City of Ashes - Chapter 9

Isabelle had been telling the truth: The Institute was entirely deserted. Almost entirely,
anyway. Max was asleep on the red couch in the foyer when they came in. His glasses were
slightly askew and he clearly hadn't meant to fall asleep: There was a book open on the floor
where he'd dropped it and his sneakered feet dangled over the couch's edge in a manner that
looked as if it were probably uncomfortable.
Clary's heart went out to him immediately. He reminded her of Simon at the age of nine or ten,
all glasses and awkward blinking and ears.
"Max is like a cat. He can sleep anywhere." Jace reached down and plucked the glasses from
Max's face, setting them down on a squat inlaid table nearby. There was a look on his face Clary
had never seen before—a fierce protective gentleness that surprised her.
"Oh, leave his stuff alone—you'll just get mud on it," said Isabelle crossly, unbuttoning her
wet coat. Her dress clung to her long torso and water darkened the thick leather belt around her
waist. The glitter of her coiled whip was just visible where the handle protruded from the edge of
the belt. She was frowning. "I can feel a cold coming on," she said. "I'm going to take a hot
shower."
Jace watched her disappear down the corridor with a sort of reluctant admiration. "Sometimes
she reminds me of the poem. 'Isabelle, Isabelle, didn't worry. Isabelle didn't scream or scurry—' "
"Do you ever feel like screaming?" Clary asked him.
"Some of the time." Jace shrugged off his wet coat and hung it on the peg next to Isabelle's.
"She's right about the hot shower, though. I could certainly use one."
"I don't have anything to change into," Clary said, suddenly wanting a few moments to herself.
Her fingers itched to dial Simon's number on her cell phone, find out if he was all right. "I'll just
wait for you here."
"Don't be stupid. I'll lend you a T-shirt." His jeans were soaked and hung low on his
hipbones, showing a strip of pale, tattooed skin between the denim and the edge of his T-shirt.
Clary looked away. "I don't think—"
"Come on." His tone was firm. "There's something I want to show you, anyway."
Surreptitiously, Clary checked the screen on her phone as she followed Jace down the hall to
his room. Simon hadn't tried to call. Ice seemed to crystallize inside her chest. Until two weeks
ago, it had been years since she and Simon had had a fight. Now he seemed to be mad at her all
the time.
Jace's room was just as she remembered it: neat as a pin and bare as a monk's cell. There was
nothing about the room that told you anything about Jace: no posters on the walls, no books
stacked on the night table. Even the duvet on the bed was plain white.
He went to the dresser and pulled a folded long-sleeved blue T-shirt out of a drawer. He
tossed it to Clary. "That one shrank in the wash," he said. "It'll probably still be big on you,
but…" He shrugged. "I'm going to shower. Yell if you need anything."
She nodded, holding the shirt across her chest as if it were a shield. He looked as if he were
about to say something else, but apparently thought better of it; with another shrug, he
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disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Clary sank down onto the bed, the shirt across her lap, and pulled her phone out of her
pocket. She dialed Simon's number. After four rings, it went to voice mail. "Hi, you've reached
Simon. Either I'm away from the phone or I'm avoiding you. Leave me a message and—"
"What are you doing?"
Jace stood in the open doorway of the bathroom. Water ran loudly in the shower behind him
and the bathroom was half full of steam. He was shirtless and barefoot, damp jeans riding low on
his hips, showing the deep indentations above his hipbones, as if someone had pressed their
fingers to the skin there.
Clary snapped her phone closed and dropped it onto the bed. "Nothing. Checking the time."
"There's a clock next to the bed," Jace pointed out. "You were calling the mundane, weren't
you?"
"His name is Simon." Clary wadded Jace's shirt into a ball between her fists. "And you don't
have to be such a bastard about him all the time. He's helped you out more than once." Jace's
eyes were lidded, thoughtful. The bathroom was rapidly filling with steam, making his hair curl
more.
He said, "And now you feel guilty because he's run off. I wouldn't bother calling him. I'm sure
he's avoiding you."
Clary didn't try to keep the anger out of her voice. "And you know this because you and he
are so close?"
"I know it because I saw the look on his face before he took off," Jace said. "You didn't. You
weren't looking at him. But I was."
Clary raked her still-dank hair out of her eyes. Her clothes itched where they clung to her skin,
and she suspected she smelled like the bottom of a pond, and she couldn't stop seeing Simon's
face when he'd looked at her in the Seelie Court—as if he hated her. "It's your fault," she said
suddenly, rage gathering around her heart. "You shouldn't have kissed me like that."
He had been leaning against the door frame; now he stood up straight. "How should I have
kissed you? Is there another way you like it?"
"No." Her hands trembled in her lap. They were cold, white, wrinkled by water. She laced her
fingers together to stop the shaking. "I just don't want to be kissed by you."
"It didn't seem to me that either of us had a choice in the matter."
"That's what I don't understand!" Clary burst out. "Why did she make you kiss me? The
Queen, I mean. Why force us to do—that? What pleasure could she possibly have gotten out of
it?"
"You heard what the Queen said. She thought she was doing me a favor."
"That's not true."
"It is true. How many times do I have to tell you? The Fair Folk don't lie."
