br />you. And what happened with your mom.”<br />“How did you know about that?” Simon shot Jordan a look, but Jordan shook his head,<br />almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t told.<br />Maia pulled on a braid. “I ran into Eric, of all people. He told me what happened and<br />that you’d backed out of Millenium Lint’s gigs for the past two weeks because of it.”<br />“Actually, they changed their name,” Jordan said. “They’re Midnight Burrito now.”<br />Maia shot Jordan an irritated look, and he slid down a little in his seat. Simon wondered<br />what they’d been talking about before he’d gotten home. “Have you talked to anyone<br />else in your family?” Maia asked, her voice soft. Her amber eyes were full of concern.<br />Simon knew it was churlish, but there was something about being looked at like that that<br />he didn’t like. It was as if her concern made the problem real, when otherwise he could<br />pretend it wasn’t happening.<br />“Yeah,” he said. “Everything’s fine with my family.”<br />“Really? Because you left your phone here.” Jordan picked it up from the side table.<br />“And your sister’s been calling you about every five minutes all day. And yesterday.”<br />A cold feeling spread through Simon’s stomach. He took the phone from Jordan and<br />looked at the screen. Seventeen missed calls from Rebecca.<br />“Crap,” he said. “I was hoping to avoid this.”<br />“Well, she’s your sister,” said Maia. “She was going to call you eventually.”<br />“I know, but I’ve been sort of fending her off—leaving messages when I knew she<br />wouldn’t be there, that kind of thing. I just… I guess I was avoiding the inevitable.”<br />“And now?”<br />Simon set the phone down on the windowsill. “Keep avoiding it?”<br />“Don’t.” Jordan took his hands out of his pockets. “You should talk to her.”<br />“And say what?” The question came out more sharply than Simon had intended.<br />“Your mother must have told her something,” said Jordan. “She’s probably worried.”<br />Simon shook his head. “She’ll be coming home for Thanksgiving in a few weeks. I don’t<br />want her to get mixed up in what’s going on with my mom.”<br />“She’s already mixed up in it. She’s your family,” said Maia. “Besides, this—what’s going<br />on with your mom, all of it—this is your life now.”<br />“Then, I guess I want her to stay out of it.” Simon knew he was being unreasonable,<br />but he didn’t seem to be able to help it. Rebecca was—special. Different. From a part of<br />his life that had so far remained untouched by all this weirdness. Maybe the only part.<br />Maia threw her hands up and turned to Jordan. “Say something to him. You’re his<br />Praetorian guard.”<br />“Oh, come on,” said Simon before Jordan could open his mouth. “Are either of you in<br />touch with your parents? Your families?”<br />They exchanged quick looks. “No,” Jordan said slowly, “but neither of us had good<br />relationships with them before—”<br />“I rest my case,” said Simon. “We’re all orphans. Orphans of the storm.”<br />“You can’t just ignore your sister,” insisted Maia.<br />“Watch me.”<br />“And when Rebecca comes home and your house looks like the set of The Exorcist? And<br />your mom has no explanation for where you are?” Jordan leaned forward, his hands on<br />his knees. “Your sister will call the police, and your mom will end up committed.”<br />“I just don’t think I’m ready to hear her voice,” Simon said, but he knew he’d lost the<br />argument. “I have to head back out, but I promise, I’ll text her.”<br />“Well,” Jordan said. He was looking at Maia, not Simon, as he said it, as if he hoped<br />she’d notice he’d made progress with Simon and be pleased. Simon wondered if they’d<br />been seeing each other at all during the past two weeks when he’d been largely absent.<br />He would have guessed no from the awkward way they’d been sitting when he’d come in,<br />but with these two it was hard to be sure. “It’s a start.”<br />The rattling gold elevator stopped at the third floor of the Institute; Clary took a deep<br />breath and stepped out into the hallway. The place was, as Alec and Isabelle had<br />promised her it would be, deserted and quiet. The traffic on York Avenue outside was a<br />soft murmur. She imagined she could hear the brush of dust motes against one another<br />as they danced in the window light. Along the wall were the pegs where the residents of<br />the Institute hung their coats when they came inside. One of Jace’s black jackets still<br />dangled from a hook, the sleeves empty and ghostly.<br />With a shiver she set off down the hallway. She could remember the first time Jace had<br />taken her through these corridors, his careless light voice telling her about<br />Shadowhunters, about Idris, about the whole secret world she had never known existed.<br />She had watched him as he’d talked—covertly, she’d thought, but she knew now that Jace<br />noticed everything—watching the light glint off his pale hair, the quick movements of his<br />graceful hands, the flex of the muscles in his arms as he’d gestured.<br />She reached the library without encountering another Shadowhunter and pushed the<br />door open. The room still gave her the same shiver it had the first time she’d seen it.<br />Circular because it was built inside a tower, the library had a second floor gallery, railed,<br />that ran along the midpoint of the walls, just above the rows of bookshelves. The desk<br />Clary still thought of as Hodge’s rested in the center of the room, carved from a single<br />slab of oak, the wide surface rested on the backs of two kneeling angels. Clary halfexpected<br />Hodge to stand up behind it, his keen-eyed raven, Hugo, perched on his<br />shoulder.<br />Shaking off the memory, she headed quickly for the circular staircase at the far end of<br />the room. She was wearing jeans and rubber-soled sneakers, and a soundless rune was<br />carved into her ankle; the silence was almost eerie as she bounded up the steps and onto<br />the gallery. There were books up here too, but they were locked away behind glass<br />cases. Some looked very old, their covers frayed, their bindings reduced to a few strings.<br />Others were clearly books of dark or dangerous magic—Unspeakable Cults, The Demon’s<br />Pox, A Practical Guide to Raising the Dead.<br />Between the locked bookshelves were glass display cases. Each held something of rare<br />and beautiful workmanship—a delicate glass flacon whose stopper was an enormous<br />emerald; a crown with a diamond in the center that did not look as if it would fit any<br />human head; a pendant in the shape of an angel whose wings were clockwork cogs and<br />gears; and in the last case, just as Isabelle had promised, a pair of gleaming golden rings<br />shaped like curling leaves, the faerie work as delicate as baby’s breath.<br />The case was locked, of course, but the Opening rune—Clary biting her lip as she drew<br />it, careful not to make it too powerful lest the glass case burst apart and bring people<br />running—unsnapped the lock. Carefully she eased the case open. It was only as she slid<br />her stele back into her pocket that she hesitated.<br />Was this really her? Stealing from the Clave to pay the Queen of the Fair Folk, whose<br />promises, as Jace had told her once, were like scorpions, with a barbed sting in the tail?<br />She shook her head as if to clear the doubts away—and froze. The door to the library<br />was opening. She could hear the creak of wood, muffled voices, footsteps. Without<br />another thought she dropped to the ground, flattening herself against the cold wooden<br />floor of the gallery.<br />“You were right, Jace,” came a voice—coolly amused, and horribly familiar—from<br />below. “The place is deserted.”<br />The ice that had been in Clary’s veins seemed to crystallize, freezing her in place. She<br />could not move, could not breathe. She had not felt a shock this intense since she had<br />seen her father run a sword through Jace’s chest. Very slowly she inched toward the edge<br />of the gallery and looked down.<br />And bit down on her lip savagely to keep herself from screaming.<br />The sloping roof above rose to a point and was set with a glass skylight. Sunlight<br />poured down through the skylight, lighting a portion of the floor like a spotlight on a<br />stage. She could see that the chips of glass and marble and bits of semiprecious stone<br />that were inlaid in the floor formed a design—the Angel Raziel, the cup and the sword.<br />Standing directly on one of the Angel’s outspread wings was Jonathan Christopher<br />Morgenstern.<br />Sebastian.<br />So this was what her brother looked like. Really looked like, alive and moving and<br />animated. A pale face, all angles and planes, tall and slim in black gear. His hair was<br />silvery white, not dark as it had been when she had first seen him, dyed to match the<br />color of the real Sebastian Verlac’s. His own pale color suited him better. His eyes were<br />black and snapping with life and energy. The last time she’d seen him, floating in a glass<br />coffin like Snow White, one of his hands had been a bandaged stump. Now that hand was<br />whole again, with a silver bracelet glittering on the wrist, but nothing visible showed that<br />it had ever been damaged—and more than damaged, had been missing.<br />And there beside him, golden hair shimmering in the pale sunlight, was Jace. Not Jace<br />as she had imagined him so often over the past two weeks—beaten or bleeding or<br />suffering or starving, locked away in some dark cell, screaming in pain or calling out for<br />her. This was Jace as she remembered him, when she let herself remember—flushed and<br />healthy and vibrant and beautiful. His hands were careless in the pockets of his jeans, his<br />Marks visible through his white T-shirt. Over it was thrown an unfamiliar tan suede jacket<br />that brought out the gold undertones to his skin. He tipped his head back, as if enjoying<br />the feeling of sun on his face. “I’m always right, Sebastian,” he said. “You ought to know<br />that about me by now.”<br />Sebastian gave him a measured look, and then a smile. Clary stared. It had every<br />appearance of being a real smile. But what did she know? Sebastian had smiled at her<br />before, and that had turned out to be one big lie. “So where are the books on<br />summoning? Is there any order to the chaos here?”<br />“Not really. It’s not alphabetized. It follows Hodge’s special system.”<br />“Isn’t he the one I killed? Inconvenient, that,” said Sebastian. “Perhaps I should take<br />the upstairs level and you the downstairs.”<br />He moved toward the staircase that led up to the gallery. Clary’s heart began to pound<br />with fear. She associated Sebastian with murder, blood, pain, and terror. She knew that<br />Jace had fought him and won once but had nearly died in the process himself. In a handto-<br />hand fight she would never beat her brother. Could she fling herself from the gallery<br />railing to the floor without breaking a leg? And if she did, what would happen then? What<br />would Jace do?<br />Sebastian had his foot on the lowest step when Jace called out to him, “Wait. They’re<br />here. Filed under ‘Magic, Nonlethal.’”<br />“Nonlethal? Where’s the fun in that?” Sebastian purred, but he took his foot off the step<br />and moved back toward Jace. “This is quite a library,” he said, reading off titles as he<br />passed them. “The Care and Feeding of Your Pet Imp. Demons Revealed .” He plucked<br />that one off the shelf and let out a long, low chuckle.<br />“What is it?” Jace looked up, his mouth curving upward. Clary wanted to run downstairs<br />and throw herself at him so badly that she bit down on her lip again. The pain was acid<br />sharp.<br />“It’s pornography,” said Sebastian. “Look. Demons… revealed.”<br />Jace came up behind him, resting one hand on Sebastian’s arm for balance as he read<br />over his shoulder. It was like watching Jace with Alec, someone he was so comfortable<br />with, he could touch them without thinking about it—but horrible, backward, inside out.<br />“Okay, how can you tell?”<br />Sebastian shut the book and hit Jace lightly on the shoulder with it. “Some things I<br />know more about than you. Did you get the books?”<br />“I got them.” Jace scooped up a stack of heavy-looking tomes from a nearby table. “Do<br />we have time to go by my room? If I could get some of my stuff…”<br />“What do you want?”<br />Jace shrugged. “Clothes mostly, some weapons.”<br />Sebastian shook his head. “Too dangerous. We need to get in and out fast. Only<br />emergency items.”<br />“My favorite jacket is an emergency item,” Jace said. It was so much like hearing him<br />talk to Alec, to any of his friends. “Much like myself, it is both snuggly and fashionable.”<br />“Look, we have all the money we could want,” said Sebastian. “Buy clothes. And you’ll<br />be ruling this place in a few weeks. You can run your favorite jacket up the flagpole and<br />fly it like a pennant.”<br />Jace laughed, that soft rich sound Clary loved. “I’m warning you, that jacket is sexy.<br />The Institute could go up in sexy, sexy flames.”<br />“Be good for the place. Too dismal right now.” Sebastian grabbed the back of Jace’s<br />current jacket with a fist and pulled him sideways. “Now we’re going. Hold on to the<br />books.” He glanced down at his right hand, where a slim silver ring glittered; with the<br />hand that wasn’t holding on to Jace, he used his thumb to twist the ring.<br />“Hey,” Jace said. “Do you think—” He broke off, and for a moment Clary thought that it<br />was because he had looked up and seen her—his face was tilted upward—but even as<br />she sucked in her breath, they both vanished, fading like mirages against the air.<br />Slowly Clary lowered her head onto her arm. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten<br />it; she could taste the blood in her mouth. She knew she should get up, move, run away.<br />She wasn’t supposed to be here. But the ice in her veins had grown so cold, she was<br />terrified that if she moved, she would shatter.<br />Alec woke to Magnus’s shaking his shoulder. “Come on, sweet pea,” he said. “Time to rise<br />and face the day.”<br />Alec unfolded himself groggily out of his nest of pillows and blankets and blinked at his<br />boyfriend. Magnus, despite having gotten very little sleep, looked annoyingly chipper. His<br />hair was wet, dripping onto the shoulders of his white shirt and making it transparent. He<br />wore jeans with holes in them and fraying hems, which usually meant he was planning to<br />spend the day without leaving his apartment.<br />“‘Sweet pea’?” Alec said.<br />“I was trying it out.”<br />Alec shook his head. “No.”<br />Magnus shrugged. “I’ll keep at it.” He held out a chipped blue mug of coffee fixed the<br />way Alec liked it—black, with sugar. “Wake up.”<br />Alec sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and took the mug. The first bitter swallow sent a tingle<br />of energy through his nerves. He remembered lying awake the night before and waiting<br />for Magnus to come to bed, but eventually exhaustion had overtaken him and he had<br />fallen asleep at around five a.m. “I’m skipping the Council meeting today.”<br />“I know, but you’re supposed to meet your sister and the others in the park by Turtle<br />Pond. You told me to remind you.”<br />Alec swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What time is it?”<br />Magnus took the mug gently out of his hand before the coffee spilled and set it on the<br />bedside table. “You’re fine. You’ve got an hour.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips<br />against Alec’s; Alec remembered the first time they had ever kissed, here in this<br />apartment, and he wanted to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and pull him close. But<br />something held him back.<br />He stood up, disentangling himself, and went over to the bureau. He had a drawer<br />where his clothes were. A place for his toothbrush in the bathroom. A key to the front<br />door. A decent amount of real estate to take up in anyone’s life, and yet he couldn’t<br />shake the cold fear in his stomach.<br />Magnus had rolled onto his back on the bed and was watching Alec, one arm crooked<br />behind his head. “Wear that scarf,” he said, pointing to a blue cashmere scarf hanging on<br />a peg. “It matches your eyes.”<br />Alec looked at it. Suddenly he was filled with hate—for the scarf, for Magnus, and most<br />of all for himself. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “The scarf’s a hundred years old, and it was<br />given to you by Queen Victoria right before she died, for special services to the Crown or<br />something.”<br />Magnus sat up. “What’s gotten into you?”<br />Alec stared at him. “Am I the newest thing in this apartment?”<br />“I think that honor goes to Chairman Meow. He’s only two.”<br />“I said newest, not youngest,” Alec snapped. “Who’s W.S.? Is it Will?”<br />Magnus shook his head like there was water in his ears. “What the hell? You mean the<br />snuffbox? W.S. is Woolsey Scott. He—”<br />“Founded the Praetor Lupus. I know.” Alec pulled on his jeans and zipped them up.<br />“You mentioned him before, and besides, he’s a historical figure. And his snuffbox is in<br />your junk drawer. What else is in there? Jonathan Shadowhunter’s toenail clippers?”<br />Magnus’s cat eyes were cold. “Where is all this coming from, Alexander? I don’t lie to<br />you. If there’s anything about me you want to know, you can ask.”<br />“Bull,” Alec said bluntly, buttoning his shirt. “You’re kind and funny and all those great<br />things, but what you’re not is forthcoming, sweet pea. You can talk all day about other<br />people’s problems, but you won’t talk about yourself or your history, and when I do ask,<br />you wriggle like a worm on a hook.”<br />“Maybe because you can’t ask me about my past without picking a fight about how I’m<br />going to live forever and you’re not,” Magnus snapped. “Maybe because immortality is<br />rapidly becoming the third person in our relationship, Alec.”<br />“Our relationship isn’t supposed to have a third person.”<br />“Exactly.”<br />Alec’s throat tightened. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he had<br />never been good with words like Jace and Magnus were. Instead he grabbed the blue<br />scarf off its peg and wrapped it defiantly around his neck.<br />“Don’t wait up,” he said. “I might patrol tonight.”<br />As he slammed out of the apartment, he heard Magnus yell after him, “And that scarf,<br />I’ll have you know, is from the Gap! I got it last year!”<br />Alec rolled his eyes and jogged down the stairs to the lobby. The single bulb that<br />usually lit the place was out, and the space was so dim that for a moment he didn’t see<br />the hooded figure slipping toward him from the shadows. When he did, he was so startled<br />that he dropped his key chain with a rattling clang.<br />The figure glided toward him. He could tell nothing about it—not age or gender or even<br />species. The voice that came from beneath the hood was crackling and low. “I have a<br />message for you, Alec Lightwood,” it said. “From Camille Belcourt.”<br />“Do you want to patrol together tonight?” Jordan asked, somewhat abruptly.<br />Maia turned to look at him in surprise. He was leaning back against the kitchen<br />counter, his elbows on the surface behind him. There was an unconcern about his posture<br />that was too studied to be sincere. That was the problem with knowing someone so well,<br />she thought. It was very hard to pretend around them, or to ignore it when they were<br />pretending, even when it would be easier.<br />“Patrol together?” she echoed. Simon was in his room, changing clothes; she’d told him<br />she’d walk to the subway with him, and now she wished she hadn’t. She knew she should<br />have contacted Jordan since the last time she’d seen him, when, rather unwisely, she’d<br />kissed him. But then Jace had vanished and the whole world seemed to have blown into<br />pieces and it had given her just the excuse she’d needed to avoid the whole issue.<br />Of course, not thinking about the ex-boyfriend who had broken your heart and turned<br />you into a werewolf was a lot easier when he wasn’t standing right in front of you,<br />wearing a green shirt that hugged his leanly muscled body in all the right places and<br />brought out the hazel color of his eyes.<br />“I thought they were canceling the patrol searches for Jace,” she said, looking away<br />from him.<br />“Well, not canceling so much as cutting down. But I’m Praetor, not Clave. I can look for<br />Jace on my own time.”<br />“Right,” she said.<br />He was playing with something on the counter, arranging it, but his attention was still<br />on her. “Do you, you know… You used to want to go to college at Stanford. Do you still?”