Clary thought of what Jace had said back at Magnus's. They'll find out whatever it is you
want most in the world and give it to you—with a sting in the tail of the gift that will make you
regret you ever wanted it in the first place. "Then she was wrong."
"She wasn't wrong." Jace's tone was bitter. "She saw the way I looked at you, and you at me,
and Simon at you, and she played us like the instruments we are to her."
"I don't look at you," Clary whispered.
"What?"
"I said, I don't look at you." She released the hands that had been clasped together in her lap.
There were red marks where her fingers had gripped each other. "At least I try not to."
His eyes were narrowed, just a glint of gold showing through the lashes, and she remembered
the first time she had seen him and how he had reminded her of a lion, golden and deadly. "Why
not?"
"Why do you think?" Her words were almost soundless, barely a whisper.
"Then why?" His voice shook. "Why all this with Simon, why keep pushing me away, not
letting me near you—"
"Because it's impossible," she said, and the last word came out as a sort of wail, despite her
efforts at control. "You know that as well as I do!"
"Because you're my sister," Jace said.
She nodded without speaking.
"Possibly," said Jace. "And because of that, you've decided your old friend Simon makes a
useful distraction?"
"It's not like that," she said. "I love Simon."
"Like you love Luke," said Jace. "Like you love your mother."
"No." Her voice was as cold and pointed as an icicle. "Don't tell me what I feel."
A small muscle jumped at the side of his mouth. "I don't believe you."
Clary stood up. She couldn't meet his eyes, so instead she fixed her gaze on the thin starshaped
scar on his right shoulder, a memory of some old injury. This life of scars and killing,
Hodge had said once. You have no part in it. "Jace," she said. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Because you're lying to me. And you're lying to yourself." Jace's eyes were blazing, and even
though his hands were stuffed into his pockets, she could see that they were knotted into fists.
Something inside Clary cracked and broke, and words came pouring out. "What do you want
me to tell you? The truth? The truth is that I love Simon like I should love you, and I wish he was
my brother and you weren't, but I can't do anything about that and neither can you! Or do you
have some ideas, since you're so goddamned smart?"
Jace sucked a breath in, and she realized he had never expected her to say what she'd just
said, not in a million years. The look on his face said as much.
She scrambled to regain her composure. "Jace, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No. You're not sorry. Don't be sorry." He moved toward her, almost tripping over his feet—
Jace, who never stumbled, never tripped over anything, never made an ungraceful move. His
hands came up to cup her face; she felt the warmth of his fingertips, millimeters from her skin;
knew she ought to pull away, but stood frozen, staring up at him. "You don't understand," he
said. His voice shook. "I've never felt this way about anyone. I didn't think I could. I thought—
the way I grew up—my father—"
"To love is to destroy," she said numbly. "I remember."
"I thought that part of my heart was broken," he said, and there was a look on his face as he
spoke as if he were surprised to hear himself saying these words, saying my heart. "Forever. But
you—"
"Jace. Don't." She reached up and covered his hand with hers, folding his fingers into her
own. "It's pointless."
"That's not true." There was desperation in his voice. "If we both feel the same way—"
"It doesn't matter what we feel. There's nothing we can do." She heard her voice as if a
stranger were speaking: remote, miserable. "Where would we go to be together? How could we
live?"
"We could keep it a secret."
"People would find out. And I don't want to lie to my family, do you?"
His reply was bitter. "What family? The Lightwoods hate me anyway."
"No, they don't. And I could never tell Luke. And my mother, what if she woke up, what
would we say to her? This, what we want, it would be sickening to everyone we care about—"
"Sickening?" He dropped his hands from her face as if she'd pushed him away. He sounded
stunned. "What we feel—what I feel—it's sickening to you?"
She caught her breath at the look on his face. "Maybe," she said, in a whisper. "I don't know."
"Then you should have said that to begin with."
"Jace—"
But he was gone from her, his expression shut and locked like a door. It was hard to believe
he'd ever looked at her another way. "I'm sorry I said anything, then." His voice was stiff, formal.
"I won't be kissing you again. You can count on that."
Clary's heart did a slow, purposeless somersault as he moved away from her, plucked a towel
off the top of the dresser, and headed back toward the bathroom. "But—Jace, what are you
doing?"
"Finishing my shower. And if you've made me run through all the hot water, I'll be very
annoyed." He stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
Clary collapsed onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It was as blank as Jace's face had
been before he turned his back on her. Rolling over, she realized she was lying on top of his blue
shirt: It even smelled like him, like soap and smoke and coppery blood. Curling around it like
she'd once curled around her favorite blanket when she was very small, she closed her eyes.
In the dream, she looked down on shimmering water, spread out below her like an endless
mirror that reflected the night sky. And like a mirror, it was solid and hard, and she could walk
on it. She walked, smelling night air and wet leaves and the smell of the city, glittering in the
far distance like a faerie castle wreathed in lights—and where she walked, spiderwebbing
cracks fissured out from her footsteps and slivers of glass splashed up like water.
The sky began to shine. It was alight with points of fire, like burning match tips. They fell, a
rain of hot coals from the sky, and she cowered, throwing up her arms. One fell just in front of
her, a hurtling bonfire, but when it struck the ground it became a boy. It was Jace, all in
burning gold with his gold eyes and gold hair, and white-gold wings sprouted from his back,
wider and more thickly feathered than any bird's.
He smiled like a cat and pointed behind her, and Clary turned to see that a dark-haired
boy—was it Simon?—was standing there, and wings spread from his back as well, feathered
black as midnight, and each feather was tipped with blood.
Clary woke up gasping, her hands knotted in Jace's shirt. It was dark in the bedroom, the only
light streaming from the one narrow window beside the bed. She sat up. Her head felt heavy and
the back of her neck ached. She scanned the room slowly and jumped as a bright pinpoint of
light, like a cat's eyes in the darkness, shone out at her.
Jace was sitting in an armchair beside the bed. He was wearing jeans and a gray sweater and
his hair looked nearly dry. He was holding something in his hand that gleamed like metal. A
weapon? Though what he might be guarding against, here in the Institute, Clary couldn't guess.
"Did you sleep well?"
She nodded. Her mouth felt thick. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
"I thought you could use the rest. Besides, you were sleeping like the dead. You even
drooled," he added. "On my shirt."
Clary's hand flew to her mouth. "Sorry."
"It's not often you get to see someone drool," Jace observed. "Especially with such total
abandon. Mouth wide open and everything."
"Oh, shut up." She felt around among the bedcovers until she located her phone and checked
it again, though she knew what it would say. No calls. "It's three in the morning," she noted with
dismay. "Do you think Simon's all right?"
"I think he's weird, actually," said Jace. "Though that has little to do with the time."
She shoved the phone into her jeans pocket. "I'm going to change."
Jace's white-painted bathroom was no bigger than Isabelle's, though it was considerably
neater. There wasn't much variation among the rooms in the Institute, Clary thought, closing the
door behind her, but at least there was privacy. She shucked off her wet shirt and hung it on the
towel rack, splashed water over her face, and ran a comb through her wildly curling hair.
Jace's shirt was too big for her, but the material was soft against her skin. She rolled the
sleeves up and went back into the bedroom, where she found Jace sitting exactly where he had
been before, staring moodily down at the glinting object in his hands. She leaned on the back of
the armchair. "What is that?"
Instead of answering, he turned it over so that she could see it properly. It was a jagged piece
of broken glass, but instead of reflecting her own face, it held an image of green grass and blue
sky and the bare black branches of trees.
"I didn't know you kept that," she said. "That piece of the Portal."
"It's why I wanted to come here," he said. "To get this." Longing and loathing were mixed in
his voice. "I keep thinking maybe I'll see my father in a reflection. Figure out what he's up to."
"But he's not there, is he? I thought he was somewhere here. In the city."
Jace shook his head. "Magnus has been looking for him and he doesn't think so."
"Magnus has been looking for him? I didn't know that. How—"
"Magnus didn't get to be High Warlock for nothing. His power extends through the city and
beyond. He can sense what's out there, to an extent."
Clary snorted. "He can feel disturbances in the Force?"
Jace slewed around in the chair and frowned at her. "I'm not joking. After that warlock was
killed down in TriBeCa, he started looking into it. When I went to stay with him, he asked me for
something of my father's to make the tracking easier. I gave him the Morgenstern ring. He said
he'd let me know if he senses Valentine anywhere in the city, but so far he hasn't."
"Maybe he just wanted your ring," Clary said. "He sure wears a lot of jewelry."
"He can have it." Jace's hand tightened around the bit of mirror in his grasp; Clary noted with
alarm the blood welling up around the jagged edges where they cut into his skin. "It's worthless to
me."
"Hey," she said, and leaned down to take the glass out of his hand. "Easy there." She slid the
piece of Portal into the pocket of his jacket where it hung on the wall. The edges of the glass were
dark with blood, Jace's palms scored with red lines. "Maybe we should get you back to
Magnus's," she said as gently as she could. "Alec's been there a long time, and—"
"I doubt he minds, somehow," Jace said, but he stood up obediently enough and reached for
his stele, which was propped against the wall. As he drew a healing rune on the back of his
bleeding right hand, he said, "There's something I've been meaning to ask you."
"And what's that?"
"When you got me out of the cell in the Silent City, how did you do it? How did you unlock
the door?"
"Oh. I just used a regular Opening rune, and—"
She was interrupted by a harsh, tolling ring, and clapped her hand to her pocket before she
realized that the sound she'd heard was much louder and sharper than any sound her phone could
make. She looked around in confusion.
"That's the Institute's doorbell," Jace said, grabbing his jacket. "Come on."
They were halfway to the foyer when Isabelle burst out of her own bedroom door, wearing a
cotton bathrobe, a pink silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, and a semi-dazed expression.
"It's three in the morning!" she said to them, in a tone that suggested that this was all Jace's, or
possibly Clary's, fault. "Who's ringing our doorbell at three in the morning?"
"Maybe it's the Inquisitor," Clary said, feeling suddenly cold.
"She could get in on her own," said Jace. "Any Shadowhunter could. The Institute is only
closed to mundanes and Downworlders."
Clary felt her heart contract. "Simon!" she said. "It must be him!"
"Oh, for goodness' sake," yawned Isabelle, "is he really waking us up at this ungodly hour just
to prove his love to you or something? Couldn't he have called? Mundane men are such twits."
They had reached the foyer, which was empty; Max must have gone to bed on his own. Isabelle
stalked across the room and toggled a switch on the far wall. Somewhere inside the cathedral a
distant rumbling thump was audible. "There," Isabelle said. "Elevator's on its way."