<br />Her heart skipped a beat. “I haven’t thought about college since…” She cleared her<br />throat. “Not since I Changed.”<br />His cheeks flushed. “You were—I mean, you always wanted to go to California. You<br />were going to study history, and I was going to move out there and surf. Remember?”<br />Maia shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. She felt as if she ought to<br />be angry, but she wasn’t. For a long time she had blamed Jordan for the fact that she’d<br />stopped dreaming of a human future, with school and a house and a family, maybe,<br />someday. But there were other wolves in the police station pack who still pursued their<br />dreams, their art. Bat, for instance. It had been her own choice to stop her life short. “I<br />remember,” she said.<br />His cheeks flushed. “About tonight. No one’s searched the Brooklyn Navy Yard, so I<br />thought… but it’s never much fun doing it on my own. But if you don’t want to…”<br />“No,” she said, hearing her own voice as if it were someone else’s. “I mean, sure. I’ll go<br />with you.”<br />“Really?” His hazel eyes lit up, and Maia cursed herself inwardly. She shouldn’t get his<br />hopes up, not when she wasn’t sure how she felt. It was just so hard to believe that he<br />cared that much.<br />The Praetor Lupus medallion gleamed at his throat as he leaned forward, and she<br />smelled the familiar scent of his soap, and under that—wolf. She flicked her eyes up<br />toward him, just as Simon’s door opened and he came out, shrugging on a hoodie. He<br />stopped dead in his doorway, his eyes moving from Jordan to Maia, his eyebrows slowly<br />rising.<br />“You know, I can make it to the subway on my own,” he said to Maia, a faint smile<br />tugging the corner of his mouth. “If you want to stay here…”<br />“No.” Maia hastily took her hands out of her pockets, where they had been balled into<br />nervous fists. “No, I’ll come with you. Jordan, I’ll—I’ll see you later.”<br />“Tonight,” he called after her, but she didn’t turn around to look at him; she was<br />already hurrying after Simon.<br />Simon trudged alone up the low rise of the hill, hearing the shouts of the Frisbee players<br />in the Sheep Meadow behind him, like distant music. It was a bright November day, crisp<br />and windy, the sun lighting what remained of the leaves on the trees to brilliant shades of<br />scarlet, gold, and amber.<br />The top of the hill was strewn with boulders. You could see how the park had been<br />hacked out of what had once been a wilderness of trees and stone. Isabelle sat atop one<br />of the boulders, wearing a long dress of bottle-green silk with an embroidered black and<br />silver coat over it. She looked up as Simon strode toward her, pushing her long, dark hair<br />out of her face. “I thought you’d be with Clary,” she said as he drew closer. “Where is<br />she?”<br />“Leaving the Institute,” he said, sitting down next to Isabelle on the rock and shoving<br />his hands into his Windbreaker pockets. “She texted. She’ll be here soon.”<br />“Alec’s on his way—,” she began, and broke off as his pocket buzzed. Or, more<br />accurately, the phone in his pocket buzzed. “I think someone’s messaging you.”<br />He shrugged. “I’ll check it later.”<br />She gave him a look from under her long eyelashes. “Anyway, I was saying, Alec’s on<br />his way too. He had to come all the way from Brooklyn, so—”<br />Simon’s phone buzzed again.<br />“All right, that’s it. If you’re not getting it, I will.” Isabelle leaned forward, against<br />Simon’s protests, and slipped her hand into his pocket. The top of her head brushed his<br />chin. He smelled her perfume—vanilla—and the scent of her skin underneath. When she<br />pulled the phone out and drew back, he was both relieved and disappointed.<br />She squinted at the screen. “Rebecca? Who’s Rebecca?”<br />“My sister.”<br />Isabelle’s body relaxed. “She wants to meet you. She says she hasn’t seen you since—”<br />Simon swiped the phone out of her hand and flipped it off before shoving it back into<br />his pocket. “I know, I know.”<br />“Don’t you want to see her?”<br />“More than—more than almost anything else. But I don’t want her to know. About me.”<br />Simon picked up a stick and threw it. “Look what happened when my mom found out.”<br />“So set up a meeting with her somewhere public. Where she can’t freak out. Far from<br />your house.”<br />“Even if she can’t freak out, she can still look at me like my mother did,” Simon said in<br />a low voice. “Like I’m a monster.”<br />Isabelle touched his wrist lightly. “My mom tossed out Jace when she thought he was<br />Valentine’s son and a spy—then she regretted it horribly. My mom and dad are coming<br />around to Alec’s being with Magnus. Your mom will come around too. Get your sister on<br />your side. That’ll help.” She tilted her head a little. “I think sometimes siblings understand<br />more than parents. There’s not the same weight of expectations. I could never, ever cut<br />Alec off. No matter what he did. Never. Or Jace.” She squeezed his arm, then dropped her<br />hand. “My little brother died. I won’t ever see him again. Don’t put your sister through<br />that.”<br />“Through what?” It was Alec, coming up the side of the hill, kicking dried leaves out of<br />his path. He was wearing his usual ratty sweater and jeans, but a dark blue scarf that<br />matched his eyes was wrapped around his throat. Now, that had to have been a gift from<br />Magnus, Simon thought. No way would Alec have thought to buy something like that<br />himself. The concept of matching seemed to be beyond him.<br />Isabelle cleared her throat. “Simon’s sister—”<br />She got no further than that. There was a blast of cold air, bringing with it a swirl of<br />dead leaves. Isabelle put her hand up to shield her face from the dust as the air began to<br />shimmer with the unmistakeable translucence of an opening Portal, and Clary appeared<br />before them, her stele in one hand and her face wet with tears.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-77007455077928417142013-02-13T06:02:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:31.076-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Simon was waiting for Clary, Alec, and Isabelle outside the Institute, under an<br />overhang of stone that only just protected him from the worst of the rain. He turned as<br />they came out through the doors, and Clary saw that his dark hair was pasted to his<br />forehead and neck. He pushed it back and looked at her, a question in his eyes.<br />“I’m cleared,” she said, and as he started to smile, she shook her head. “But they’re deprioritizing<br />the search for Jace. I—I’m pretty sure they think he’s dead.”<br />Simon looked down at his wet jeans and T-shirt (a wrinkled gray ringer tee that said<br />CLEARLY I HAVE MADE SOME BAD DECISIONS on the front in block lettering). He shook his head.<br />“I’m sorry.”<br />“The Clave can be like that,” Isabelle said. “I guess we shouldn’t have expected<br />anything else.”<br />“Basia coquum,” Simon said. “Or whatever their motto is.”<br />“It’s ‘Descensus Averno facilis est.’ ‘The descent into hell is easy,’” said Alec. “You just<br />said “Kiss the cook.”<br />“Dammit,” said Simon. “I knew Jace was screwing with me.” His wet brown hair fell<br />back into his eyes; he flicked it away with a gesture impatient enough that Clary caught a<br />flashing glimpse of the silvery Mark of Cain on his forehead. “Now what?”<br />“Now we go see the Seelie Queen,” said Clary. As she touched the bell at her throat,<br />she explained to Simon about Kaelie’s visit to Luke and Jocelyn’s reception, and her<br />promises to Clary about the Seelie Queen’s help.<br />Simon looked dubious. “The red-headed lady with the bad attitude who made you kiss<br />Jace? I didn’t like her.”<br />“That’s what you remember about her? That she made Clary kiss Jace?” Isabelle<br />sounded annoyed. “The Seelie Queen is dangerous. She was just playing around that<br />time. Usually she likes to drive at least a few humans to screaming madness every day<br />before breakfast.”<br />“I’m not human,” Simon said. “Not anymore.” He looked at Isabelle only briefly,<br />dropped his gaze, and turned to Clary. “You want me with you?”<br />“I think it would be good to have you there. Daylighter, Mark of Cain—some things<br />have to impress even the Queen.”<br />“I wouldn’t bet on it,” said Alec.<br />Clary glanced past him and asked, “Where’s Magnus?”<br />“He said it would be better if he didn’t come. Apparently he and the Seelie Queen have<br />some kind of history.”<br />Isabelle raised her eyebrows.<br />“Not that kind of history,” said Alec irritably. “Some kind of feud. Though,” he added,<br />half under his breath, “the way he got around before me, I wouldn’t be surprised.”<br />“Alec!” Isabelle dropped back to talk to her brother, and Clary opened her umbrella<br />with a snap. It was one Simon had bought her years ago at the Museum of Natural<br />History and had a pattern of dinosaurs on the top. She saw his expression change to one<br />of amusement as he recognized it.<br />“Shall we walk?” he inquired, and offered his arm.<br />The rain was coming down steadily, creating small rills out of the gutters and splashing<br />water up from the wheels of passing taxis. It was odd, Simon thought, that although he<br />didn’t feel cold, the sensation of being wet and clammy was still irritating. He shifted his<br />gaze slightly, looking at Alec and Isabelle over his shoulder; Isabelle hadn’t really met his<br />eyes since they’d come out of the Institute, and he wondered what she was thinking. She<br />seemed to want to talk to her brother, and as they paused at the corner of Park Avenue,<br />he heard her say, “So, what do you think? About Dad putting his name in for the<br />Inquisitor position.”<br />“I think it sounds like a boring job.” Isabelle was holding an umbrella. It was clear<br />plastic, decorated with decals of colorful flowers. It was one of the girliest things Simon<br />had ever seen, and he didn’t blame Alec for ducking out from under it and taking his<br />chances with the rain. “I don’t know why he’d want it.”<br />“I don’t care if it’s boring,” Isabelle whisper-hissed. “If he takes it, he’ll be in Idris all<br />the time. Like, all the time. He can’t run the Institute and be the Inquisitor. He can’t have<br />two jobs at once.”<br />“If you’ve noticed, Iz, he’s in Idris all the time anyway.”<br />“Alec—” The rest of what she said was lost as the light changed and traffic surged<br />forward, spraying icy water up onto the pavement. Clary dodged a geyser of it and nearly<br />knocked into Simon. He took her hand to steady her.<br />“Sorry,” she said. Her hand felt small and cold in his. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”<br />“I know.” He tried to keep the worry out of his voice. She hadn’t really been “paying<br />attention” to anything for the past two weeks. At first she’d cried, and then been angry—<br />angry that she couldn’t join the patrols looking for Jace, angry at the Council’s endless<br />grilling, angry that she was being kept virtually a prisoner at home because she was<br />under suspicion from the Clave. Most of all she’d been angry at herself for not being able<br />to come up with a rune that would help. She would sit at her desk at night for hours, her<br />stele clutched so tightly in whitening fingers that Simon was afraid it would snap in half.<br />She’d try to force her mind to present her with a picture that would tell her where Jace<br />was. But night after night nothing happened.<br />She looked older, he thought as they entered the park through a gap in the stone wall<br />on Fifth Avenue. Not in a bad way, but she was different from the girl she’d been when<br />they had walked into the Pandemonium Club on that night that had changed everything.<br />She was taller, but it was more than that. Her expression was more serious, there was<br />more grace and force in the way she walked, her green eyes were less dancing, more<br />focused. She was starting to look, he realized with a jolt of surprise, like Jocelyn.<br />Clary paused in a circle of dripping trees; the branches blocked most of the rain here,<br />and Isabelle and Clary leaned their umbrellas against the trunks of nearby trees. Clary<br />unclasped the chain around her neck and let the bell slide into her palm. She looked<br />around at all of them, her expression serious. “This is a risk,” she said, “and I’m pretty<br />sure if I take it, I can’t go back from it. So if any of you don’t want to come with me, it’s<br />all right. I’ll understand.”<br />Simon reached out and put his hand over hers. There was no need to think. Where<br />Clary went, he went. They had been through too much for it to be any other way. Isabelle<br />followed suit, and lastly Alec; rain dripped off his long black lashes like tears, but his<br />expression was resolute. The four of them held hands tightly.<br />Clary rang the bell.<br />There was a sensation as if the world were spinning—not the same sensation as being<br />flung through a Portal, Clary thought, into the heart of a maelstrom, but more as if she<br />were sitting on a merry-go-round that had begun to spin faster and faster. She was dizzy<br />and gasping when the sensation stopped suddenly and she was standing still again, her<br />hand clasped with Isabelle’s, Alec’s, and Simon’s.<br />They released one another, and Clary glanced around. She had been here before, in<br />this dark brown, shining corridor that looked as if it had been carved out of a tiger’s eye<br />gemstone. The floor was smooth, worn down by the passage of thousands of years’ worth<br />of faerie feet. Light came from glinting chips of gold in the walls, and at the end of the<br />passage was a multicolored curtain that swayed back and forth as if moved by wind,<br />though there was no wind here underground. As Clary drew near to it, she saw that it was<br />sewed out of butterflies. Some of them were still alive, and their struggles made the<br />curtain flutter as if in a stiff breeze.<br />She swallowed back the acid taste in her throat. “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone there?”<br />The curtain rustled aside, and the faerie knight Meliorn stepped out into the hallway.<br />He wore the white armor Clary remembered, but there was a sigil over his left breast now<br />—the four Cs that also decorated Luke’s Council robes, marking him as a member. There<br />was a scar, also, on Meliorn’s face that was new, just under his leaf-colored eyes. He<br />regarded her frigidly. “One does not greet the Queen of the Seelie Court with the<br />barbarous human ‘hello,’” he said, “as if you were hailing a servant. The proper address is<br />‘Well met.’”<br />“But we haven’t met,” said Clary. “I don’t even know if she’s here.”<br />Meliorn looked at her with scorn. “If the Queen were not present and ready to receive<br />you, ringing the bell would not have brought you. Now come: follow me, and bring your<br />companions with you.”<br />Clary turned to gesture at the others, then followed Meliorn through the curtain of<br />tortured butterflies, hunching her shoulders in the hopes that no part of their wings would<br />touch her.<br />One by one the four of them stepped into the Queen’s chamber. Clary blinked in<br />surprise. It looked entirely different from how it had the last time she’d been here. The<br />Queen reclined on a white and gold divan, and all around her stretched a floor made of<br />alternating squares of black and white, like a great checkerboard. Strings of dangerouslooking<br />thorns hung from the ceiling, and on each thorn was impaled a will-o’-the-wisp, its<br />normally blinding light flickering as it died. The room shimmered in their glow.<br />Meliorn went to stand beside the Queen; other than him the room was empty of<br />courtiers. Slowly the Queen sat up straight. She was as beautiful as ever, her dress a<br />diaphanous mixture of silver and gold, her hair like rosy copper as she arranged it gently<br />over one white shoulder. Clary wondered why she was bothering. Of all of them there,<br />the only one likely to be moved by her beauty was Simon, and he hated her.<br />“Well met, Nephilim, Daylighter,” she said, inclining her head in their direction.<br />“Daughter of Valentine, what brings you to me?”<br />Clary opened her hand. The bell shone there like an accusation. “You sent your<br />handmaiden to tell me to ring this if I ever needed your help.”<br />“And you told me you wanted nothing from me,” said the Queen. “That you had<br />everything you desired.”<br />Clary thought back desperately to what Jace had said when they had had an audience<br />with the Queen before, how he had flattered and charmed her. It was as if he had<br />suddenly acquired a whole new vocabulary. She glanced back over her shoulder at<br />Isabelle and Alec, but Isabelle only made an irritable motion at her, indicating that she<br />should keep going.<br />“Things change,” Clary said.<br />The Queen stretched her legs out luxuriously. “Very well. What is it you want from<br />me?”<br />“I want you to find Jace Lightwood.”<br />In the silence that followed, the sound of the will-o’-the-wisps, crying in their agony,<br />was softly audible. At last the Queen said, “You must think us powerful indeed if you<br />believe the Fair Folk can succeed where the Clave has failed.”<br />“The Clave wants to find Sebastian. I don’t care about Sebastian. I want Jace,” Clary<br />said. “Besides, I already know you know more than you’re letting on. You predicted this<br />would happen. No one else knew, but I don’t believe you sent me that bell when you did<br />—the same night Jace disappeared—without knowing something was brewing.”<br />“Perhaps I did,” said the Queen, admiring her shimmering toenails.<br />“I’ve noticed the Fair Folk often say ‘perhaps’ when there is a truth they want to hide,”<br />Clary said. “It keeps you from having to give a straight answer.”<br />“Perhaps so,” said the Queen with an amused smile.<br />“‘Mayhap’ is a good word too,” Alec suggested.<br />“Also ‘perchance,’” Izzy said.<br />“I see nothing wrong with ‘maybe,’” said Simon. “A little modern, but the gist of the<br />idea comes across.”<br />The Queen waved away their words as if they were annoying bees buzzing around her<br />head. “I do not trust you, Valentine’s daughter,” she said. “There was a time I wanted a<br />favor from you, but that time is over. Meliorn has his place on the Council. I am not sure<br />there is anything you can offer me.”<br />“If you thought that,” said Clary, “you never would have sent the bell.”<br />For a moment their eyes locked. The Queen was beautiful, but there was something<br />behind her face, something that made Clary think of the bones of a small animal,<br />whitening in the sun. At last the Queen said, “Very well. I may be able to help you. But I<br />will desire recompense.”<br />“Shocker,” Simon muttered. He had his hands jammed into his pockets and was looking<br />at the Queen with loathing.<br />Alec laughed.<br />The Queen’s eyes flashed. A moment later Alec staggered back with a cry. He was<br />holding his hands out before him, gaping, as the skin on them wrinkled and his hands<br />curved inward, bent, the joints swollen. His back hunched, his hair graying, his blue eyes<br />fading and sinking into deep wrinkles. Clary gasped. Where Alec had been, an old man,<br />bent and white-haired, stood trembling.<br />“How swift mortal loveliness does fade,” the Queen gloated. “Look at yourself,<br />Alexander Lightwood. I give you a glimpse of yourself in a mere threescore years. What<br />will your warlock lover say then of your beauty?”<br />Alec’s chest was heaving. Isabelle stepped quickly to his side and took his arm. “Alec,<br />it’s nothing. It’s a glamour.” She turned on the Queen. “Take it off him! Take it off!”<br />“If you and yours will speak to me with more respect, then I might consider it.”<br />“We will,” Clary said quickly. “We apologize for any rudeness.”<br />The Queen sniffed. “I rather miss your Jace,” she said. “Of all of you, he was the<br />prettiest and the best-mannered.”<br />“We miss him too,” said Clary in a low voice. “We didn’t mean to be ill-mannered. We<br />humans can be difficult in our grief.”<br />“Hmph,” said the Queen, but she snapped her fingers and the glamour fell from Alec.<br />He was himself again, though white-faced and stunned-looking. The Queen shot him a<br />superior look, and turned her attention to Clary.<br />“There is a set of rings,” said the Queen. “They belonged to my father. I desire the<br />return of these objects, for they are faerie-made and possess great power. They allow us<br />to speak to one another, mind to mind, as your Silent Brothers do. At present I have it on<br />good authority that they are on display in the Institute.”