"I can't believe he didn't have the dignity and presence of mind just to get drunk and pass out
in some gutter," said Jace. "I must say, I'm disappointed in the little fellow."
Clary barely heard him. A rising sense of fear made her blood slow and thick. She
remembered her dream: the angels, the ice, Simon with his bleeding wings. She shivered.
Isabelle looked at her sympathetically. "It is cold in here," she observed. She reached up and
took down what looked like a blue velvet coat from one of the coat hooks. "Here," she said. "Put
this on."
Clary slid the coat on and drew it close around her. It was too long, but it was warm. It had a
hood, too, lined with satin. Clary pushed it back so she could see the elevator doors opening.
They opened on a hollow box whose mirrored sides reflected her own pale and startled face.
Without a pause for thought, she stepped inside.
Isabelle looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"
"It's Simon down there," Clary said. "I know it is."
"But—"
Suddenly, Jace was beside Clary, holding the doors open for Isabelle. "Come on, Izzy," he
said. With a theatrical sigh, she followed.
Clary tried to catch his eye as the three of them rode down in silence—Isabelle pinning up the
last long coil of her hair—but Jace wouldn't look at her. He was looking at himself sidelong in the
elevator mirror, whistling softly under his breath as he always did when he was nervous. She
remembered the slight tremor in his touch as he had taken hold of her in the Seelie Court. She
thought of the look on Simon's face—and then of him almost running to get away from her,
vanishing into the shadows at the edge of the park. There was a knot of dread inside her chest
and she didn't know why.
The elevator doors opened onto the nave of the cathedral, alive with the dancing light of
candles. She pushed past Jace in her hurry to get out of the elevator and practically ran down the
narrow aisle between the pews. She stumbled on the dragging edge of her coat and bunched it up
impatiently in her hand before dashing to the wide double doors. On the inside they were barred
with bronze bolts the size of Clary's arms. As she reached for the highest bolt, the bell rang
through the church again. She heard Isabelle whisper something to Jace, and then Clary was
hauling on the bolt, dragging it back, and she felt Jace's hand over hers, helping her pull the heavy
doors open.
Night air swept in, guttering the candles in their brackets. The air smelled of city: of salt and
fumes, cooling concrete and garbage, and underneath those familiar smells, the scent of copper,
like the tang of a new penny.
At first Clary thought the steps were empty. Then she blinked and saw Raphael standing there,
his head of black curls tousled by the night breeze, his white shirt open at the neck to show the
scar in the hollow of his throat. In his arms he held a body. That was all Clary saw as she stared
at him in bewilderment, a body. Someone very dead, arms and legs dangling like limp ropes, head
fallen back to expose the mangled throat. She felt Jace's hand tighten around her arm like a vise,
and only then did she look more closely and see the familiar corduroy jacket with its torn sleeve,
the blue T-shirt underneath now stained and spotted with blood, and she screamed.
The scream made no sound. Clary felt her knees give and would have slid to the ground if
Jace hadn't been holding her up. "Don't look," he said in her ear. "For God's sake, don't look."
But she couldn't not look at the blood matting Simon's brown hair, his torn throat, the gashes
along his dangling wrists. Black spots dotted her vision as she fought for breath.
It was Isabelle who snatched one of the empty candelabras from the side of the door and
aimed it at Raphael as if it were an enormous three-pointed spear.
"What have you done to Simon?" For that moment, her voice clear and commanding, she
sounded exactly like her mother.
"El no es muerto," Raphael said, in a flat and emotionless voice, and laid Simon down on the
ground almost at Clary's feet, with a surprising gentleness. She had forgotten how strong he must
be—he had a vampire's unnatural strength despite his slightness.
In the light of the candles that spilled through the doorway, Clary could see that Simon's shirt
was soaked through at the front with blood.
"Did you say—," she began.
"He isn't dead," Jace said, holding her tighter. "He's not dead."
She pulled away from him with a hard jerk and went to her knees on the concrete. She felt no
disgust at touching Simon's bloodied skin as she slid her hands under his head, pulling him up
into her lap. She felt only the terrified childish horror she remembered from being five years old
and having broken her mother's priceless Liberty lamp. Nothing, said a voice in the back of her
head, will put these pieces hack together again.
"Simon," she whispered, touching his face. His glasses were gone. "Simon, it's me."
"He can't hear you," said Raphael. "He's dying."
Her head jerked up. "But you said—"
"I said he was not dead yet," said Raphael. "But in a few minutes—ten, perhaps—his heart
will slow and stop. Already he is beyond seeing or hearing anything."
Her arms tightened around him involuntarily. "We have to get him to a hospital—or call
Magnus."
"They can't do him any good," said Raphael. "You don't understand."
"No," said Jace, his voice as soft as silk tipped with needle-sharp points. "We don't. And
perhaps you should explain yourself. Because otherwise I'm going to assume you're a rogue
bloodsucker, and cut your heart out. Like I should have done last time we met."
Raphael smiled at him without amusement. "You swore not to harm me, Shadowhunter. Have
you forgotten?"
"I didn't," said Isabelle, brandishing the candelabra.
Raphael ignored her. He was still looking at Jace. "I remembered that night you broke into the
Dumort looking for your friend. It is why I brought him here"—and he gestured at Simon—"when
I found him in the hotel, instead of letting the others drink him to death. You see, he broke in,
without permission, and therefore was fair game for us. But I kept him alive, knowing he was
yours. I have no wish for a war with the Nephilim."
"He broke in?" Clary said in disbelief. "Simon would never do anything that stupid and
crazy."
"But he did," said Raphael, with the faintest trace of a smile, "because he was afraid he was
becoming one of us, and he wanted to know if the process could be reversed. You might
remember that when he was in the form of a rat, and you came to fetch him from us, he bit me."
"Very enterprising of him," said Jace. "I approved."
"Perhaps," said Raphael. "In any case, he took some of my blood into his mouth when he did
it. You know that is how we pass our powers to each other. Through the blood."
Through the blood. Clary remembered Simon jerking away from the vampire film on TV,
wincing at the sunlight in McCarren Park. "He thought he was turning into one of you," she said.
"He went to the hotel to see if it was true."
"Yes," said Raphael. "The pity of it is that the effects of my blood would probably have faded
over time had he done nothing. But now—" He gestured at Simon's limp body expressively.
"Now what?" said Isabelle, with a hard edge to her voice. "Now he'll die?"
"And rise again. Now he will be a vampire."
The candelabra tipped forward as Isabelle's eyes widened in shock. "What?"
Jace caught the makeshift weapon before it hit the floor. When he turned to Raphael, his eyes
were bleak. "You're lying."
"Wait and see," said Raphael. "He will die and rise as one of the Night Children. That is also
why I came. Simon is one of mine now." There was nothing in his voice, no sorrow or pleasure,
but Clary could not help but wonder what hidden glee he might feel at having so opportunely
lucked into an effective bargaining chip.
"There's nothing that can be done? No way to reverse it?" demanded Isabelle, panic tinging
her voice. Clary thought distantly that it was strange that these two, Jace and Isabelle, who did not
love Simon the way she did, were the ones doing all the talking. But perhaps they were speaking
for her precisely because she couldn't bear to say a word.
"You could cut off his head and burn his heart in a fire, but I doubt that you will do that."
"No!" Clary's arms tightened around Simon. "Don't you dare hurt him."
"I have no need to," said Raphael.
"I wasn't talking to you." Clary didn't look up. "Don't you even think about it, Jace. Don't
even think about it."
There was silence. She could hear Isabelle's worried intake of breath, and Raphael of course
did not breathe at all. Jace hesitated a moment before he said, "Clary, what would Simon want? Is
this what he'd want for himself?"
She jerked her head up. Jace was looking down at her, the three-pronged metal candelabra still
in his hand, and suddenly an image flashed across her mental landscape of Jace holding Simon
down and plunging the sharp end of it into his chest, making the blood splash up like a fountain.
"Get away from us!" she screamed suddenly, so loudly that she saw the distant figures walking
along the avenue in front of the cathedral turn and look behind them, as if startled at the noise.
Jace went white to the roots of his hair, so white that his wide eyes looked like gold disks,
inhuman and weirdly out of place. He said, "Clary, you don't think—"
Simon gasped suddenly, arching upward in Clary's grasp. She screamed again and caught at
him, pulling him up toward her. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified. He reached up. She
wasn't sure if he was trying to touch her face or claw at her, not knowing who she was.
"It's me," she said, gently pushing his hand down to his chest, lacing their fingers together.
"Simon, it's me. It's Clary." Her hands slipped on his; when she looked down, she saw they were
wet with blood from his shirt and from the tears that had slid down her face without her noticing.
"Simon, I love you," she said.
His hands tightened on hers. He breathed out—a harsh, ratcheting sound—and then did not
breathe in again.
I love you. I love you. I love you. Her last words to Simon seemed to echo in Clary's ears as
he went limp in her grasp. Isabelle was suddenly next to her, saying something in her ear, but
Clary couldn't hear her. The sound of rushing water, like an oncoming tidal wave, filled her ears.
She watched as Isabelle tried gently to pry her hands away from Simon's, and couldn't. Clary was
surprised. She didn't feel like she was holding on to him that tightly.
Giving up, Isabelle got to her feet and turned angrily on Raphael. She was shouting. Halfway
through her tirade, Clary's hearing switched back on, like a radio that had finally found a station
within range. "—and now what are we supposed to do?" Isabelle screamed.
"Bury him," said Raphael.
The candelabra swung up again in Jace's hand. "That's not funny."
"It isn't supposed to be," said the vampire, unfazed. "It is how we are made. We are drained,
blooded, and buried. When he digs his own way out of a grave, that is when a vampire is born."
Isabelle made a faint sound of disgust. "I don't think I could do that."
"Some can't," said Raphael. "If no one is there to help them dig out, they stay like that,
trapped like rats under the earth."
A sound tore its way out of Clary's throat. A sob that was as raw as a scream. She said, "I
won't put him in the ground."
"Then he'll stay like this," said Raphael mercilessly. "Dead but not quite dead. Never waking."
They were all staring down at her. Isabelle and Jace as if they were holding their breaths,
waiting on her response. Raphael looked incurious, almost bored.
"You didn't come into the Institute because you can't, isn't that right?" Clary said. "Because
it's holy ground and you're unholy."