<br />“I remember seeing something like that,” Izzy said slowly. “Two faerie-work rings in a<br />glass case on the second floor of the library.”<br />“You want me to steal something from the Institute?” Clary said, surprised. Of all the<br />favors she might have guessed the Queen would ask for, this one wasn’t high on the list.<br />“It is not theft,” said the Queen, “to return an item to its rightful owners.”<br />“And then you’ll find Jace for us?” said Clary. “And don’t say ‘perhaps.’ What will you do<br />exactly?”<br />“I will assist you in finding him,” said the Queen. “I give you my word that my help<br />would be invaluable. I can tell you, for instance, why all of your tracking spells have been<br />for naught. I can tell you in what city he is most likely to be found—”<br />“But the Clave questioned you,” interrupted Simon. “How did you lie to them?”<br />“They never asked the correct questions.”<br />“Why lie to them?” demanded Isabelle. “Where is your allegiance in all this?”<br />“I have none. Jonathan Morgenstern could be a powerful ally if I do not make him an<br />enemy first. Why endanger him or earn his ire at no benefit to ourselves? The Fair Folk<br />are an old people; we do not make hasty decisions but first wait to see in what direction<br />the wind blows.”<br />“But these rings mean enough to you that if we get them, you’ll risk making him<br />angry?” Alec asked.<br />But the Queen only smiled, a lazy smile, ripe with promise. “I think that is quite enough<br />for today,” she said. “Return to me with the rings and we will speak again.”<br />Clary hesitated, turning to look at Alec, and then Isabelle. “You’re all right with this?<br />Stealing from the Institute?”<br />“If it means finding Jace,” Isabelle said.<br />Alec nodded. “Whatever it takes.”<br />Clary turned back to the Queen, who was watching her with an expectant gaze. “Then,<br />I think we have ourselves a bargain.”<br />The Queen stretched and gave a contented smile. “Fare thee well, little<br />Shadowhunters. And a word of warning, though you have done nothing to deserve it. You<br />might well consider the wisdom of this hunt for your friend. For as is often the<br />happenstance with that which is precious and lost, when you find him again, he may well<br />not be quite as you left him.”<br />It was nearly eleven when Alec reached the front door of Magnus’s apartment in<br />Greenpoint. Isabelle had persuaded Alec to come to Taki’s for dinner with Clary and<br />Simon, and though he had protested, he was glad he had. He had needed a few hours to<br />settle his emotions after what had happened in the Seelie Court. He did not want Magnus<br />to see how badly the Queen’s glamour had shaken him.<br />He no longer had to ring the bell for Magnus to buzz him upstairs. He had a key, a fact<br />he was obscurely proud of. He unlocked the door and headed upstairs, passing Magnus’s<br />first-floor neighbor as he did so. Though Alec had never seen the occupants of the firstfloor<br />loft, they seemed to be engaged in a tempestuous romance. Once there had been a<br />bunch of someone’s belongings strewn all over the landing with a note attached to a<br />jacket lapel addressed to “A lying liar who lies.” Right now there was a bouquet of flowers<br />taped to the door with a card tucked among the blooms that read I’M SORRY. That was the<br />thing about New York: you always knew more about your neighbors’ business than you<br />wanted to.<br />Magnus’s door was cracked slightly open, and the sounds of music playing softly wafted<br />out into the hall. Today it was Tchaikovsky. Alec felt his shoulders relax as the door of the<br />apartment shut behind him. He could never be quite sure how the place was going to<br />look—it was minimalist right now, with white couches, red stacking tables, and stark<br />black-and-white photos of Paris on the walls—but it had begun to feel increasingly<br />familiar, like home. It smelled like the things he associated with Magnus: ink, cologne,<br />Lapsang Souchong tea, the burned-sugar smell of magic. He scooped up Chairman Meow,<br />who was dozing on a windowsill, and made his way into the study.<br />Magnus looked up as Alec came in. He was wearing what for Magnus was a somber<br />ensemble—jeans and a black T-shirt with rivets around the collar and cuffs. His black hair<br />was down, messy and tangled as if he’d run his hands through it multiple times in<br />annoyance, and his cat’s eyes were heavy-lidded with tiredness. He dropped his pen<br />when Alec appeared, and grinned. “The Chairman likes you.”<br />“He likes anyone who scratches behind his ears,” Alec said, shifting the dozing cat so<br />that his purring seemed to rumble through Alec’s chest.<br />Magnus leaned back in his chair, the muscles in his arms flexing as he yawned. The<br />table was strewn with pieces of paper covered in small, cramped handwriting and<br />drawings—the same pattern over and over, variations on the design that had been<br />splattered across the floor of the rooftop from which Jace had disappeared. “How was the<br />Seelie Queen?”<br />“Same as usual.”<br />“Raging bitch, then?”<br />“Pretty much.” Alec gave Magnus the condensed version of what had happened in the<br />faerie court. He was good at that—keeping things short, not a word wasted. He never<br />understood people who chattered on incessantly, or even Jace’s love of overcomplicated<br />wordplay.<br />“I worry about Clary,” said Magnus. “I worry she’s getting in over her little red head.”<br />Alec set Chairman Meow down on the table, where he promptly curled up into a ball<br />and went back to sleep. “She wants to find Jace. Can you blame her?”<br />Magnus’s eyes softened. He hooked a finger into the top of Alec’s jeans and pulled him<br />closer. “Are you saying you’d do the same thing if it were me?”<br />Alec turned his face away, glancing at the paper Magnus had just set aside. “You<br />looking at these again?”<br />Looking a little disappointed, Magnus let Alec go. “There’s got to be a key,” he said.<br />“To unlocking them. Some language I haven’t looked at yet. Something ancient. This is<br />old black magic, very dark, not like anything I’ve ever seen before.” He looked at the<br />paper again, his head tilted to the side. “Can you hand me that snuffbox over there? The<br />silver one, on the edge of the table.”<br />Alec followed the line of Magnus’s gesture and saw a small silver box perched on the<br />opposite side of the big wooden table. He reached over and picked it up. It was like a<br />miniature metal chest set on small feet, with a curved top and the initials W.S. picked out<br />in diamonds across the top.<br />W, he thought. Will?<br />Will, Magnus had said when Alec had asked him about the name Camille had taunted<br />him with. Dear God, that was a long time ago.<br />Alec bit his lip. “What is this?”<br />“It’s a snuffbox,” said Magnus, not looking up from his papers. “I told you.”<br />“Snuff? As in snuffing people out?” Alec eyed it.<br />Magnus looked up and laughed. “As in tobacco. It was very popular around the<br />seventeenth, eighteenth century. Now I use the box to keep odds and ends in.”<br />He held out his hand, and Alec gave the box up. “Do you ever wonder,” Alec began,<br />and then started again. “Does it bother you that Camille’s out there somewhere? That<br />she got away?” And that it was my fault? Alec thought but didn’t say. There was no need<br />for Magnus to know.<br />“She’s always been out there somewhere,” said Magnus. “I know the Clave isn’t terribly<br />pleased, but I’m used to imagining her living her life, not contacting me. If it ever<br />bothered me, it hasn’t in a long time.”<br />“But you did love her. Once.”<br />Magnus ran his fingers over the diamond insets in the snuffbox. “I thought I did.”<br />“Does she still love you?”<br />“I don’t think so,” Magnus said dryly. “She wasn’t very pleasant the last time I saw her.<br />Of course that could be because I’ve got an eighteen-year-old boyfriend with a stamina<br />rune and she doesn’t.”<br />Alec sputtered. “As the person being objectified, I… object to that description of me.”<br />“She always was the jealous type.” Magnus grinned. He was awfully good at changing<br />the subject, Alec thought. Magnus had made it clear that he didn’t like talking about his<br />past love life, but somewhere during their conversation, Alec’s sense of familiarity and<br />comfort, his feeling of being at home, had vanished. No matter how young Magnus looked<br />—and right now, barefoot, with his hair sticking up, he looked about eighteen—<br />uncrossable oceans of time divided them.<br />Magnus opened the box, took out some tacks, and used them to fix the paper he had<br />been looking at to the table. When he glanced up and saw Alec’s expression, he did a<br />double take. “Are you okay?”<br />Instead of replying, Alec reached down and took Magnus’s hands. Magnus let Alec pull<br />him to his feet, a questioning look in his eyes. Before he could say anything, Alec drew<br />him closer and kissed him. Magnus made a soft, pleased sound, and gripped the back of<br />Alec’s shirt, rucking it up, his fingers cool on Alec’s spine. Alec leaned into him, pinning<br />Magnus between the table and his own body. Not that Magnus seemed to mind.<br />“Come on,” Alec said against Magnus’s ear. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”<br />Magnus bit his lip and glanced over his shoulder at the papers on the table, his gaze<br />fixed on ancient syllables in forgotten languages. “Why don’t you go on ahead?” he said.<br />“I’ll join you—five minutes.”<br />“Sure.” Alec straightened up, knowing that when Magnus was deep in his studies, five<br />minutes could easily become five hours. “I’ll see you there.”<br />“Shhh.”<br />Clary put her finger to her lips before motioning for Simon to go before her through the<br />front door of Luke’s house. All the lights were off, and the living room was dark and silent.<br />She shooed Simon toward her room and headed into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.<br />Halfway there she froze.<br />Her mother’s voice was audible down the hall. Clary could hear the strain in it. Just like<br />losing Jace was Clary’s worst nightmare, she knew that her mother was living her worst<br />nightmare too. Knowing that her son was alive and out there in the world, capable of<br />anything, was ripping her apart from the inside out.<br />“But they cleared her, Jocelyn,” Clary overheard Luke reply, his voice dipping in and out<br />of a whisper. “There won’t be any punishment.”<br />“All of it is my fault.” Jocelyn sounded muffled, as if she had buried her head against<br />Luke’s shoulder. “If I hadn’t brought that… creature into the world, Clary wouldn’t be<br />going through this now.”<br />“You couldn’t have known…” Luke’s voice faded off into a murmur, and though Clary<br />knew he was right, she had a brief, guilty flash of rage against her mother. Jocelyn should<br />have killed Sebastian in his crib before he’d ever had a chance to grow up and ruin all<br />their lives, she thought, and was instantly horrified at herself for thinking it. She turned<br />and swung back toward the other end of the house, darting into her bedroom and closing<br />the door behind her as if she were being followed.<br />Simon, who had been sitting on the bed playing with his DS, looked up at her in<br />surprise. “Everything okay?”<br />She tried to smile at him. He was a familiar sight in this room—they’d slept over at<br />Luke’s often enough when they were growing up. She’d done what she could to make this<br />room hers instead of a spare room. Photos of herself and Simon, the Lightwoods, herself<br />with Jace and with her family, were stuck haphazardly into the frame of the mirror over<br />the dresser. Luke had given her a drawing board, and her art supplies were sorted neatly<br />into a stack of cubbyholes beside it. She had tacked up posters of her favorite animes:<br />Fullmetal Alchemist, Rurouni Kenshin, Bleach.<br />Evidence of her Shadowhunter life lay scattered about as well—a fat copy of The<br />Shadowhunter’s Codex with her notes and drawings scribbled into the margins, a shelf of<br />books on the occult and paranormal, her stele atop her desk, and a new globe, given to<br />her by Luke, that showed Idris, bordered in gold, in the center of Europe.<br />And Simon, sitting in the middle of her bed, cross-legged, was one of the few things<br />that belonged both to her old life and her new one. He looked at her with his eyes dark in<br />his pale face, the glimmer of the Mark of Cain barely visible on his forehead.<br />“My mom,” she said, and leaned against the door. “She’s really not doing well.”<br />“Isn’t she relieved? I mean about you being cleared?”<br />“She can’t get past thinking about Sebastian. She can’t get past blaming herself.”<br />“It wasn’t her fault, the way he turned out. It was Valentine’s.”<br />Clary said nothing. She was recalling the awful thing she had just thought, that her<br />mother should have killed Sebastian when he was born.<br />“Both of you,” said Simon, “blame yourselves for things that aren’t your fault. You<br />blame yourself for leaving Jace on the roof—”<br />She jerked her head up and looked at him sharply. She wasn’t aware she’d ever said<br />she blamed herself for that, though she did. “I never—”<br />“You do,” he said. “But I left him, Izzy left him, Alec left him—and Alec’s his parabatai.<br />There’s no way we could have known. And it might have been worse if you’d stayed.”<br />“Maybe.” Clary didn’t want to talk about it. Avoiding Simon’s gaze, she headed into the<br />bathroom to brush her teeth and pull on her fuzzy pajamas. She avoided looking at<br />herself in the mirror. She hated how pale she looked, the shadows under her eyes. She<br />was strong; she wasn’t going to fall apart. She had a plan. Even if it was a little insane,<br />and involved robbing the Institute.<br />She brushed her teeth and was pulling her wavy hair back into a ponytail as she left the<br />bathroom, just catching Simon slipping back into his messenger bag a bottle of what was<br />almost surely the blood he’d bought at Taki’s.<br />She came forward and ruffled his hair. “You can keep the bottles in the fridge, you<br />know,” she said. “If you don’t like it room temperature.”<br />“Ice-cold blood is worse than room temperature, actually. Warm is best, but I think<br />your mom would balk at me heating it up in saucepans.”<br />“Does Jordan care?” Clary asked, wondering if in fact Jordan even still remembered<br />Simon lived with him. Simon had been at her house every night for the past week. In the<br />first few days after Jace had disappeared, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She had piled<br />five blankets over herself, but she’d been unable to get warm. Shivering, she would lie<br />awake imagining her veins sluggish with frozen blood, ice crystals weaving a coral-like<br />shining net around her heart. Her dreams were full of black seas and ice floes and frozen<br />lakes and Jace, his face always hidden from her by shadows or a breath of cloud or his<br />own shining hair as he turned away from her. She would fall asleep for minutes at a time,<br />always waking up with a sick drowning feeling.<br />The first day the Council had interrogated her, she’d come home and crawled into bed.<br />She’d lain there wide awake until there’d been a knock on her window and Simon had<br />crawled inside, nearly tumbling onto the floor. He’d climbed onto the bed and stretched<br />out beside her without a word. His skin had been cold from the outside, and he’d smelled<br />like city air and oncoming winter chill.<br />She had touched her shoulder to his, dissolving a tiny part of the tension that clamped<br />her body like a clenched fist. His hand had been cold, but it had been familiar, like the<br />texture of his corduroy jacket against her arm.<br />“How long can you stay?” she had whispered into the darkness.<br />“As long as you want.”<br />She’d turned on her side to look at him. “Won’t Izzy mind?”<br />“She’s the one who told me I should come over here. She said you weren’t sleeping,<br />and if having me with you will make you feel better, I can stay. Or I could just stay until<br />you fall asleep.”<br />Clary had exhaled her relief. “Stay all night,” she’d said. “Please.”<br />He had. That night she had had no bad dreams.<br />As long as he was there, her sleep was dreamless and blank, a dark ocean of<br />nothingness. A painless oblivion.<br />“Jordan doesn’t really care about the blood,” Simon said now. “His whole thing is about<br />me being comfortable with what I am. Get in touch with your inner vampire, blah, blah.”<br />Clary slid next to him onto the bed and hugged a pillow. “Is your inner vampire<br />different from your… outer vampire?”<br />“Definitely. He wants me to wear midriff-baring shirts and a fedora. I’m fighting it.”<br />Clary smiled faintly. “So your inner vampire is Magnus?”<br />“Wait, that reminds me.” Simon dug around in his messenger bag and produced two<br />volumes of manga. He waved them triumphantly before handing them to Clary. “Magical<br />Love Gentleman volumes fifteen and sixteen,” he said. “Sold out everywhere but Midtown<br />Comics.”<br />She picked them up, looking at the colorful back-to-front covers. Once upon a time she<br />would have waved her arms in fangirl joy; now it was all she could do to smile at Simon<br />and thank him, but he had done it for her, she reminded herself, the gesture of a good<br />friend. Even if she couldn’t even imagine distracting herself with reading right now.<br />“You’re awesome,” she said, bumping him with her shoulder. She lay down against the<br />pillows, the manga books balanced on her lap. “And thanks for coming with me to the<br />Seelie Court. I know it brings up sucky memories for you, but—I’m always better when<br />you’re there.”<br />“You did great. Handled the Queen like a pro.” Simon lay down next to her, their<br />shoulders touching, both of them looking up at the ceiling, the familiar cracks in it, the old<br />glow-in-the-dark paste-on stars that no longer shed light. “So you’re going to do it? Steal<br />the rings for the Queen?”<br />“Yes.” She let out her held breath. “Tomorrow. There’s a local Conclave meeting at<br />noon. Everyone’ll be in it. I’m going in then.”<br />“I don’t like it, Clary.”<br />She felt her body tighten. “Don’t like what?”<br />“You having anything to do with faeries. Faeries are liars.”<br />“They can’t lie.”<br />“You know what I mean. ‘Faeries are misleaders’ sounds lame, though.”<br />She turned her head and looked at him, her chin against his collarbone. His arm came<br />up automatically and circled her shoulders, pulling her against him. His body was cool, his<br />shirt still damp from the rain. His usually stick-straight hair had dried in windblown curls.<br />“Believe me, I don’t like getting mixed up with the Court. But I’d do it for you,” she said.<br />“And you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?”<br />“Of course I would. But it’s still a bad idea.” He turned his head and looked at her. “I<br />know how you feel. When my father died—”<br />Her body tightened. “Jace isn’t dead.”<br />“I know. I wasn’t saying that. It’s just—You don’t need to say you’re better when I’m<br />there. I’m always there with you. Grief makes you feel alone, but you’re not. I know you<br />don’t believe in—in religion—the same way I do, but you can believe you’re surrounded<br />by people who love you, can’t you?” His eyes were wide, hopeful. They were the same<br />dark brown they had always been, but different now, as if another layer had been added<br />to their color, the same way his skin seemed both poreless and translucent at the same<br />time.<br />I believe it, she thought. I’m just not sure it matters. She knocked her shoulder gently<br />against his again. “So, do you mind if I ask you something? It’s personal but important.”<br />A note of wariness crept into his voice. “What is it?”<br />“With the whole Mark of Cain thing, does that mean if I accidentally kick you during the<br />night, I get kicked in the shins seven times by an invisible force?”<br />She felt him laugh. “Go to sleep, Fray.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-32086549794947864522013-02-13T06:00:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:31.166-07:00City of Lost Souls - Chapter 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />“How much longer will the verdict take, do you think?” Clary asked. She had no idea<br />how long they’d been waiting, but it felt like ten hours. There were no clocks in Isabelle’s<br />black and hot-pink powder-puff bedroom, just piles of clothes, heaps of books, stacks of<br />weapons, a vanity overflowing with sparkling makeup, used brushes, and open drawers<br />spilling lacy slips, sheer tights, and feather boas. It had a certain backstage-at-La-Cageaux-<br />Folles design aesthetic, but over the past two weeks Clary had spent enough time<br />among the glittering mess to have begun to find it comforting.