"That's not exactly—," Jace began, but Raphael cut him off with a gesture.
"I should tell you," said the vampire boy, "that there is not much time. The longer we wait
before putting him into the ground, the less likely he'll be able to dig his own way back out of it."
Clary looked down at Simon. He really would look as if he were sleeping, if it weren't for the
long gashes along his bare skin. "We can bury him," she said. "But I want it to be in a Jewish
cemetery. And I want to be there when he wakes up."
Raphael's eyes glittered. "It will not be pleasant."
"Nothing ever is." She set her jaw. "Let's get going. We only have a few hours until dawn."

Categories: City of Ashes

City of Ashes - Chapter 10

The cemetery was in the outskirts of Queens, where apartment buildings gave way to
rows of orderly-looking Victorian houses painted gingerbread colors: pink, white, and blue. The
streets were wide and mostly deserted, the avenue leading up to the cemetery unlit except by a
single streetlight. It took them a short while with their steles to break in through the locked gates,
and another while to find a spot hidden enough for Raphael to begin digging. It was at the top of
a low hill, sheltered from the road below by a thick line of trees. Clary, Jace, and Isabelle were
protected with glamour, but there was no way to hide Raphael, or to hide Simon's body, so the
trees provided a welcome cover.
The sides of the hill not facing the road were thickly layered with headstones, many of them
bearing a pointed Star of David at the top. They gleamed white and smooth as milk in the
moonlight. In the distance was a lake, its surface pleated with glittering ripples. A nice place, Clary
thought. A good place to come and lay flowers on someone's grave, to sit awhile and think about
their life, what they meant to you. Not a good place to come at night, under cover of darkness, to
bury your friend in a shallow dirt grave without the benefit of a coffin or a service.
"Did he suffer?" she asked Raphael.
He looked up from his digging, leaning on the handle of the shovel like the grave digger in
Hamlet. "What?"
"Simon. Did he suffer? Did the vampires hurt him?"
"No. The blood death is not such a bad way to die," said Raphael, his musical voice soft.
"The bite drugs you. It is pleasant, like going to sleep."
A wave of dizziness passed over her, and for a moment she thought she might faint.
"Clary." Jace's voice snapped her out of her reverie. "Come on. You don't have to watch
this."
He held out his hand to her. Looking past him, she could see Isabelle standing with her whip in
her hand. They had wrapped Simon's body in a blanket and it lay on the ground at her feet, as if
she were guarding it. Not it, Clary reminded herself fiercely. Him. Simon.
"I want to be here when he wakes up."
"I know. We'll come right back." When she didn't move, Jace took her unresisting arm and
drew her away from the clearing and down the side of the hill. There were boulders here, just
above the first line of graves; he sat down on one, zipping up his jacket. It was surprisingly chilly
out. For the first time this season Clary could see her breath when she exhaled.
She sat down on the boulder beside Jace and stared down at the lake. She could hear the
rhythmic thump-thump of Raphael's spade hitting the dirt and the shoveled dirt hitting the ground.
Raphael wasn't human; he worked fast. It wouldn't take that long for him to dig a grave. And
Simon wasn't all that big a person; the grave wouldn't have to be that deep.
A stab of pain twisted through her abdomen. She bent forward, hands splayed across her
stomach. "I feel sick."
"I know. That's why I brought you out here. You looked like you were going to throw up on
Raphael's feet."
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She made a soft groaning noise.
"Might have wiped the smirk off his face," Jace observed reflectively. "There's that to
consider."
"Shut up." The pain had eased. She tipped her head back, looking up at the moon, a circle of
chipped silver polish floating in a sea of stars. "This is my fault."
"It's not your fault."
"You're right. It's our fault."
Jace turned toward her, exasperation clear in the lines of his shoulders. "How do you figure
that?"
She looked at him silently for a moment. He needed a haircut. His hair curled the way vines
did when they got too long, in looping tendrils, the color of white gold in the moonlight. The
scars on his face and throat looked like they had been etched there with metallic ink. He was
beautiful, she thought miserably, beautiful and there was nothing there in him, not an expression,
not a slant of cheekbone or shape of jaw or curve of lips that bespoke any family resemblance to
herself or her mother at all. He didn't even really look like Valentine.
"What?" he said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
She wanted to throw herself into his arms and sob at the exact same time that she wanted to
pound on him with her fists. Instead, she said, "If it weren't for what happened in the faerie court,
Simon would still be alive."
He reached down and savagely yanked a hunk of grass out of the ground. Dirt still clung to the
roots. He tossed it aside. "We were forced to do what we did. It's not as if we did it for fun, or to
hurt him. Besides," he said, with the ghost of a smile, "you're my sister."
"Don't say it like that—"
"What, 'sister'?" He shook his head. "When I was a little kid, I realized that if you say any
word over and over fast enough, it loses all its meaning. I'd lie awake saying the words over and
over to myself—'sugar,' 'mirror,' 'whisper,' 'dark.' 'Sister,' " he said, softly. "You're my sister."
"It doesn't matter how many times you say it. It'll still be true."
"And it doesn't matter what you won't let me say, that'll still be true too."
"Jace!" Another voice, calling his name. It was Alec, slightly out of breath from running. He
was holding a black plastic bag in one hand. Behind him stalked Magnus, impossibly tall and thin
and glowering in a long leather coat that flapped in the wind like a bat's wing. Alec came to a stop
in front of Jace and held out the bag. "I brought blood," he said. "Like you asked."
Jace opened the top of the bag, peered in, and wrinkled his nose. "Do I want to ask you where
you got this?"
"From a butcher shop in Greenpoint," said Magnus, joining them. "They bleed their meat to
make it halal. It's animal blood."
"Blood is blood," said Jace, and stood up. He looked down at Clary and hesitated. "When
Raphael said this wouldn't be pleasant, he wasn't lying. You can stay here. I'll send Isabelle down
to wait with you."
She tipped her head back to look up at him. The moonlight cast the shadow of branches
across his face. "Have you ever seen a vampire rise?"
"No, but I—"
"Then you don't really know, do you?" She stood up, and Isabelle's blue coat fell around her
in rustling folds. "I want to be there. I have to be there."
She could see only part of his face in the shadows, but she thought he looked almost—
impressed. "I know better than to tell you there's anything you can't do," he said. "Let's go."
Raphael was tamping down a large rectangle of dirt when they came back into the clearing,
Jace and Clary a little ahead of Magnus and Alec, who seemed to be arguing about something.
Simon's body was gone. Isabelle was sitting on the ground, her whip coiled at her ankles in a
golden circle. She was shivering. "Jesus, it's cold," Clary said, pulling Isabelle's heavy coat close
around her. The velvet was warm, at least. She tried to ignore the fact that the hem of it was
stained with Simon's blood. "It's as if it turned to winter overnight."
"Be glad it isn't winter," said Raphael, setting the spade against the trunk of a nearby tree.
"The ground freezes like iron in winter. Sometimes it is impossible to dig and the fledgling must
wait months, starving underground, before it can be born."
"Is that what you call them? Fledglings?" said Clary. The word seemed wrong, too friendly
somehow. It reminded her of ducklings.
"Yes," said Raphael. "It means the not-yet or newly born." He caught sight of Magnus then,
and for a split second looked surprised before he wiped the expression carefully from his
features. "High Warlock," he said. "I hadn't expected to see you here."
"I was curious," said Magnus, his cat eyes glittering. "I've never seen one of the Night
Children rise."
Raphael glanced at Jace, who was lounging against a tree trunk. "You keep surprisingly
illustrious company, Shadowhunter."
"Are you talking about yourself again?" asked Jace. He smoothed the churned dirt with the tip
of a boot. "That seems boastful."
"Maybe he meant me," said Alec. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Alec so rarely made
jokes. He smiled nervously. "Sorry," he said. "Nerves."
"There's no need for that," said Magnus, reaching to touch Alec's shoulder. Alec moved
quickly out of range, and Magnus's outstretched hand fell to his side.
"So what do we do now?" Clary demanded, hugging herself for warmth. Cold seemed to have
seeped into every pore of her body. Surely it was too cold for late summer.
Raphael, noticing her gesture, smiled minutely. "It is always cold at a rising," he said. "The
fledgling draws strength from the living things that surround it, taking from them the energy to
rise."
Clary glared at him resentfully. "You don't seem cold."
"I'm not living." He stepped back a little from the edge of the grave—Clary forced herself to
think of it as a grave, since that's exactly what it was—and gestured to the others to do the same.
"Make room," he said. "Simon can hardly rise if you are all standing on top of him."
They moved hastily backward. Clary found Isabelle clutching her elbow and turned to see that
the other girl was white to the lips. "What's wrong?"
"Everything," Isabelle said. "Clary, maybe we should have just let him go—"
"Let him die, you mean." Clary jerked her arm out of Isabelle's grip. "Of course that's what
you think. You think everyone who isn't just like you is better off dead anyway."
Isabelle's face was the picture of misery. "That isn't—"
A sound tore through the clearing, a sound unlike any Clary had ever heard before—a sort of
pounding rhythm coming from deep underground, as if suddenly the heartbeat of the world had
become audible.
What's happening? Clary thought, and then the ground buckled and heaved under her. She
fell to her knees. The grave was roiling like the surface of an unsteady ocean. Ripples appeared in
its surface. Suddenly it burst apart, clods of dirt flying. A small mountain of dirt, like an anthill,
heaved itself upward. At the center of the mountain was a hand, fingers splayed, clawing at the
dirt.
"Simon!" Clary tried to rush forward, but Raphael yanked her back.
"Let me go!" She tried to pull herself free, but Raphael's grip was like steel. "Can't you see he
needs our help?"
"He should do this himself," Raphael said, without loosening his hold on her. "It is better that
way."
"It's your way! It's not mine!" She jerked herself out of his grip and ran toward the grave, just
as it heaved upward, hurling her back to the ground. A hunched shape was forcing itself out of
the hastily dug grave, fingers like filthy claws sunk deep into the earth. Its bare arms were streaked
black with dirt and blood. It tore itself free of the sucking earth, crawled a few feet, and collapsed
onto the ground.
"Simon," she whispered. Because of course it was Simon, Simon, not an it. She scrambled to
her feet and ran toward him, her sneakers sinking deep into the churned earth.
"Clary!" Jace shouted. "What are you doing?"