<br />Isabelle, standing over by the window with Church in her arms, stroked the cat’s head<br />absently. Church regarded her with baleful yellow eyes. Outside the window a November<br />storm was in full bloom, rain streaking the windows like clear paint. “Not much longer,”<br />she said slowly. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, which made her look younger, her dark<br />eyes bigger. “Five minutes, probably.”<br />Clary, sitting on Izzy’s bed between a pile of magazines and a rattling stack of seraph<br />blades, swallowed hard against the bitter taste in her throat. I’ll be back. Five minutes.<br />That had been the last thing she had said to the boy she loved more than anything else<br />in the world. Now she thought it might be the last thing she would ever get to say to him.<br />Clary remembered the moment perfectly. The roof garden. The crystalline October<br />night, the stars burning icy white against a cloudless black sky. The paving stones<br />smeared with black runes, spattered with ichor and blood. Jace’s mouth on hers, the only<br />warm thing in a shivering world. Clasping the Morgenstern ring around her neck. The love<br />that moves the sun and all the other stars. Turning to look for him as the elevator took<br />her away, sucking her back down into the shadows of the building. She had joined the<br />others in the lobby, hugging her mother, Luke, Simon, but some part of her, as it always<br />was, had still been with Jace, floating above the city on that rooftop, the two of them<br />alone in the cold and brilliant electric city.<br />Maryse and Kadir had been the ones to get into the elevator to join Jace on the roof<br />and to see the remains of Lilith’s ritual. It was another ten minutes before Maryse<br />returned, alone. When the doors had opened and Clary had seen her face—white and set<br />and frantic—she had known.<br />What had happened next had been like a dream. The crowd of Shadowhunters in the<br />lobby had surged toward Maryse; Alec had broken away from Magnus, and Isabelle had<br />leaped to her feet. White bursts of light cut through the darkness like the soft explosions<br />of camera flashes at a crime scene as, one after another, seraph blades lit the shadows.<br />Pushing her way forward, Clary heard the story in broken pieces—the rooftop garden was<br />empty; Jace was gone. The glass coffin that had held Sebastian had been smashed open;<br />glass was lying everywhere in fragments. Blood, still fresh, dripped down the pedestal on<br />which the coffin had sat.<br />The Shadowhunters were making plans quickly, to spread out in a radius and search<br />the area around the building. Magnus was there, his hands sparking blue, turning to Clary<br />to ask if she had something of Jace’s they could track him with. Numbly, she gave him the<br />Morgenstern ring and retreated into a corner to call Simon. She had only just closed the<br />phone when the voice of a Shadowhunter rang out above the rest. “Tracking? That’ll work<br />only if he’s still alive. With that much blood it’s not very likely—”<br />Somehow that was the last straw. Prolonged hypothermia, exhaustion, and shock took<br />their toll, and she felt her knees give. Her mother caught her before she hit the ground.<br />There was a dark blur after that. She woke up the next morning in her bed at Luke’s,<br />sitting bolt upright with her heart going like a trip-hammer, sure she had had a<br />nightmare.<br />As she struggled out of bed, the fading bruises on her arms and legs told a different<br />story, as did the absence of her ring. Throwing on jeans and a hoodie, she staggered out<br />into the living room to find Jocelyn, Luke, and Simon seated there with somber<br />expressions on their faces. She didn’t even need to ask, but she did anyway: “Did they<br />find him? Is he back?”<br />Jocelyn stood up. “Sweetheart, he’s still missing—”<br />“But not dead? They haven’t found a body?” She collapsed onto the couch next to<br />Simon. “No—he’s not dead. I’d know.”<br />She remembered Simon holding her hand while Luke told her what they did know: that<br />Jace was still gone, and so was Sebastian. The bad news was that the blood on the<br />pedestal had been identified as Jace’s. The good news was that there was less of it than<br />they had thought; it had mixed with the water from the coffin to give the impression of a<br />greater volume of blood than there had really been. They now thought it was quite<br />possible he had survived whatever had happened.<br />“But what happened?” she demanded.<br />Luke shook his head, blue eyes somber. “Nobody knows, Clary.”<br />Her veins felt as if her blood had been replaced with ice water. “I want to help. I want<br />to do something. I don’t want to just sit here while Jace is missing.”<br />“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jocelyn said grimly. “The Clave wants to see you.”<br />Invisible ice cracked in Clary’s joints and tendons as she stood up. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll<br />tell them anything they want if they’ll find Jace.”<br />“You’ll tell them anything they want because they have the Mortal Sword.” There was<br />despair in Jocelyn’s voice. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”<br />And now, after two weeks of repetitive testimony, after scores of witnesses had been<br />called, after she had held the Mortal Sword a dozen times, Clary sat in Isabelle’s bedroom<br />and waited for the Council to rule on her fate. She couldn’t help but remember what it<br />had felt like to hold the Mortal Sword. It was like tiny fishhooks embedded in your skin,<br />pulling the truth out of you. She had knelt, holding it, in the circle of the Speaking Stars<br />and had heard her own voice telling the Council everything: how Valentine had raised the<br />Angel Raziel, and how she had taken the power of controlling the Angel from him by<br />erasing his name in the sand and writing hers over it. She had told them how the Angel<br />had offered her one wish, and she had used it to raise Jace from the dead; she told them<br />how Lilith had possessed Jace and Lilith had planned to use Simon’s blood to resurrect<br />Sebastian, Clary’s brother, whom Lilith regarded as a son. How Simon’s Mark of Cain had<br />ended Lilith, and they had thought Sebastian had been ended too, no longer a threat.<br />Clary sighed and flipped her phone open to check the time. “They’ve been in there for<br />an hour,” she said. “Is that normal? Is it a bad sign?”<br />Isabelle dropped Church, who let out a yowl. She came over to the bed and sat down<br />beside Clary. Isabelle looked even more slender than usual—like Clary, she’d lost weight<br />in the past two weeks—but elegant as always, in black cigarette pants and a fitted gray<br />velvet top. Mascara was smudged all around Izzy’s eyes, which should have made her<br />look like a racoon but just made her look like a French film star instead. She stretched her<br />arms out, and her electrum bracelets with their rune charms jingled musically. “No, it’s<br />not a bad sign,” she said. “It just means they have a lot to talk over.” She twisted the<br />Lightwood ring on her finger. “You’ll be fine. You didn’t break the Law. That’s the<br />important thing.”<br />Clary sighed. Even the warmth of Isabelle’s shoulder next to hers couldn’t melt the ice<br />in her veins. She knew that technically she had broken no Laws, but she also knew the<br />Clave was furious at her. It was illegal for a Shadowhunter to raise the dead, but not for<br />the Angel to do it; nevertheless it was such an enormous thing she had done in asking for<br />Jace’s life back that she and Jace had agreed to tell no one about it.<br />Now it was out, and it had rocked the Clave. Clary knew they wanted to punish her, if<br />only because her choice had had such disastrous consequences. In some way she wished<br />they would punish her. Break her bones, pull her fingernails out, let the Silent Brothers<br />root through her brain with their bladed thoughts. A sort of devil’s bargain—her own pain<br />for Jace’s safe return. It would have helped her guilt over having left Jace behind on that<br />rooftop, even though Isabelle and the others had told her a hundred times she was being<br />ridiculous—that they had all thought he was perfectly safe there, and that if Clary had<br />stayed, she would probably now be missing too.<br />“Quit it,” Isabelle said. For a moment Clary wasn’t sure if Isabelle was talking to her or<br />to the cat. Church was doing what he often did when dropped—lying on his back with all<br />four legs in the air, pretending to be dead in order to induce guilt in his owners. But then<br />Isabelle swept her black hair aside, glaring, and Clary realized she was the one being told<br />off, not the cat.<br />“Quit what?”<br />“Morbidly thinking about all the horrible things that are going to happen to you, or that<br />you wish would happen to you because you’re alive and Jace is… missing.” Isabelle’s<br />voice jumped, like a record skipping a groove. She never spoke of Jace as being dead or<br />even gone—she and Alec refused to entertain the possibility. And Isabelle had never<br />reproached Clary once for keeping such an enormous secret. Throughout everything, in<br />fact, Isabelle had been her staunchest defender. Meeting her every day at the door to the<br />Council Hall, she had held Clary firmly by the arm as she’d marched her past clumps of<br />glaring, muttering Shadowhunters. She had waited through endless Council<br />interrogations, shooting dagger glances at anyone who dared look at Clary sideways.<br />Clary had been astonished. She and Isabelle had never been enormously close, both of<br />them being the sort of girls who were more comfortable with boys than other female<br />companionship. But Isabelle didn’t leave her side. Clary was as bewildered as she was<br />grateful.<br />“I can’t help it,” Clary said. “If I were allowed to patrol—if I were allowed to do<br />anything—I think it wouldn’t be so bad.”<br />“I don’t know.” Isabelle sounded weary. For the past two weeks she and Alec had been<br />exhausted and gray-faced from sixteen-hour patrols and searches. When Clary had found<br />out she was banned from patrolling or searching for Jace in any way until the Council<br />decided what to do about the fact that she had brought him back from the dead, she had<br />kicked a hole in her bedroom door. “Sometimes it feels so futile,” Isabelle added.<br />Ice crackled up and down Clary’s bones. “You mean you think he’s dead?”<br />“No, I don’t. I mean I think there’s no way they’re still in New York.”<br />“But they’re patrolling in other cities, right?” Clary put a hand to her throat, forgetting<br />that the Morgenstern ring no longer hung there. Magnus was still trying to track Jace,<br />though no tracking had yet worked.<br />“Of course they are.” Isabelle reached out curiously and touched the delicate silver bell<br />that hung around Clary’s neck now, in place of the ring. “What’s that?”<br />Clary hesitated. The bell had been a gift from the Seelie Queen. No, that wasn’t quite<br />right. The Queen of the faeries didn’t give gifts. The bell was meant to signal the Seelie<br />Queen that Clary wanted her help. Clary had found her hand wandering to it more and<br />more often as the days dragged on with no sign of Jace. The only thing that stopped<br />Clary was the knowledge that the Seelie Queen never gave anything without the<br />expectation of something terrible in return.<br />Before Clary could reply to Isabelle, the door opened. Both girls sat up ramrod straight,<br />Clary clutching one of Izzy’s pink pillows so hard that the rhinestones on it dug into the<br />skin of her palms.<br />“Hey.” A slim figure stepped into the room and shut the door. Alec, Isabelle’s older<br />brother, was dressed in Council wear—a black robe figured with silver runes, open now<br />over jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. All the black made his pale skin look paler,<br />his crystal-blue eyes bluer. His hair was black and straight like his sister’s, but shorter, cut<br />just above his jawline. His mouth was set in a thin line.<br />Clary’s heart started to pound. Alec didn’t look happy. Whatever the news was, it<br />couldn’t be good.<br />It was Isabelle who spoke. “How did it go?” she said quietly. “What’s the verdict?”<br />Alec sat down at the vanity table, swinging himself around the chair to face Izzy and<br />Clary over the back. At another time it would have been comical—Alec was very tall, with<br />long legs like a dancer, and the way he folded himself awkwardly around the chair made<br />it look like dollhouse furniture.<br />“Clary,” he said. “Jia Penhallow handed down the verdict. You’re cleared of any<br />wrongdoing. You broke no Laws, and Jia feels that you’ve been punished enough.”<br />Isabelle exhaled an audible breath and smiled. For just a moment a feeling of relief<br />broke through the layer of ice over all of Clary’s emotions. She wasn’t going to be<br />punished, locked up in the Silent City, trapped somewhere where she couldn’t help Jace.<br />Luke, who as the representative of the werewolves on the Council had been present for<br />the verdict, had promised to call Jocelyn as soon as the meeting ended, but Clary reached<br />for her phone anyway; the prospect of giving her mother good news for a change was too<br />tempting.<br />“Clary,” Alec said as she flipped her phone open. “Wait.”<br />She looked at him. His expression was still as serious as an undertaker’s. With a<br />sudden sense of foreboding, Clary put her phone back down on the bed. “Alec—what is<br />it?”<br />“It wasn’t your verdict that took the Council so long,” said Alec. “There was another<br />matter under discussion.”<br />The ice was back. Clary shivered. “Jace?”<br />“Not exactly.” Alec leaned forward, folding his hands along the back of the chair. “A<br />report came in early this morning from the Moscow Institute. The wardings over Wrangel<br />Island were smashed through yesterday. They’ve sent a repair team, but having such<br />important wards down for so long—that’s a Council priority.”<br />Wards—which served, as Clary understood it, as a sort of magical fence system—<br />surrounded Earth, put there by the first generation of Shadowhunters. They could be<br />bypassed by demons but not easily, and kept out the vast majority of them, preventing<br />the world from being flooded by a massive demon invasion. She remembered something<br />that Jace had said to her, what felt like years ago: There used to be only small demon<br />invasions into this world, easily contained. But even in my lifetime more and more of<br />them have spilled in through the wardings.<br />“Well, that’s bad,” Clary said. “But I don’t see what it has to do with—”<br />“The Clave has its priorities,” Alec interrupted. “Searching for Jace and Sebastian has<br />been top priority for the past two weeks. But they’ve scoured everything, and there’s no<br />sign of either of them in any Downworld haunt. None of Magnus’s tracking spells have<br />worked. Elodie, the woman who brought up the real Sebastian Verlac, confirmed that no<br />one’s tried to get in touch with her. That was a long shot, anyway. No spies have<br />reported any unusual activity among the known members of Valentine’s old Circle. And<br />the Silent Brothers haven’t been able to figure out exactly what the ritual Lilith performed<br />was supposed to do, or whether it succeeded. The general consensus is that Sebastian—<br />of course, they call him Jonathan when they talk about him—kidnapped Jace, but that’s<br />not anything we didn’t know.”<br />“So?” Isabelle said. “What does that mean? More searching? More patrolling?”<br />Alec shook his head. “They’re not discussing expanding the search,” he said quietly.<br />“They’re de-prioritizing it. It’s been two weeks and they haven’t found anything. The<br />specially commissioned groups brought over from Idris are going to be sent home. The<br />situation with the ward is taking priority now. Not to mention that the Council has been in<br />the middle of delicate negotiations, updating the Laws to allow for the new makeup of<br />the Council, appointing a new Consul and Inquisitor, determining different treatment of<br />Downworlders—they don’t want to be thrown completely off track.”<br />Clary stared. “They don’t want Jace’s disappearance to throw them off the track of<br />changing a bunch of stupid old Laws? They’re giving up?”<br />“They’re not giving up—”<br />“Alec,” Isabelle said sharply.<br />Alec took a breath and put his hands up to cover his face. He had long fingers, like<br />Jace’s, scarred like Jace’s were as well. The eye Mark of the Shadowhunters decorated<br />the back of his right hand. “Clary, for you—for us—this has always been about searching<br />for Jace. For the Clave it’s about searching for Sebastian. Jace as well, but primarily<br />Sebastian. He’s the danger. He destroyed the wards of Alicante. He’s a mass murderer.<br />Jace is…”<br />“Just another Shadowhunter,” said Isabelle. “We die and go missing all the time.”<br />“He gets a little extra for being a hero of the Mortal War,” said Alec. “But in the end the<br />Clave was clear: The search will be kept up, but right now it’s a waiting game. They<br />expect Sebastian to make the next move. In the meantime it’s third priority for the Clave.<br />If that. They expect us to go back to normal life.”<br />Normal life? Clary couldn’t believe it. A normal life without Jace?<br />“That’s what they told us after Max died,” said Izzy, her black eyes tearless but burning<br />with anger. “That we’d get over our grief faster if we just went back to normal life.”<br />“It’s supposed to be good advice,” said Alec from behind his fingers.<br />“Tell that to Dad. Did he even come back from Idris for the meeting?”<br />Alec shook his head, dropping his hands. “No. If it’s any consolation, there were a lot of<br />people at the meeting speaking out angrily on behalf of keeping the search for Jace up at<br />full strength. Magnus, obviously, Luke, Consul Penhallow, even Brother Zachariah. But at<br />the end of the day it wasn’t enough.”<br />Clary looked at him steadily. “Alec,” she said. “Don’t you feel anything?”<br />Alec’s eyes widened, their blue darkening, and for a moment Clary remembered the<br />boy who had hated her when she’d first arrived at the Institute, the boy with bitten nails<br />and holes in his sweaters and a chip on his shoulder that had seemed immovable. “I<br />know you’re upset, Clary,” he said, his voice sharp, “but if you’re suggesting that Iz and I<br />care less about Jace than you do—”<br />“I’m not,” Clary said. “I’m talking about your parabatai connection. I was reading about<br />the ceremony in the Codex. I know being parabatai ties the two of you together. You can<br />sense things about Jace. Things that will help you when you’re fighting. So I guess I<br />mean… can you sense if he’s still alive?”<br />“Clary.” Isabelle sounded worried. “I thought you didn’t…”<br />“He’s alive,” Alec said cautiously. “You think I’d be this functional if he weren’t alive?<br />There’s definitely something fundamentally wrong. I can feel that much. But he’s still<br />breathing.”<br />“Could the ‘wrong’ thing be that he’s being held prisoner?” said Clary in a small voice.<br />Alec looked toward the windows, the sheeting gray rain. “Maybe. I can’t explain it. I’ve<br />never felt anything like it before.”<br />“But he’s alive.”<br />Alec looked at her directly then. “I’m sure of it.”<br />“Then screw the Council. We’ll find him ourselves,” Clary said.<br />“Clary… if that were possible… don’t you think we already would have—,” Alec began.<br />“We were doing what the Clave wanted us to do before,” said Isabelle. “Patrols,<br />searches. There are other ways.”<br />“Ways that break the Law, you mean,” said Alec. He sounded hesitant. Clary hoped he<br />wasn’t going to repeat the Shadowhunters’ motto when it came to the Law: Sed lex, dura<br />lex. “The Law is harsh, but it is the Law.” She didn’t think she could take it.<br />“The Seelie Queen offered me a favor,” Clary said. “At the fireworks party in Idris.” The<br />memory of that night, how happy she’d been, made her heart contract for a moment, and<br />she had to stop and regain her breath. “And a way to contact her.”<br />“The Queen of the Fair Folk gives nothing for free.”<br />“I know that. I’ll take whatever debt it is on my shoulders.” Clary remembered the<br />words of the faerie girl who had handed her the bell. You would do anything to save him,<br />whatever it cost you, whatever you might owe to Hell or Heaven, would you not? “I just<br />want one of you to come with me. I’m not good with translating faerie-speak. At least if<br />you’re with me you can limit whatever the damage is. But if there’s anything she can do<br />—”<br />“I’ll go with you,” Isabelle said immediately.<br />Alec looked at his sister darkly. “We already talked to the Fair Folk. The Council<br />questioned them extensively. And they can’t lie.”<br />“The Council asked them if they knew where Jace and Sebastian were,” Clary said. “Not<br />if they’d be willing to look for them. The Seelie Queen knew about my father, knew about<br />the angel he summoned and trapped, knew the truth about my blood and Jace’s. I think<br />there’s not much that happens in this world that she doesn’t know about.”<br />“It’s true,” said Isabelle, a little animation entering into her voice. “You know you have<br />to ask faeries the exact right things to get useful information out of them, Alec. They’re<br />very hard to question, even if they do have to tell the truth. A favor, though, is different.”<br />“And its potential for danger is literally unlimited,” said Alec. “If Jace knew I let Clary go<br />to the Seelie Queen, he’d—”<br />“I don’t care,” Clary said. “He’d do it for me. Tell me he wouldn’t. If I were missing—”<br />“He’d burn the whole world down till he could dig you out of the ashes. I know,” Alec<br />said, sounding exhausted. “Hell, you think I don’t want to burn down the world right now?<br />I’m just trying to be…”<br />“An older brother,” said Isabelle. “I get it.”<br />Alec looked as if he were fighting for control. “If something happened to you, Isabelle—<br />after Max, and Jace—”<br />Izzy got to her feet, went across the room, and put her arms around Alec. Their dark<br />hair, precisely the same color, mixed together as Isabelle whispered something into her<br />brother’s ear; Clary watched them with not a little envy. She had always wanted a<br />brother. And she had one now. Sebastian. It was like always wanting a puppy for a pet<br />and being handed a hellhound instead. She watched as Alec tugged his sister’s hair<br />affectionately, nodded, and released her. “We should all go,” he said. “But I have to tell<br />Magnus, at least, what we’re doing. It wouldn’t be fair not to.”<br />“Do you want to use my phone?” Isabelle asked, offering the battered pink object to<br />him.<br />Alec shook his head. “He’s waiting downstairs with the others. You’ll have to give Luke<br />some kind of excuse too, Clary. I’m sure he’s expecting you to go home with him. And he<br />says your mother’s been pretty sick about this whole thing.”<br />“She blames herself for Sebastian’s existence.” Clary got to her feet. “Even though she<br />thought he was dead all those years.”<br />“It’s not her fault.” Isabelle pulled her golden whip down from where it hung on the<br />wall and wrapped it around her wrist so that it looked like a ladder of shining bracelets.<br />“No one blames her.”<br />“That never matters,” said Alec. “Not when you blame yourself.”<br />In silence, the three of them made their way through the corridors of the Institute,<br />oddly crowded now with other Shadowhunters, some of whom were part of the special<br />commissions that had been sent out from Idris to deal with the situation. None of them<br />really looked at Isabelle, Alec, or Clary with much curiosity. Initially Clary had felt so<br />much as if she were being stared at—and had heard the whispered words “Valentine’s<br />daughter” so many times—that she’d started to dread coming to the Institute, but she’d<br />stood up in front of the Council enough times now that the novelty had worn off.<br />They took the elevator downstairs; the nave of the Institute was brightly lit with<br />witchlight as well as the usual tapers and was filled with Council members and their<br />families. Luke and Magnus were sitting in a pew, talking to each other; beside Luke was a<br />tall, blue-eyed woman who looked just like him. She had curled her hair and dyed the<br />gray brown, but Clary still recognized her—Luke’s sister, Amatis.<br />Magnus got up at the sight of Alec and came over to talk to him; Izzy appeared to<br />recognize someone else across the pews and darted away in her usual manner, without<br />pausing to say where she was going. Clary went to greet Luke and Amatis; both of them<br />looked tired, and Amatis was patting Luke’s shoulder sympathetically. Luke rose to his<br />feet and hugged Clary when he saw her. Amatis congratulated Clary on being cleared by<br />the Council, and she nodded; she felt only half-there, most of her numb and the rest of<br />her responding on autopilot.<br />She could see Magnus and Alec out of the corner of her eye. They were talking, Alec<br />leaning in close to Magnus, the way couples often seemed to curve into each other when<br />they spoke, in their own contained universe. She was happy to see them happy, but it<br />hurt, too. She wondered if she would ever have that again, or ever even want it again.<br />She remembered Jace’s voice: I don’t even want to want anyone but you.<br />“Earth to Clary,” said Luke. “Do you want to head home? Your mother is dying to see<br />you, and she’d love to catch up with Amatis before she goes back to Idris tomorrow. I<br />thought we could have dinner. You pick the restaurant.” He was trying to hide the<br />concern in his voice, but Clary could hear it. She hadn’t been eating much lately, and her<br />clothes had started to hang more loosely on her frame.<br />“I don’t really feel like celebrating,” she said. “Not with the Council de-prioritizing the<br />search for Jace.”<br />“Clary, it doesn’t mean they’re going to stop,” said Luke.<br />“I know. It’s just—It’s like when they say a search and rescue mission is now a search<br />for bodies. That’s what it sounds like.” She swallowed. “Anyway, I was thinking of going<br />to Taki’s for dinner with Isabelle and Alec,” she said. “Just… to do something normal.”<br />Amatis squinted toward the door. “It’s raining pretty hard out there.”<br />Clary felt her lips stretch into a smile. She wondered if it looked as false as it felt. “I<br />won’t melt.”<br />Luke folded some money into her hand, clearly relieved she was doing something as<br />normal as going out with friends. “Just promise to eat something.”<br />“Okay.” Through the twinge of guilt, she managed a real half smile in his direction<br />before she turned away.<br />Magnus and Alec were no longer where they had been a moment ago. Glancing around,<br />Clary saw Izzy’s familiar long black hair through the crowd. She was standing by the<br />Institute’s large double doors, talking to someone Clary couldn’t see. Clary headed toward<br />Isabelle; as she drew closer, she recognized one of the group, with a slight shock of<br />surprise, as Aline Penhallow. Her glossy black hair had been cut stylishly just above her<br />shoulders. Standing next to Aline was a slim girl with pale white-gold hair that curled in<br />ringlets; it was drawn back from her face, showing that the tips of her ears were slightly<br />pointed. She wore Council robes, and as Clary came closer she saw that the girl’s eyes<br />were a brilliant and unusual blue-green, a color that made Clary’s fingers yearn for her<br />Prismacolor pencils for the first time in two weeks.<br />“It must be weird, with your mother being the new Consul,” Isabelle was saying to<br />Aline as Clary joined them. “Not that Jia isn’t much better than—Hey, Clary. Aline, you<br />remember Clary.”<br />The two girls exchanged nods. Clary had once walked in on Aline kissing Jace. It had<br />been awful at the time, but the memory held no sting now. She’d be relieved to walk in<br />on Jace kissing someone else at this point. At least it would mean he was alive.<br />“And this is Aline’s girlfriend, Helen Blackthorn.” Isabelle said with heavy emphasis.<br />Clary shot her a glare. Did Isabelle think she was an idiot? Besides, she remembered<br />Aline telling her that she’d kissed Jace only as an experiment to see if any guy were her<br />type. Apparently the answer had been no. “Helen’s family runs the Los Angeles Institute.<br />Helen, this is Clary Fray.”<br />“Valentine’s daughter,” Helen said. She looked surprised and a little impressed.<br />Clary winced. “I try not to think about that too much.”<br />“Sorry. I can see why you wouldn’t.” Helen flushed. Her skin was very pale, with a<br />slight sheen to it, like a pearl. “I voted for the Council to keep prioritizing the search for<br />Jace, by the way. I’m sorry we were overruled.”<br />“Thanks.” Not wanting to talk about it, Clary turned to Aline. “Congratulations on your<br />mother being made Consul. That must be pretty exciting.”<br />Aline shrugged. “She’s busy a lot more now.” She turned to Isabelle. “Did you know<br />your dad put his name in for the Inquisitor position?”<br />Clary felt Isabelle freeze beside her. “No. No, I didn’t know that.”<br />“I was surprised,” Aline added. “I thought he was pretty committed to running the<br />Institute here—” She broke off, looking past Clary. “Helen, I think your brother is trying to<br />make the world’s biggest puddle of melted wax over there. You might want to stop him.”<br />Helen blew out an exasperated breath, muttered something about twelve-year-old<br />boys, and vanished into the crowd just as Alec pushed his way forward. He greeted Aline<br />with a hug—Clary forgot, sometimes, that the Penhallows and the Lightwoods had known<br />each other for years—and looked at Helen in the crowd. “Is that your girlfriend?”<br />Aline nodded. “Helen Blackthorn.”<br />“I heard there’s some faerie blood in that family,” said Alec.<br />Ah, Clary thought. That explained the pointed ears. Nephilim blood was dominant, and<br />the child of a faerie and a Shadowhunter would be a Shadowhunter as well, but<br />sometimes the faerie blood could express itself in odd ways, even generations down the<br />line.<br />“A little,” said Aline. “Look, I wanted to thank you, Alec.”<br />Alec looked bewildered. “What for?’<br />“What you did in the Hall of Accords,” Aline said. “Kissing Magnus like that. It gave me<br />the push I needed to tell my parents… to come out to them. And if I hadn’t done that, I<br />don’t think, when I met Helen, I would have had the nerve to say anything.”<br />“Oh.” Alec looked startled, as if he’d never considered what impact his actions might<br />have had on anyone outside his immediate family. “And your parents—were they good<br />about it?”<br />Aline rolled her eyes. “They’re sort of ignoring it, like it might go away if they don’t talk<br />about it.” Clary remembered what Isabelle had said about the Clave’s attitude toward its<br />gay members. If it happens, you don’t talk about it. “But it could be worse.”<br />“It could definitely be worse,” said Alec, and there was a grim edge to his voice that<br />made Clary look at him sharply.<br />Aline’s face melted into a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If your parents aren’t<br />—”<br />“They’re fine with it,” Isabelle said, a little too sharply.<br />“Well, either way. I shouldn’t have said anything right now. Not with Jace missing. You<br />must all be so worried.” She took a deep breath. “I know people have probably said all<br />sorts of stupid things to you about him. The way they do when they don’t really know<br />what to say. I just—I wanted to tell you something.” She ducked away from a passer-by<br />with impatience and moved closer to the Lightwoods and Clary, lowering her voice. “Alec,<br />Izzy—I remember once when you guys came to see us in Idris. I was thirteen and Jace<br />was—I think he was twelve. He wanted to see Brocelind Forest, so we borrowed some<br />horses and rode there one day. Of course, we got lost. Brocelind’s impenetrable. It got<br />darker and the woods got thicker and I was terrified. I thought we’d die there. But Jace<br />was never scared. He was never anything but sure we’d find our way out. It took hours,<br />but he did it. He got us out of there. I was so grateful but he just looked at me like I was<br />crazy. Like of course he’d get us out. Failing wasn’t an option. I’m just saying—he’ll find<br />his way back to you. I know it.”<br />Clary didn’t think she’d ever seen Izzy cry, and she was clearly trying not to now. Her<br />eyes were suspiciously wide and shining. Alec was looking at his shoes. Clary felt a<br />wellspring of misery wanting to leap up inside her but forced it down; she couldn’t think<br />about Jace when he was twelve, couldn’t think about him lost in the darkness, or she’d<br />think about him now, lost somewhere, trapped somewhere, needing her help, expecting<br />her to come, and she’d break. “Aline,” she said, seeing that neither Isabelle nor Alec<br />could speak. “Thank you.”<br />Aline flashed a shy smile. “I mean it.”<br />“Aline!” It was Helen, her hand firmly clamped around the wrist of a younger boy<br />whose hands were covered with blue wax. He must have been playing with the tapers in<br />the huge candelabras that decorated the sides of the nave. He looked about twelve, with<br />an impish grin and the same shocking blue-green eyes as his sister, though his hair was<br />dark brown. “We’re back. We should probably go before Jules destroys the whole place.<br />Not to mention that I have no idea where Tibs and Livvy have gone.”<br />“They were eating wax,” the boy—Jules—supplied helpfully.<br />“Oh, God,” Helen groaned, and then looked apologetic. “Never mind me. I’ve got six<br />younger brothers and sisters and one older. It’s always a zoo.”<br />Jules looked from Alec to Isabelle and then at Clary. “How many brothers and sisters<br />have you got?” he asked.<br />Helen paled. Isabelle said, in a remarkably steady voice, “There are three of us.”<br />Jules’s eyes stayed on Clary. “You don’t look alike.”<br />“I’m not related to them,” Clary said. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”<br />“None?” Disbelief registered in the boy’s tone, as if she’d told him she had webbed feet.<br />“Is that why you look so sad?”<br />Clary thought of Sebastian, with his ice-white hair and black eyes. If only, she thought.<br />If only I didn’t have a brother, none of this would have happened. A little throb of hatred<br />went through her, warming her icy blood. “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m sad.”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-26056319513866967752013-02-13T05:57:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:31.253-07:00City of Lost Souls - Prologue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s1600/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fNASNKS5WzIrrNz6H6VL25k5sn1aacIlcPtt6B0onCrm9psp7wahh_dkNBWvo_ACEXXcx4f4LxRJtBNaRDoU1zOj2cZ_kP8gD-_U1_3W4AM-hYgsqUAI4Cf0R6Plf15a05UMCpTtx_E/s320/Mortal+Instruments+05+-+City+of+Lost+Souls.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><br />Simon stood and stared numbly at the front door of his house.<br />He’d never known another home. This was the place his parents had brought him back<br />to when he was born. He had grown up within the walls of the Brooklyn row house. He’d<br />played on the street under the leafy shade of the trees in the summer, and had made<br />improvised sleds out of garbage can lids in the winter. In this house his family had sat<br />shivah after his father had died. Here he had kissed Clary for the first time.<br />He had never imagined a day when the door of the house would be closed to him. The<br />last time he had seen his mother, she had called him a monster and prayed at him that<br />he would go away. He had made her forget that he was a vampire, using glamour, but he<br />had not known how long the glamour would last. As he stood in the cold autumn air,<br />staring in front of him, he knew it had not lasted long enough.<br />The door was covered with signs—Stars of David splashed on in paint, the incised<br />shape of the symbol for Chai, life. Tefillin were bound to the doorknob and knocker. A<br />hamsa, the Hand of God, covered the peephole.<br />Numbly he put his hand to the metal mezuzah affixed to the right side of the doorway.<br />He saw the smoke rise from the place where his hand touched the holy object, but he felt<br />nothing. No pain. Only a terrible empty blankness, rising slowly into cold rage.<br />He kicked the bottom of the door and heard the echo through the house. “Mom!” he<br />shouted. “Mom, it’s me!”<br />There was no reply—only the sound of the bolts being turned on the door. His<br />sensitized hearing had recognized his mother’s footsteps, her breathing, but she said<br />nothing. He could smell acrid fear and panic even through the wood. “Mom!” His voice<br />broke. “Mom, this is ridiculous! Let me in! It’s me, Simon!”<br />The door juddered, as if she had kicked it. “Go away!” Her voice was rough,<br />unrecognizable with terror. “Murderer!”<br />“I don’t kill people.” Simon leaned his head against the door. He knew he could<br />probably kick it down, but what would be the point? “I told you. I drink animal blood.”<br />“You killed my son,” she said. “You killed him and put a monster in his place.”<br />“I am your son—”<br />“You wear his face and speak with his voice, but you are not him! You’re not Simon!”<br />Her voice rose to almost a scream. “Get away from my house before I kill you, monster!”<br />“Becky,” he said. His face was wet; he put his hands up to touch it, and they came<br />away stained: His tears were bloody. “What have you told Becky?”<br />“Stay away from your sister.” Simon heard a clattering from inside the house, as if<br />something had been knocked over.<br />“Mom,” he said again, but this time his voice wouldn’t rise. It came out as a hoarse<br />whisper. His hand had begun to throb. “I need to know—is Becky there? Mom, open the<br />door. Please—”<br />“Stay away from Becky!” She was backing away from the door; he could hear it. Then<br />came the unmistakeable squeal of the kitchen door swinging open, the creak of the<br />linoleum as she walked on it. The sound of a drawer being opened. Suddenly he imagined<br />his mother grabbing for one of the knives.<br />Before I kill you, monster.<br />The thought rocked him back on his heels. If she struck out at him, the Mark would rise.<br />It would destroy her as it had destroyed Lilith.<br />He dropped his hand and backed up slowly, stumbling down the steps and across the<br />sidewalk, fetching up against the trunk of one of the big trees that shaded the block. He<br />stood where he was, staring at the front door of his house, marked and disfigured with<br />the symbols of his mother’s hate for him.<br />No, he reminded himself. She didn’t hate him. She thought he was dead. What she<br />hated was something that didn’t exist. I am not what she says I am.<br />He didn’t know how long he would have stood there, staring, if his phone hadn’t begun<br />to ring, vibrating his coat pocket.<br />He reached for it reflexively, noticing that the pattern from the front of the mezuzah—<br />interlocked Stars of David—was burned into the palm of his hand. He switched hands and<br />put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”<br />“Simon?” It was Clary. She sounded breathless. “Where are you?”<br />“Home,” he said, and paused. “My mother’s house,” he amended. His voice sounded<br />hollow and distant to his own ears. “Why aren’t you back at the Institute? Is everyone all<br />right?”<br />“That’s just it,” she said. “Just after you left, Maryse came back down from the roof<br />where Jace was supposed to be waiting. There was no one there.”<br />Simon moved. Without quite realizing he was doing it, like a mechanical doll, he began<br />walking up the street, toward the subway station. “What do you mean, there was no one<br />there?”<br />“Jace was gone,” she said, and he could hear the strain in her voice. “And so was<br />Sebastian.”<br />Simon stopped in the shadow of a bare-branched tree. “But Sebastian was dead. He’s<br />dead, Clary—”<br />“Then you tell me why his body isn’t there, because it isn’t,” she said, her voice finally<br />breaking. “There’s nothing up there but a lot of blood and broken glass. They’re both<br />gone, Simon. Jace is gone.…”<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-340892691233856005.post-57924277345709377882013-01-21T04:10:00.000-08:002013-03-14T07:07:31.336-07:00City of Fallen Angels - Chapter 19<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1qI7cxLU8jVfFFfQOTXn8asHC3zU52g26ZYvwT8NGhtlyzFP7GdqRq6tFgp5M9nN6lyg2RtDdBZJ-nF3mOiEvSqUhPiyjZ9rqe_3pvmrD7ci5tI98oMKaiBcZ7RctuwNDdaI_NhSoYc/s1600/City+of+Fallen+Angels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1qI7cxLU8jVfFFfQOTXn8asHC3zU52g26ZYvwT8NGhtlyzFP7GdqRq6tFgp5M9nN6lyg2RtDdBZJ-nF3mOiEvSqUhPiyjZ9rqe_3pvmrD7ci5tI98oMKaiBcZ7RctuwNDdaI_NhSoYc/s320/City+of+Fallen+Angels.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br /><br />HELL IS SATISFIED<br />The unimaginable brilliance printed on the back of Clary’s eyelids faded into darkness. A<br />surprisingly long darkness that gave way slowly to an intermittent grayish light, blotched<br />with shadows. There was something hard and cold pressing into her back, and her whole<br />body hurt. She heard murmured voices above her, which sent a stab of pain through her<br />head. Someone touched her gently on the throat, and the hand was withdrawn. She took a<br />deep breath.<br />Her whole body was throbbing. She opened her eyes to slits, and looked around her,<br />trying not to move very much. She was lying on the hard tiles of the rooftop garden, one<br />of the paving stones digging into her back. She had fallen to the ground when Lilith<br />vanished, and was covered in cuts and bruises, her shoes were gone, her knees were<br />bleeding, and her dress was slashed where Lilith had cut her with the magical whip,<br />blood welling through the rents in her silk dress.<br />Simon was kneeling over her, his face anxious. The Mark of Cain still gleamed whitely<br />on his forehead. “Her pulse is steady,” he was saying, “but come on. You’re supposed to<br />have all those healing runes. There must be something you can do for her—”<br />“Not without a stele. Lilith made me throw Clary’s away so she couldn’t grab it from me<br />when she woke up.” The voice was Jace’s, low and tense with suppressed anguish. He<br />knelt across from Simon, on her other side, his face in shadow. “Can you carry her<br />downstairs? If we can get her to the Institute—”<br />“You want me to carry her?” Simon sounded surprised; Clary didn’t blame him.<br />“I doubt she’d want me touching her.” Jace stood up, as if he couldn’t bear to remain in<br />one place. “If you could—”<br />His voice cracked, and he turned away, staring at the place where Lilith had stood until a<br />moment ago, a bare patch of stone now silvered with scattered molecules of salt. Clary<br />heard Simon sigh—a deliberate sound—and he bent over her, his hands on her arms.<br />She opened her eyes the rest of the way, and their gazes met. Though she knew he<br />realized she was conscious, neither of them said anything. It was hard for her to look at<br />him, at that familiar face with the mark she had given him blazing like a white star above<br />his eyes.<br />She had known, giving him the Mark of Cain, that she was doing something enormous,<br />something terrifying and colossal whose outcome was almost totally unpredictable. She<br />would have done it again, to save his life. But still, while he’d been standing there, the<br />Mark burning like white lightning as Lilith—a Greater Demon as old as mankind itself—<br />charred away to salt, she had thought, What have I done?<br />“I’m all right,” she said. She lifted herself up onto her elbows; they hurt horribly. At<br />some point she’d landed on them and scraped off all the skin. “I can walk just fine.”<br />At the sound of her voice, Jace turned. The sight of him tore at her. He was shockingly<br />bruised and bloody, a long scratch running the length of his cheek, his lower lip swollen,<br />and a dozen bleeding rents in his clothes. She wasn’t used to seeing him so damaged—<br />but of course, if he didn’t have a stele to heal her, he didn’t have one to heal himself,<br />either.<br />His expression was absolutely blank. Even Clary, used to reading his face as if she were<br />reading the pages of a book, could read nothing in it. His gaze dropped to her throat,<br />where she could still feel the stinging pain, the blood crusting there where his knife had<br />cut her. The nothingness of his expression cracked, and he looked away before she could<br />see his face change.<br />Waving away Simon’s offer of a helping hand, she tried to rise to her feet. A searing pain<br />shot through her ankle, and she cried out, then bit her lip. Shadowhunters didn’t scream<br />in pain. They bore it stoically, she reminded herself. No whimpering.<br />“It’s my ankle,” she said. “I think it might be sprained, or broken.”<br />Jace looked at Simon. “Carry her,” he said. “Like I told you.”<br />This time Simon didn’t wait for Clary’s response; he slid one arm under her knees and<br />the other under her shoulders and lifted her; she looped her arms around his neck and<br />held on tight. Jace headed toward the cupola and the doors that led inside. Simon<br />followed, carrying Clary as carefully as if she were breakable porcelain. Clary had almost<br />forgotten how strong he was, now that he was a vampire. He no longer smelled like<br />himself, she thought, a little wistfully—that Simon-smell of soap and cheap aftershave<br />(that he really didn’t need) and his favorite cinnamon gum. His hair still smelled like his<br />shampoo, but otherwise he seemed to have no smell at all, and his skin where she touched<br />it was cold. She tightened her arms around his neck, wishing he had some body heat. The<br />tips of her fingers looked bluish, and her body felt numb.<br />Jace, ahead of them, shouldered the glass double doors open. Then they were inside,<br />where it was mercifully slightly warmer. It was strange, Clary thought, being held by<br />someone whose chest didn’t rise and fall as they breathed. A strange electricity still<br />seemed to cling to Simon, a remnant of the brutally shining light that had enveloped the<br />roof when Lilith was destroyed. She wanted to ask him how he was feeling, but Jace’s<br />silence was so devastatingly total that she felt afraid to break it.<br />He reached for the elevator call button, but before his finger touched it, the doors slid<br />open of their own accord, and Isabelle seemed to almost explode through them, her<br />silvery-gold whip trailing behind her like the tail of a comet. Alec followed, hard on her<br />heels; seeing Jace, Clary, and Simon there, Isabelle skidded to a stop, Alec nearly<br />crashing into her from behind. Under other circumstances it would almost have been<br />funny.<br />“But—,” Isabelle gasped. She was cut and bloodied, her beautiful red dress torn raggedly<br />around the knees, her black hair having come down out of its updo, strands of it matted<br />with blood. Alec looked as if he had fared only a little better; one sleeve of his jacket was<br />sliced open down the side, though it didn’t look as if the skin beneath had been injured.<br />“What are you doing here?”<br />Jace, Clary, and Simon all stared at her blankly, too shell-shocked to respond. Finally<br />Jace said dryly, “We could ask you the same question.”<br />“I didn’t—We thought you and Clary were at the party,” Isabelle said. Clary had rarely<br />seen Isabelle so not selfpossessed. “We were looking for Simon.”<br />Clary felt Simon’s chest lift, a sort of reflexive human gasp of surprise. “You were?”<br />Isabelle flushed. “I . . .”<br />“Jace?” It was Alec, his tone commanding. He had given Clary and Simon an astonished<br />look, but then his attention went, as it always did, to Jace. He might not be in love with<br />Jace anymore, if he ever really had been, but they were still parabatai, and Jace was<br />always first on his mind in any battle. “What are you doing here? And for the Angel’s<br />sake, what happened to you?”<br />Jace stared at Alec, almost as if he didn’t know him. He looked like someone in a<br />nightmare, examining a new landscape not because it was surprising or dramatic but to<br />prepare himself for whatever horrors it might reveal.<br />“Stele,” he said finally, in a cracking voice. “Do you have your stele?”<br />Alec reached for his belt, looking baffled. “Of course.” He held the stele out to Jace. “If<br />you need an iratze—”<br />“Not for me,” Jace said, still in the same odd, cracked voice. “Her.” He pointed at Clary.<br />“She needs it more than I do.”His eyes metAlec’s, gold and blue.“Please,Alec,” he said,<br />the harshness gone from his voice as suddenly as it had come. “Help her for me.”<br />He turned and walked away, toward the far side of the room, where the glass doors were.<br />He stood, staring through them—at the garden outside or his own reflection, Clary<br />couldn’t tell.<br />Alec looked after Jace for a moment, then came toward Clary and Simon, stele in hand.<br />He indicated that Simon should lower Clary to the floor, which he did gently, letting her<br />brace her back against the wall. He stepped back asAlec kneltdownover her. She could<br />see the confusioninAlec’s face, and his look of surprise as he sawhow bad the cuts across<br />her arm and abdomen were. “Who did this to you?”<br />“I—” Clary looked helplessly toward Jace, who still had his back to them. She could see<br />his reflection in the glass doors, his face a white smudge, darkened here and there with<br />bruises. The front of his shirt was dark with blood.<br />“It’s hard to explain.”<br />“Why didn’t you summon us?” Isabelle demanded, her voice thin with betrayal. “Why<br />didn’t you tell us you were coming here? Why didn’t you send a fire-message, or<br />anything? You know we would have come if you needed us.”<br />“There wasn’t time,” Simon said. “And I didn’t know Clary and Jace were going to be<br />here. I thought I was the only one. It didn’t seem right to drag you into my problems.”<br />“D-drag me into your problems?” Isabelle sputtered. “You—,” she began—and then to<br />everyone’s surprise, clearly including her own, she flung herself at Simon, wrapping her<br />arms around his neck. He staggered backward, unprepared for the assault, but he<br />recovered quickly enough. His arms went around her, nearly snagging on the dangling<br />whip, and he held her tightly, her dark head just under his chin. Clary couldn’t quite<br />tell—Isabelle was speaking too softly—but it sounded like she was swearing at Simon<br />under her breath.<br />Alec’s eyebrows went up, but he made no comment as he bent over Clary, blocking her<br />view of Isabelle and Simon. He touched the stele to her skin, and she jumped atthe<br />stinging pain.“Iknow it hurts,” he said ina low voice.“Ithink youhit your head. Magnus<br />oughtto look atyou. Whatabout Jace? Howbadlyis he hurt?”<br />“I don’t know.” Clary shook her head. “He won’t let me near him.”<br />Alec put his hand under her chin, turning her face from side to side, and sketched a<br />second light iratze on the side of her throat, just under her jawline. “What did he do that<br />he thinks was so terrible?”<br />She flicked her eyes up toward him. “What makes you think he did anything?”<br />Alec let go of her chin. “Because I know him. And the way he punishes himself. Not<br />letting you near him is punishing himself, not punishing you.”<br />“He doesn’t want me near him,” Clary said, hearing the rebelliousness in her own voice<br />and hating herself for being petty.<br />“You’re all he ever wants,” said Alec in a surprisingly gentle tone, and he sat back on his<br />heels, pushing his long dark hair out of his eyes. There was something different about<br />him these days, Clary thought, a surety about himself he hadn’t had when she had first<br />met him, something that allowed him to be generous with others as he had never been<br />generous with himself before. “How did you two wind up here, anyway? We didn’t even<br />notice you leave the party with Simon—”<br />“They didn’t,” said Simon. He and Isabelle had detached themselves, but still stood close<br />to each other, side by side. “I came here alone. Well, not exactly alone. I was—<br />summoned.”<br />Clary nodded. “It’s true. We didn’t leave the party with him. When Jace brought me here,<br />I had no idea Simon was going to be here too.”<br />“Jace brought you here?” Isabelle said, amazed. “Jace, if you knew about Lilith and the<br />Church of Talto, you should have said something.”<br />Jace was still staring through the doors. “I guess it slipped my mind,” he said tonelessly.<br />Clary shook her head as Alec and Isabelle looked from their adoptive brother to her, as if<br />for an explanation of his behavior. “It wasn’t really Jace,” she said finally. “He was . . .<br />being controlled. By Lilith.”<br />“Possession?” Isabelle’s eyes rounded into surprised Os. Her hand tightened on her whip<br />handle reflexively.<br />Jace turned away from the doors. Slowly he reached up and drew open his mangled shirt<br />so that they could see the ugly possession rune, and the bloody slash that ran through it.<br />“That,” he said, still in the same toneless voice, “is Lilith’s mark. It’s how she controlled<br />me.”<br />Alec shook his head; he looked deeply disturbed. “Jace, usually the only way to sever a<br />demonic connection like that is to kill the demon who’s doing the controlling. Lilith is<br />one of the most powerful demons who ever—”<br />“She’s dead,” said Clary abruptly. “Simon killed her. Or I guess you could say the Mark<br />of Cain killed her.”<br />They all stared at Simon. “And what about you two? How did you end up here?” he<br />asked, his tone defensive.<br />“Looking for you,” Isabelle said. “We found that card Lilith must have given you. In your<br />apartment. Jordan let us in.<br />He’s with Maia, downstairs.” She shuddered. “The things Lilith’s been doing—you<br />wouldn’t believe—so horrible —”<br />Alec held his hands up. “Slow down, everyone. We’ll explain what happened with us,<br />and then Simon, Clary, you explain what happened on your end.”<br />The explanation took less time than Clary thought it would, with Isabelle doing much of<br />the talking with wide, sweeping hand gestures that threatened, on occasion, to sever one<br />of her friends’ unprotected limbs with her whip. Alec took the opportunity to go out onto<br />the roof deck to send a fire-message to the Clave telling them where they were and asking<br />for backup. Jace stepped aside wordlessly to let him by as he left, and again when he<br />came back in. He didn’t speak during Simon and Clary’s explanation of what had<br />happened on the rooftop either, even when they got to the part about Raziel having raised<br />Jace from the dead back in Idris. It was Izzy who finally interrupted, when Clary began to<br />explain about Lilith being Sebastian’s “mother” and keeping his body encased in glass.<br />“Sebastian?” Isabelle slammed her whip against the ground with enough force to open up<br />a crack in the marble.<br />“Sebastian is out there? And he’s not dead?” She turned to look at Jace, who was leaning<br />against the glass doors, arms crossed, expressionless. “I saw him die. I saw Jace cut his<br />spine in half, and I saw him fall into the river. And now you’re telling me he’s alive out<br />there?”<br />“No,” Simon hastened to reassure her. “His body’s there, but he’s not alive. Lilith didn’t<br />get to complete the ceremony.” Simon put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off.<br />She had gone a deadly white color.<br />“‘Not really alive’ isn’t dead enough for me,” she said. “I’m going out there and I’m<br />going to cut him into a thousand pieces.” She turned toward the doors.<br />“Iz!” Simon put his hand on her shoulder. “Izzy. No.”<br />“No?” She looked at him incredulously. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t chop<br />him into worthlessbastardthemed confetti.”<br />Simon’s eyes darted around the room, resting for a moment on Jace, as if he expected<br />him to chime in or add a comment. He didn’t; he didn’t even move. Finally Simon said,<br />“Look, you understand about the ritual, right?<br />Because Jace was brought back from the dead, that gave Lilith the power to raise<br />Sebastian. And to do that, she needed Jace there and alive, as—what did she call it—”<br />“A counterweight,” put in Clary.<br />“That mark that Jace has on his chest. Lilith’s mark.” In a seemingly unconscious<br />gesture, Simon touched his own chest, just over the heart. “Sebastian has it too. I saw<br />them both flash at the same time when Jace stepped into the circle.”<br />Isabelle, her whip twitching at her side, her teeth biting into her red bottom lip, said<br />impatiently, “And?”<br />“I think she was making a tie between them,” said Simon. “If Jace died, Sebastian<br />couldn’t live. So if you cut Sebastian into pieces—”<br />“It could hurt Jace,” Clary said, the words spilling out of her as she realized. “Oh, my<br />God. Oh, Izzy, you can’t.”<br />“So we’re just going to let him live?” Isabelle sounded incredulous.<br />“Cut him to pieces if you like,” Jace said. “You have my permission.”<br />“Shut up,” said Alec. “Stop acting like your life doesn’t matter. Iz, weren’t you listening?<br />Sebastian’s not alive.”<br />“He’s not dead, either. Not dead enough.”<br />“We need the Clave,” said Alec. “We need to give him over to the Silent Brothers. They<br />can sever his connection to Jace, and then you’ll get all the blood you want, Iz. He’s<br />Valentine’s son. And he’s a murderer. Everyone lost someone in the battle inAlicante,<br />orknows someone who did. Youthink they’ll be kind to him? They’ll take him apart<br />slowly while he’s still living.”<br />Isabelle stared up at her brother. Very slowly tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her<br />cheeks, streaking the dirt and blood on her skin. “I hate it,” she said. “I hate it when<br />you’re right.”<br />Alec pulled his sister closer and kissed the top of her head. “I know you do.”<br />She squeezed her brother’s hand briefly, then drew back. “Fine,” she said. “I won’t touch<br />Sebastian. But I can’t stand to be this close to him.” She glanced toward the glass doors,<br />where Jace still stood. “Let’s go downstairs.<br />We can wait for the Clave in the lobby. And we need to get Maia and Jordan; they’re<br />probably wondering where we went.”<br />Simon cleared his throat. “Someone should stay up here just to keep an eye on—on<br />things. I’ll do it.”<br />“No.” It was Jace. “You go downstairs. I’ll stay. All of this is my fault. I should have<br />made sure Sebastian was dead when I had the chance. And as for the rest of it . . .”<br />His voice trailed off. But Clary remembered him touching her face in a dark hallway in<br />the Institute, remembered him whispering, Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.<br />My fault, my fault, my own most grievous fault.<br />She turned to look at the others; Isabelle had pushed the call button, which was lit. Clary<br />could hear the distant hum of the rising elevator. Isabelle’s brow creased. “Alec, maybe<br />you should stay up here with Jace.”<br />“I don’t need help,” Jace said. “There’s nothing to handle. I’ll be fine.”<br />Isabelle threw her hands up as the elevator arrived with a ping. “Fine. You win. Sulk up<br />here alone if you want.” She stalked into the elevator, Simon and Alec crowding in after<br />her. Clary was the last to follow, turning back to look at Jace as she went. He had gone<br />back to staring at the doors, but she could see his reflection in them. His mouth was<br />compressed into a bloodless line, his eyes dark.<br />Jace, she thought as the elevator doors began to close. She willed him to turn, to look at<br />her. He didn’t, but she felt strong hands suddenly on her shoulders, shoving her forward.<br />She heard Isabelle say, “Alec, what on earth are you —” as she stumbled through the<br />elevator doors and righted herself, turning to stare. The doors were closing behind her,<br />but through them she could see Alec. He gave her a rueful little half smile and a shrug, as<br />if to say, What else was I supposed to do? Clary stepped forward, but it was too late; the<br />elevator doors had clanged shut.<br />She was alone in the room with Jace.<br />The room was littered with dead bodies—crumpled figures all in gray hooded tracksuits,<br />flung or crumpled or slumped against the wall. Maia stood by the window, breathing<br />hard, looking out across the scene in front of her with disbelief. She had taken part in the<br />battle at Brocelind in Idris, and had thought that was the worst thing she would ever see.<br />But somehow this was worse. The blood that ran from dead cult members wasn’t demon<br />ichor; it was human blood. And the babies—silent and dead in their cribs, their small<br />taloned hands folded one over the other, like dolls . . .<br />She looked down at her own hands. Her claws were still out, stained with blood from tip<br />to root; she retracted them, and the blood ran down her palms, staining her wrists. Her<br />feet were bare and bloodstained, and there was a long scratch along one bare shoulder<br />still oozing red, though it had already begun to heal. Despite the swift healing<br />lycanthropy provided, she knew she’d wake up tomorrow covered in bruises. When you<br />were a werewolf, bruises rarely lasted more than a day. She remembered when she had<br />been human, and her brother, Daniel, had made himself an expert in pinching her hard in<br />places where the bruises wouldn’t show.<br />“Maia.” Jordan came in through one of the unfinished doors, ducking a bundle of<br />dangling wires. He straightened up and moved toward her, picking his way among the<br />bodies. “Are you all right?”<br />The look of concern on his face knotted her stomach.<br />“Where are Isabelle and Alec?”<br />He shook his head. He had sustained much less visible damage than she had. His thick<br />leather jacket had protected him, as had his jeans and boots. There was a long scrape<br />along his cheek, dried blood in his light brown hair and staining the blade of the knife he<br />held. “I’ve searched the whole floor. Haven’t seen them. Couple more bodies in the other<br />rooms. They might have—”<br />The night lit up like a seraph blade. The windows went white, and bright light seared<br />through the room. For a moment Maia thought the world had caught on fire, and Jordan,<br />moving toward her through the light, seemed almost to disappear, white on white, into a<br />shimmering field of silver. She heard herself scream, and she moved blindly backward,<br />banging her head on the plate glass window. She put her hands up to cover her eyes—<br />And the light was gone. Maia lowered her hands, the world swinging around her. She<br />reached out blindly, and Jordan was there. She put her arms around him—threw them<br />around him, the way she used to when he came to pick her up from her house, and he<br />would swing her into his arms, winding the curls of her hair through his fingers.<br />He had been slighter then, narrow-shouldered. Now muscle corded his bones, and<br />holding him was like holding on to something absolutely solid, a pillar of granite in the<br />midst of a blowing desert sandstorm. She clung on to him, and heard the beat of his heart<br />under her ear as his hands smoothed her hair, one rough, soothing stroke at a time,<br />comforting and . . . familiar. “Maia . . . it’s all right . . .”<br />She raised her head and pressed her mouth to his. He had changed in so many ways, but<br />the feel of kissing him was the same, his mouth as soft as ever. He went rigid for a<br />second with surprise, and then gathered her up against him, his hands stroking slow<br />circles on her bare back. She remembered the first time they had ever kissed. She had<br />handed him her earrings to put in the glove compartment of his car, and his hand had<br />shaken so badly he’d dropped them and then apologized and apologized until she kissed<br />him to shut him up. She’d thought he was the sweetest boy she’d ever known.<br />And then he was bitten, and everything changed.<br />She drew away, dizzy and breathing hard. He let her go instantly; he was staring at her,<br />his mouth open, his eyes dazed. Behind him, through the window, she could see the<br />city—she had half expected it to be flattened, a blasted white desert outside the<br />window—but everything was exactly the same. Nothing had changed. Lights blinked on<br />and off in the buildings across the street; she could hear the faint rush of traffic below.<br />“We should go,” she said.<br />“We should look for the others.”<br />“Maia,” he said. “Why did you just kiss me?”<br />“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think we should try the elevators?”<br />“Maia—”<br />“Idon’tknow,Jordan,” she said. “Idon’tknow whyIkissed you, and Idon’tknowif I’m<br />going to do it again, but Ido know I’m freaked out and worried about my friends and I<br />want to get out of here. Okay?”<br />He nodded. He looked like there were a million things he wanted to say but had<br />determined not to say them, for which she was grateful. He ran a hand through his tousled<br />hair, rimed white with plaster dust, and nodded. “Okay.”<br />Silence. Jace was still leaning against the door, only now he had his forehead pressed<br />against it, his eyes closed.<br />Clary wondered if he even knew she was in the room with him. She took a step forward,<br />but before she could say anything, he pushed the doors open and walked back out into the<br />garden.<br />She stood still for a moment, staring after him. She could call for the elevator, of course,<br />ride it down, wait for the Clave in the lobby with everyone else. If Jace didn’t want to<br />talk, he didn’t want to talk. She couldn’t force him to. If Alec was right, and he was<br />punishing himself, she’d just have to wait until he got over it.<br />She turned toward the elevator—and stopped. A little flame of anger licked its way<br />through her, making her eyes burn. No, she thought. She didn’t have to let him behave<br />like this. Maybe he could be this way to everyone else, but not to her. He owed her better<br />than that. They owed each other better than that.<br />She whirled and made her way to the doors. Her ankle still ached, but the iratzes Alec<br />had put on her were working. Most of the pain in her body had subsided to a dull,<br />throbbing ache. She reached the doors and pushed them open, stepping onto the roof<br />terrace with a wince as her bare feet came into contact with the freezing tiles.<br />She saw Jace immediately; he was kneeling near the steps, on tiles stained with blood and<br />ichor and glittering with salt. He rose as she approached, and he turned, something shiny<br />dangling from his hand.<br />The Morgenstern ring, on its chain.<br />The wind had come up; it blew his dark gold hair across his face. He pushed it away<br />impatiently and said, “I just remembered that we left this here.”<br />His voice sounded surprisingly normal.<br />“Is that why you wanted to stay up here?” said Clary. “To get it back?”<br />He turned his hand, so the chain swung upward, his fingers closing over the ring. “I’m<br />attached to it. It’s stupid, I know.”<br />“You could have said, or Alec could have stayed—”<br />“I don’t belong with the rest of you,” he said abruptly. “After what I did, I don’t deserve<br />iratzes and healing and hugs and being consoled and whatever else it is my friends are<br />going to think I need. I’d rather stay up here with him.”<br />He jerked his chin toward the place where Sebastian’s motionless body lay in the open<br />coffin, on its stone pedestal. “And I sure as hell don’t deserve you.”<br />Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you ever thought about what I deserve?<br />That maybe I deserve to get a chance to talk to you about what happened?”<br />He stared at her. They were only a few feet apart, but it felt as if an inexpressible gulf lay<br />between them. “I don’t know why you would even want to look at me, much less talk to<br />me.”<br />“Jace,” she said. “Those things you did—that wasn’t you.”<br />He hesitated. The sky was so black, the lit windows of the nearby skyscrapers so bright, it<br />was as if they stood in the center of a net of shining jewels. “If it wasn’t me,” he said,<br />“then why can I remember everything I did? When people are possessed, and they come<br />back from it, they don’t remember what they did when the demon inhabited them. But I<br />remember everything.” He turned abruptly and walked away, toward the roof garden<br />wall. She followed him, glad for the distance it put between them and Sebastian’s body,<br />now hidden from view by a row of hedges.<br />“Jace!” she called out, and he turned, his back to the wall, slumping against it. Behind<br />him a city’s worth of electricity lit up the night like the demon towers of Alicante. “You<br />remember because she wanted you to remember,” Clary said, catching up with him, a<br />little breathless. “She did this to torture you as much as she did it to get Simon to do what<br />she wanted. She wanted you to have to watch yourself hurt the people you love.”<br />“I was watching,” he said in a low voice. “It was as if some part of me was off at a<br />distance, watching and screaming at myself to stop. But the rest of me felt completely<br />peaceful and like what I was doing was right. Like it was the only thing I could do. I<br />wonder if that’s how Valentine felt about everything he did. Like it was so easy to be<br />right.” He looked away from her. “I can’t stand it,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here with<br />me. You should just go.” was the only thing I could do. I wonder if that’s how Valentine<br />felt about everything he did. Like it was so easy to be right.” He looked away from her. “I<br />can’t stand it,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here with me. You should just go.”<br />Instead of leaving, Clary moved to stand beside him against the wall. Her arms were<br />already wrapped around herself; she was shivering. Finally, reluctantly, he turned his<br />head to look at her again. “Clary . . .”<br />“You don’t get to decide,” she said, “where I go, or when.”<br />“I know.” His voice was ragged. “I’ve always known that about you. I don’t know why I<br />had to fall in love with someone who’s more stubborn than I am.”<br />Clary was silent a moment. Her heart had contracted at those two words—“in love.” “All<br />those things you said to me,” she said in a half whisper, “on the terrace at the<br />Ironworks—did you mean them?”<br />His golden eyes dulled. “Which things?”<br />That you loved me, she almost said, but thinking back—he hadn’t said that, had he? Not<br />the words themselves.<br />The implication had been there. And the truth of the fact, that they loved each other, was<br />something she knew as clearly as she knew her own name.<br />“You kept asking me if I would love you if you were like Sebastian, like Valentine.”<br />“And you said then I wouldn’t be me. Look how wrong that turned out to be,” he said,<br />bitterness coloring his voice.<br />“What I did tonight—”<br />Clary moved toward him; he tensed, but didn’t move away. She took hold of the front of<br />his shirt, leaned in closely, and said, enunciating each word clearly, “That wasn’t you.”<br />“Tell that to your mother,” he said. “Tell it to Luke, when they ask where this came<br />from.” He touched her collarbone gently; the wound was healed now, but her skin, and<br />the fabric of her dress, were still stained darkly with blood.<br />“I’ll tell them,” she said. “I’ll tell them it was my fault.”<br />He looked at her, gold eyes incredulous. “You can’t lie to them.”<br />“I’m not. I brought you back,” she said. “You were dead, and I brought you back. I upset<br />the balance, not you. I opened the door for Lilith and her stupid ritual. I could have asked<br />for anything, and I asked for you.” She tightened her grip on his shirt, her fingers white<br />with cold and pressure. “And I would do it again. I love you, Jace Wayland—<br />Herondale—Lightwood—whatever you want to call yourself. I don’t care. I love you and<br />I will always love you, and pretending it could be any other way is just a waste of time.”<br />A look of such pain crossed his face that Clary felt her heart tighten. Then he reached out<br />and took her face between his hands. His palms were warm against her cheeks.<br />“Remember when I told you,” he said, his voice as soft as she had ever heard it, “that I<br />didn’t know if there was a God or not, but either way, we were completely on our own? I<br />still don’t know the answer; I only knew that there was sucha thing as faith,and that<br />Ididn’t deserve to have it.And thenthere was you. You changed everything I believed in.<br />Youknow thatline from Dante that Iquoted to you inthe park? ‘L’amor che move ilsole e<br />l’altre stelle’?”<br />Her lips curled a little at the sides as she looked up at him. “I still don’t speak Italian.”<br />“It’s a bit of the very last verse from Paradiso—Dante’s Paradise. ‘My will and my desire<br />were turned by love, the love that moves the sun and the other stars.’ Dante was trying to<br />explain faith, I think, as an overpowering love, and maybe it’s blasphemous, but that’s<br />how I think of the way that I love you. You came into my life and suddenly I had one<br />truth to hold on to—that I loved you, and you loved me.”<br />Though he seemed to be looking at her, his gaze was distant, as if fixed on something far<br />away.<br />“Then I started to have the dreams,” he went on. “And I thought maybe I’d been wrong.<br />That I didn’t deserve you.<br />That I didn’t deserve to be perfectly happy—I mean, God, who deserves that? And after<br />tonight—”<br />“Stop.” She had been clutching his shirt; she loosened her grip now, flattening her hands<br />against his chest. His heart was racing under her fingertips; his cheeks flushed, and not<br />just from the cold. “Jace. Through everything that happened tonight, I knew one thing.<br />That it wasn’t you hurting me. It wasn’t you doing these things. I have an absolute<br />incontrovertible belief that you are good. And that will never change.”<br />Jace took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t even know how to try to deserve that.”<br />“You don’t have to. I have enough faith in you,” she said, “for both of us.”<br />His hands slid into her hair. The mist of their exhaled breath rose between them, a white<br />cloud. “I missed you so much,” he said, and kissed her, his mouth gentle on hers, not<br />desperate and hungry the way it had been the last few times he had kissed her, but<br />familiar and tender and soft.<br />She closed her eyes as the world seemed to spin around her like a pinwheel. Sliding her<br />hands up his chest, she stretched upward as far as she could, wrapping her arms around<br />his neck, rising up on her toes to meet his mouth with hers. His fingers skimmed down<br />her body, over skin and satin, and she shivered, leaning into him, and she was sure they<br />both tasted like blood and ashes and salt, but it didn’t matter; the world, the city, and all<br />its lights and life seemed to have narrowed down to this, just her and Jace, the burning<br />heart of a frozen world.<br />He drew away first, reluctantly. She realized why a moment later. The sound of honking<br />cars and screeching tires from the street below was audible, even up here. “The Clave,”<br />he said resignedly—though he had to clear his throat to get the words out, Clary was<br />pleased to hear. His face was flushed, as she imagined hers was. “They’re here.”<br />With her hand in his Clary looked over the edge of the roof wall and saw that a number<br />of long black cars had drawn up in front of the scaffolding. People were piling out. It was<br />hard to recognize them from this height, but Clary thought she saw Maryse, and several<br />other people dressed in gear. A moment later Luke’s truck roared up to the curb and<br />Jocelyn leaped out. Clary would have known it was her, just from the way she moved, at<br />a greater distance than this one.<br />Clary turned to Jace. “My mom,” she said. “I’d better get downstairs. I don’t want her<br />coming up here and seeing— and seeing him.” She jerked her chin toward Sebastian’s<br />coffin.<br />He stroked her hair back from her face. “I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”<br />“Then, come with me.”<br />“No. Someone should stay up here.” He took her hand, turned it over, and dropped the<br />Morgenstern ring into it, the chain pooling like liquid metal. The clasp had bent when<br />she’d torn it off, but he’d managed to push it back into shape. “Please take it.”<br />Her eyes flicked down, and then, uncertainly, back up to his face. “I wish I understood<br />what it meant to you.”<br />He shrugged slightly. “I wore it for a decade,” he said. “Some part of me is in it. It means<br />I trust you with my past and all the secrets that past carries. And besides”—lightly he<br />touched one of the stars engraved around the rim —“‘the love that moves the sun and all<br />the other stars.’ Pretend that that’s what the stars stand for, not Morgenstern.”<br />In answer she dropped the chain back over her head, feeling the ring settle in its<br />accustomed place, below her collarbone. It felt like a puzzle piece clicking back into<br />place. For a moment their eyes locked in wordless communication, more intense in some<br />ways than their physical contact had been; she held the image of him in her mind in that<br />moment as if she were memorizing it—the tangled golden hair, the shadows cast by his<br />lashes, the rings of darker gold inside the light amber of his eyes. “I’ll be right back,” she<br />said. She squeezed his hand. “Five minutes.”<br />“Go on,” he said roughly, releasing her hand, and she turned and went back down the<br />path. The moment she stepped away from him, she was cold again, and by the time she<br />reached the doors to the building, she was freezing. She paused as she opened the door,<br />and looked back at him, but he was only a shadow, backlit by the glow of the New York<br />skyline. The love that moves the sun and all the other stars, she thought, and then, as if in<br />answering echo, she heard Lilith’s words. The kind of love that can burn down the world<br />or raise it up in glory. A shiver ran through her, and not just from the cold. She looked for<br />Jace, but he had vanished into the shadows; she turned and headed back inside, the door<br />sliding shut behind her.<br />Alec had gone upstairs to look for Jordan and Maia, and Simon and Isabelle were alone<br />together, sitting side by side on the green chaise longue in the lobby. Isabelle held Alec’s<br />witchlight in her hand, illuminating the room with a nearly spectral glow, sparking<br />dancing motes of fire from the pendant chandelier.<br />She had said very little since her brother had left them together. Her head was bent, her<br />dark hair falling forward, her gaze on her hands. They were delicate hands, long-fingered,<br />but calloused as her brothers’ were. Simon had never noticed before, but she wore a<br />silver ring on her right hand, with a pattern of flames around the band of it, and a carved<br />L in the center. It reminded him of the ring Clary wore around her neck, with its design of<br />stars.<br />“It’s the Lightwood family ring,” she said, noticing where his gaze was fixed. “Every<br />family has an emblem. Ours is fire.”<br />It suits you, he thought. Izzy was like fire, in her flaming scarlet dress, with her moods as<br />changeable as sparks. On the roof he’d half-thought she’d strangle him, her arms around<br />his neck as she called him every name under the sun while clutching him like she’d never<br />let him go. Now she was staring off into the distance, as untouchable as a star. It was all<br />very disconcerting.<br />You love them so, Camille had said, your Shadowhunter friends. As the falcon loves the<br />master who binds and blinds it.<br />“What you told us,” he said, a little halting, watching Isabelle wind a strand of her hair<br />around her forefinger, “up there on the roof—that you hadn’t known that Clary and Jace<br />were missing, that you’d come here for me—was that true?”<br />Isabelle looked up, tucking the strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course it’s true,” she<br />said indignantly. “When we saw you were gone from the party—and you’ve been in<br />danger for days, Simon, and what with Camille escaping —” She caught herself up short.<br />“And Jordan’s responsible for you. He was freaking out.”<br />“So it was his idea to come looking for me?”<br />Isabelle turned to look at him for a long moment. Her eyes were fathomless and dark. “I<br />was the one who noticed you were gone,” she said. “I was the one who wanted to find<br />you.”<br />Simoncleared his throat. He felt oddlylight-headed.“But why? Ithought youhated me<br />now.”<br />It had been the wrong thing to say. Isabelle shook her head, her dark hair flying, and<br />moved a little away from him on the settee. “Oh, Simon. Don’t be dense.”<br />“Iz.” He reached out and touched her wrist, hesitantly. She didn’t move away, just<br />watched him. “Camille said something to me in the Sanctuary. She said that<br />Shadowhunters didn’t care about Downworlders, just used them.<br />She said the Nephilim would never do for me what I did for them. But you did. You came<br />for me. You came for me.”<br />“Of course I did,” she said, in a muffled little voice. “When I thought something had<br />happened to you—”<br />He leaned toward her. Their faces were inches from each other. He could see the<br />reflected sparks of the chandelier in her black eyes. Her lips were parted, and Simon<br />could feel the warmth of her breath. For the first time since he had become a vampire, he<br />could feel heat, like an electrical charge passing between them.<br />“Isabelle,” he said. Not Iz, not Izzy. Isabelle. “Can I—”<br />The elevator pinged; the doors opened, and Alec, Maia, and Jordan spilled out. Alec<br />looked suspiciously at Simon and Isabelle as they sprang apart, but before he could say<br />anything, the double doors of the lobby flew wide, and Shadowhunters poured into the<br />room. Simon recognized Kadir and Maryse, who immediately flew across the room to<br />Isabelle and caught her by the shoulders, demanding to know what had happened. across<br />the room to Isabelle and caught her by the shoulders, demanding to know what had<br />happened.<br />Simon got to his feet and edged away, feeling uncomfortable—and was nearly knocked<br />down by Magnus, racing across the room to get to Alec. He didn’t seem to see Simon at<br />all. After all, in a hundred, two hundred, years, it’ll be just you and me. We’ll be all that’s<br />left, Magnus had said to him in the Sanctuary. Feeling unutterably lonely among the<br />milling crowd of Shadowhunters, Simon pressed himself back against the wall in the vain<br />hope that he wouldn’t be noticed.<br />Alec looked up just as Magnus reached him, caught him, and pulled him close. His<br />fingers traced over Alec’s face as if checking for bruises or damage; under his breath, he<br />was muttering, “How could you—go off like this and not even tell me—I could have<br />helped you—”<br />“Stop it.” Alec pulled away, feeling mutinous.<br />Magnus checked himself, his voice sobering. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left<br />the party. I should have stayed with you. Camille’s gone anyway. No one’s got the<br />slightest idea where she went, and since you can’t track vampires . . .” He shrugged.<br />Alec pushed away the image of Camille in his mind, chained to the pipe, looking at him<br />with those fierce green eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “She doesn’t matter. I know you<br />were just trying to help. I’m not angry with you for leaving the party, anyway.”<br />“But you were angry,” said Magnus. “I knew you were. That’s why I was so worried.<br />Running off and putting yourself in danger just because you’re angry with me—”<br />“I’m a Shadowhunter,” Alec said. “Magnus, this is what I do. It’s not about you. Next<br />time fall in love with an insurance adjuster or—”<br />“Alexander,” said Magnus. “There isn’t going to be a next time.” He leaned his forehead<br />against Alec’s, goldgreen eyes staring into blue.<br />Alec’s heartbeat sped up. “Why not?” he said. “You live forever. Not everyone does.”<br />“I know I said that,” said Magnus. “But, Alexander—”<br />“Stop calling me that,” said Alec. “Alexander is what my parents call me. And I suppose<br />it’s very advanced of you to have accepted my mortality so fatalistically—everything<br />dies, blah, blah—but how do you think that makes me feel? Ordinary couples can hope—<br />hope to grow old together, hope to live long lives and die at the same time, but we can’t<br />hope for that. I don’t even know what it is you want.”<br />Alec wasn’t sure what he’d expected in response—anger or defensiveness or even<br />humor—but Magnus’s voice onlydropped,cracking slightlywhenhe said, “Alex—Alec. If<br />Igave youthe impressionIhad accepted the idea of your death I can only apologize. I tried<br />to, I thought I had—and yet still I pictured having you for fifty, sixty more years. I<br />thought I might be ready then to let you go. But it’s you, and I realize now that I won’t be<br />any more ready to lose you then than I am right now.” He put his hands gently to either<br />side of Alec’s face. “Which is not at all.”<br />“So what do we do?” Alec whispered.<br />Magnus shrugged, and smiled suddenly; with his messy black hair and the gleam in his<br />gold-green eyes, he looked like a mischievous teenager. “What everyone does,” he<br />replied. “Like you said. Hope.”<br />Alec and Magnus had begun kissing in the corner of the room, and Simon wasn’t quite<br />sure where to look. He didn’t want them to think he was staring at them during what was<br />clearly a private moment, but wherever else he looked, he met the glaring eyes of<br />Shadowhunters. Despite the fact that he’d fought with them in the bank against Camille,<br />none of them looked at him with particular friendliness. It was one thing for Isabelle to<br />accept him and to care about him, but Shadowhunters en masse were another thing<br />entirely. He could tell what they were thinking.<br />“Vampire, Downworlder, enemy” was written all over their faces. It came as a relief<br />when the doors burst open again and Jocelyn came flying in, still wearing her blue dress<br />from the party. Luke was only a few steps behind her.<br />“Simon!” she cried as soon as she caught sight of him. She ran over to him, and to his<br />surprise she hugged him fiercely before letting him go. “Simon, where’s Clary? Is she—”<br />Simon opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he explain to Jocelyn, of all<br />people, what had happened that night? Jocelyn, who would be horrified to know that so<br />much of Lilith’s evil, the children she had murdered, the blood she had spilled, had all<br />been in the service of making more creatures like Jocelyn’s own dead son, whose body<br />even now lay entombed on the rooftop where Clary was with Jace?<br />I can’t tell her any of this, he thought. I can’t. He looked past her at Luke, whose blue<br />eyes rested on him expectantly. Behind Clary’s family he could see the Shadowhunters<br />crowding around Isabelle as she presumably recounted the events of the evening.<br />“I—,” he began helplessly, and then the elevator doors opened again, and Clary stepped<br />out. Her shoes were gone, her lovely satin dress in bloody rags, bruises already fading on<br />her bare arms and legs. But she was smiling —radiant even, happier than Simon had seen<br />her look in weeks.<br />“Mom!” she exclaimed, and then Jocelyn had flown at her and was hugging her. Clary<br />smiled at Simon over her mother’s shoulder. Simon glanced around the room. Alec and<br />Magnus were still wrapped up in each other, and Maia and Jordan had vanished. Isabelle<br />was still surrounded by Shadowhunters, and Simon could hear gasps of horror and<br />amazement rise from the group surrounding her as she recounted her story. He suspected<br />some part of her was enjoying it. Isabelle did love being the center of attention, no matter<br />what the cause.<br />He felt a hand come down on his shoulder. It was Luke. “Are you all right, Simon?”<br />Simon looked up at him. Luke looked as he always did: solid, professorial, utterly<br />reliable. Not even the least bit put out that his engagement party had been disrupted by a<br />sudden dramatic emergency.<br />Simon’s father had died so long ago that he barely remembered him. Rebecca recalled<br />bits about him—that he had a beard, and would help her build elaborate towers out of<br />blocks—but Simon didn’t. It was one of the things he’d thought he always had in<br />common with Clary, that had bonded them: both with dead fathers, both brought up by<br />strong single women.<br />Well, at least one of those things had turned out to be true, Simon thought. Though his<br />mother had dated, he’d never had a consistent fatherly presence in his life, other than<br />Luke. He supposed that in a way, he and Clary had shared Luke. And the wolf pack<br />looked up to Luke for guidance, as well. For a bachelor who’d never had children, Simon<br />thought, Luke had an awful lot of kids to look after.<br />“I don’t know,” Simon said, giving Luke the honest answer he’d like to think he’d have<br />given his own father. “I don’t think so.”<br />Luke turned Simon to face him. “You’re covered in blood,” he said. “And I’m guessing<br />it’s not yours, because . . .”<br />He gestured toward the Mark on Simon’s forehead. “But hey.” His voice was gentle.<br />“Even covered in blood and with the Mark of Cain on you, you’re still Simon. Can you<br />tell me what happened?”<br />“It’s not my blood, you’re right,” Simon said hoarsely. “But it’s also kind of a long<br />story.” He tilted his head back to look up at Luke; he’d always wondered if maybe he’d<br />have another growth spurt some day, grow a few more inches than the five-ten he was<br />now, be able to look Luke—not to mention Jace—straight in the eye. But that would<br />never happen now. “Luke,” he said. “Do you think it’s possible to do something so bad,<br />even if you didn’t mean to do it, that you can never come back from it? That no one can<br />forgive you?”<br />Luke looked at him for a long, silent moment. Then he said, “Think of someone you love,<br />Simon. Really love. Is there anything they could ever do that would mean you would stop<br />loving them?”<br />Images flashed through Simon’s mind, like the pages of a flip-book: Clary, turning to<br />smile at him over her shoulder; his sister, tickling him when he was just a little kid; his<br />mother, asleep on the sofa with the coverlet pulled up to her shoulders; Izzy—<br />He shut the thoughts off hastily. Clary hadn’t done anything so terrible that he needed to<br />dredge up forgiveness for her; none of the people he was picturing had. He thought of<br />Clary, forgiving her mother for having stolen her memories. He thought of Jace, what he<br />had done on the roof, how he had looked afterward. He had done what he had done<br />withoutvolitionof his own, but Simondoubted Jace would be able to forgive himself,<br />regardless.And then he thought of Jordan—not forgiving himself for what he had done to<br />Maia, but forging ahead anyway, joining the Praetor Lupus, making a life out of helping<br />others.<br />“I bit someone,” he said. The words came out of his mouth, and he wished he could<br />swallow them back. He braced himself for Luke’s look of horror, but it didn’t come.<br />“Did they live?” Luke said. “This person that you bit. Did they survive?”<br />“I—” How to explain about Maureen? Lilith had ordered her away, but Simon was sure<br />they hadn’t seen the last of her. “I didn’t kill her.”<br />Luke nodded once. “You know how werewolves become pack leaders,” he said. “They<br />have to kill the old pack leader. I’ve done that twice. I have the scars to prove it.” He<br />drew the collar of his shirt aside slightly, and Simon saw the edge of a thick white scar<br />that looked ragged, as if his chest had been clawed. “The second time it was a calculated<br />move. Cold-blooded killing. I wanted to become the leader, and that was how I did it.”<br />He shrugged.<br />“You’re a vampire. It’s in your nature to want to drink blood. You’ve held out a long<br />time without doing it. I know you can walk in the sun, Simon, and so you pride yourself<br />on being a normal human boy, but you’re still what you are.<br />Just like I am. The more you try to crush your true nature, the more it will control you. Be<br />what you are. No one who really loves you will stop.”<br />Simon said hoarsely, “My mom—”<br />“Clary told me what happened with your mother, and that you’ve been crashing with<br />Jordan Kyle,” said Luke.<br />“Look, your mother will come around, Simon. Like Amatis did, with me. You’re still her<br />son. I’ll talk to her, if you want me to.”<br />Simon shook his head silently. His mother had always liked Luke. Dealing with the fact<br />that Luke was a werewolf would probably make things worse, not better.<br />Luke nodded as if he understood. “If you don’t want to go back to Jordan’s, you’re more<br />than welcome to stay on my sofa tonight. I’m sure Clary would be glad to have you<br />around, and we can talk about what to do about your mother tomorrow.”<br />Simon squared his shoulders. He looked at Isabelle across the room, the gleam of her<br />whip, the shine of the pendant at her throat, the flutter of her hands as she talked. Isabelle,<br />who wasn’t afraid of anything. He thought of his mother, the way she had backed away<br />from him, the fear in her eyes. He’d been hiding from the memory, running from it,ever<br />since.Butit was time to stop running. “No,” he said. “Thanks, but Ithink Idon’t need a<br />place to crash tonight. I think . . . that I’m going to go home.”<br />Jace stood alone on the roof, looking out over the city, the East River a silvery-black<br />snake twining between Brooklyn and Manhattan. His hands, his lips, still felt warm from<br />Clary’s touch, but the wind off the river was icy, and the warmth was fading fast.<br />Without a jacket the air cut through the thin material of his shirt like the blade of a knife.<br />He took a deep breath, sucking the cold air into his lungs, and let it out slowly. His whole<br />body felt tense. He was waiting for the sound of the elevator, the doors opening, the<br />Shadowhunters flooding out into the garden. They would be sympathetic at first, he<br />thought, worried about him. Then, as they understood what had happened—then would<br />come the shrinking away, the meaningful looks exchanged when they thought he wasn’t<br />watching. He had been possessed—not just by a demon, but by a Greater Demon—had<br />acted against the Clave, had threatened and hurt another Shadowhunter.<br />He thought about how Jocelyn would look at him when she heard what he’d done to<br />Clary. Luke might understand, forgive. But Jocelyn. He had never been able to bring<br />himself to speak to her honestly, to say the words he thought might reassure her. I love<br />your daughter, more than I ever thought it was possible to love anything. I would never<br />hurt her.<br />She would just look at him, he thought, with those green eyes that were so like Clary’s.<br />She would want more than that. She would want to hear him say what he wasn’t sure was<br />true.<br />I am nothing like Valentine.<br />Aren’t you? The words seemed carried on the cold air, a whisper meant only for his ears.<br />You never knew your mother. You never knew your father. You gave your heart to<br />Valentine when you were a child, as children do, and made yourselfa<br />partofhim.Youcannot cut that awayfrom yourselfnow withone cleanslice of a blade.<br />His left hand was cold. He looked down and saw, to his shock, that somehow he had<br />picked up the dagger—his real father’s etched silver dagger—and was holding it in his<br />hand. The blade, though eaten away by Lilith’s blood, was whole again, and shining like<br />a promise. A cold that had nothing to do with the weather began to spread through his<br />chest. How many times had he woken up like this, gasping and sweating, the dagger in<br />his hand? And Clary, always Clary, dead at his feet.<br />But Lilith was dead. It was over. He tried to slide the dagger into his belt, but his hand<br />didn’t seem to want to obey the command his mind was giving it. He felt a sense of<br />stinging heat across his chest, a searing pain. Looking down, he saw that the bloody line<br />that had split Lilith’s mark in half, where Clary had slashed him with the dagger, had<br />healed. The mark gleamed redly against his chest.<br />Jace stopped trying to shove the dagger into his belt. His knuckles turned white as his<br />grip tightened on the hilt, his wrist twisting, desperately trying to turn the blade on<br />himself. His heart was pounding. He had accepted no iratzes. How had the mark healed<br />so fast? If he could gash it again, disfigure it, even temporarily—<br />But his hand wouldn’t obey him. His arm stayed stiffly at his side as his body turned,<br />against his own will, toward the pedestal where Sebastian’s body lay.<br />The coffin had begun to glow, with a cloudy greenish light—almost a witchlight glow,<br />but there was something painful about this light, something that seemed to pierce the eye.<br />Jace tried to take a step back, but his legs wouldn’t move. Icy sweat trickled down his<br />back. A voice whispered at the back of his mind.<br />Come here.<br />It was Sebastian’s voice.<br />Did you think you were free because Lilith is gone? The vampire’s bite woke me; now<br />her blood in my veins compels you.<br />Come here.<br />Jace tried to dig in his heels, but his body betrayed him, carrying him forward, though his<br />conscious mind strained against it. Even as he tried to hang back, his feet moved him<br />down the path, toward the coffin. The painted circle flashed green as he moved across it,<br />and the coffin seemed to answer with a second flash of emerald light. And then he was<br />standing over it, looking down.<br />Jace bit down hard on his lip, hoping the pain might shock him out of the dream state he<br />was in. It didn’t work. He tasted his own blood as he stared down at Sebastian, who<br />floated like a drowned corpse in the water. Those are pearls that were his eyes. His hair<br />was colorless seaweed, his closed eyelids blue. His mouth had the cold, hard set of his<br />father’s mouth. It was like looking at a young Valentine.<br />Without his volition, absolutely against his will, Jace’s hands began to rise. His left hand<br />laid the edge of the dagger against the inside of his right palm, where life and love lines<br />crisscrossed each other.<br />Words spilled from his own lips. He heard them as if from an immense distance. They<br />were in no language he knew or understood, but he knew what they were—ritual<br />chanting. His mind was screaming at his body to stop, but it appeared to make no<br />difference. He left hand came down, the knife clenched in it. The blade sliced a clean,<br />sure, shallow cut across his right palm. Almost instantly it began to bleed. He tried to<br />draw back, tried to pull his arm away, but it was as if he were encased in cement. As he<br />watched in horror, the first blood drops splashed onto Sebastian’s face.<br />Sebastian’s eyes flew open. They were black, blacker than Valentine’s, as black as the<br />demon’s who had called herself his mother. They fixed on Jace, like great dark mirrors,<br />giving him back his own face, twisted and unrecognizable, his mouth shaping the words<br />of the ritual, spilling forth in a meaningless babble like a river of black water.<br />The blood was flowing more freely now, turning the cloudy liquid inside the coffin a<br />darker red. Sebastian moved.<br />The bloody water shifted and spilled as he sat up, his black eyes fixed on Jace.<br />The second part of the ritual. His voice spoke inside Jace’s head. It is almost complete.<br />Water ran off him like tears. His pale hair, pasted to his forehead, seemed to have no<br />color at all. He raised one hand and held it out, and Jace, against the cry inside his own<br />mind, held out the dagger, blade forward. Sebastian slid his hand along the length of the<br />cold, sharp blade. Blood sprang up in a line across his palm. He knocked the dagger aside<br />and took Jace’s hand, gripping it with his own.<br />It was the last thing Jace had expected. He couldn’t move to pull away. He felt each of<br />Sebastian’s cold fingers as they wrapped his hand, pressing their bleeding cuts together.<br />It was like being gripped by cold metal. Ice began to spread up his veins from his hand. A<br />shudder passed over him, and then another, powerful physical tremors so painful it felt as<br />if his body were being turned inside out. He tried to scream—<br />And the cry died in his throat. He looked down at his and Sebastian’s hands, clenched<br />together. Blood ran through their fingers and down their wrists, as elegant as red<br />lacework. It glittered in the cold electric light of the city. It moved not like liquid, but like<br />moving red wires. It wrapped their hands together in a scarlet binding.<br />A peculiar sense of peace stole over Jace. The world seemed to fall away, and he was<br />standing on the peak of a mountain, the world spread out before him, everything in it his<br />for the taking. The lights of the city around him were no longer electric, but were the<br />light of a thousand diamond-like stars. They seemed to shine down on him with a<br />benevolent glow that said, This is good. This is right. This is what your father would have<br />wanted.<br />He saw Clary in his mind’s eye, her pale face, the fall of her red hair, her mouth as it<br />moved, shaping the words I’ll be right back. Five minutes.<br />And then her voice faded as another spoke over it, drowning it out. The image of her in<br />his mind receded, vanishing imploringly into the darkness, as Eurydice had vanished<br />when Orpheus had turned to look at her one last time. Her saw her, her white arms held<br />out to him, and then the shadows closed over her and she was gone.<br />A new voice spoke in Jace’s head now, a familiar voice, once hated, now oddly welcome.<br />Sebastian’s voice. It seemed to run through his blood, through the blood that passed<br />through Sebastian’s hand into his, like a fiery chain.<br />We are one now, little brother, you and I, Sebastian said.<br />We are one.<br />Saviorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16068384718913085760noreply@blogger.com0