She stumbled, her ankle twisting as her leg sank into the dirt. She fell onto her knees next to
Simon, who lay as still as if he really were dead. His hair was filthy and matted with clots of dirt,
his glasses gone, his T-shirt torn down the side, blood on the skin that showed under it. "Simon,"
she said, and reached to touch his shoulder. "Simon, are you—"
His body tensed under her fingers, every muscle tightening, his skin hard as iron.
"—all right?" she finished.
He turned his head, and she saw his eyes. They were blank, lifeless. With a sharp cry he rolled
over and sprang at her, swift as a striking snake. He struck her squarely, knocking her back into
the dirt. "Simon!" she shouted, but he didn't seem to hear. His face was twisted, unrecognizable
as he loomed up over her, his lips curling back, and she saw his sharp canines, the fang-teeth,
gleam in the moonlight like white bone needles. Suddenly terrified, she kicked out at him, but he
grabbed her shoulders and forced her back down into the dirt. His hands were bloody, the nails
broken, but he was incredibly strong, stronger even than her own Shadowhunter muscles. The
bones in her shoulders ground together painfully as he bent down over her—
And was plucked away and sent flying as if he weighed no more than a pebble. Clary shot to
her feet, gasping, and met Raphael's grim gaze. "I told you to stay away from him," he said, and
turned to kneel down by Simon, who had landed a short distance away and was curled, twitching,
on the ground.
Clary sucked in a breath. It sounded like a sob. "He doesn't know me."
"He knows you. He doesn't care." Raphael looked over his shoulder at Jace. "He is starving.
He needs blood."
Jace, who had been standing white-faced and frozen at the grave's edge, stepped forward and
held out the plastic bag mutely, like an offering. Raphael snatched it and tore it open. A number of
plastic packets of red fluid fell out. He seized one, muttering, and tore it open with sharp nails,
spattering blood down the front of his dirt-stained white shirt.
Simon, as if scenting the blood, curled up and let out a piteous wail. He was still twitching; his
broken-nailed hands gouged at the dirt and his eyes were rolled back to the whites. Raphael held
out the blood packet, letting some of the red fluid drip onto Simon's face, streaking the white skin
with scarlet. "There you go," he said, almost in a croon. "Drink, little fledgling. Drink."
And Simon, who had been a vegetarian since he was ten years old, who wouldn't drink milk
that wasn't organic, who fainted at the sight of needles—Simon snatched the packet of blood out
of Raphael's thin brown hand and tore into it with his teeth. He swallowed the blood in a few
gulps and tossed the packet aside with another wail; Raphael was ready with a second one, and
pressed it into his hand. "Do not drink too fast," he cautioned. "You will make yourself sick."
Simon, of course, ignored him; he had managed to get the second packet open without help and
was gulping greedily at the contents. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth, down his throat,
and spattered his hands with fat red drops. His eyes were closed.
Raphael turned to look at Clary. She could feel Jace staring at her too, and the others, all with
identical expressions of horror and disgust. "Next time he feeds," Raphael said calmly, "it will not
be quite so messy."
Messy. Clary turned away and stumbled out of the clearing, hearing Jace call out for her but
ignoring him, starting to run when she reached the trees. She was halfway down the hill when the
pain hit. She went to her knees, gagging, as everything in her stomach came up in a wrenching
flood. When it was over, she crawled a short distance away and collapsed against the ground.
She knew she was probably lying on someone's grave, but she didn't care. She rested her hot
face against the cool dirt and thought, for the first time, that maybe the dead weren't so unlucky
after all.

Categories: City of Ashes

City of Ashes - Chapter 8

In the dream Clary was a child again, walking down the narrow strip of beach near the
boardwalk at Coney Island. The air was thick with the smell of hot dogs and roasting peanuts,
and with the shouts of children. The sea surged in the distance, its blue-gray surface alive with
sunlight.
She could see herself as if from a distance, wearing oversize child's pajamas. The hems of
the pajama bottoms dragged along the beach. Damp sand grated between her toes, and her
hair hung heavily against the nape of her neck. There were no clouds and the sky was blue
and clear, but she shivered as she walked along the perimeter of the water toward a figure she
could see only dimly in the distance.
As she approached, the figure became suddenly clear, as if Clary had focused the lens of a
camera. It was her mother, kneeling in the ruins of a half-built sand castle. She wore the same
white dress Valentine had put her in at Renwick's. In her hand was a twisted bit of driftwood,
silvery from long exposure to salt and wind.
"Have you come to help me?" her mother said, raising her head. Jocelyn's hair was undone
and it blew free in the wind, making her look younger than she was. "There's so much to do
and so little time."
Clary swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. "Mom—I've missed you, Mom."
Jocelyn smiled. "I've missed you, too, honey. But I'm not gone, you know. I'm only sleeping."
"Then how do I wake you up?" Clary cried, but her mother was looking out to sea, her face
troubled. The sky had turned a twilight iron gray and the black clouds looked like heavy stones.
"Come here," said Jocelyn, and when Clary came to her, she said, "Hold out your arm."
Clary did. Jocelyn moved the driftwood over her skin. The touch stung like the burning of a
stele, and left the same thick black line behind. The rune Jocelyn drew was a shape Clary had
never seen before, but she found it instinctively soothing to her eye. "What does this do?"
"It should protect you." Clary's mother released her.
"Against what?"
Jocelyn didn't answer, just looked out toward the sea. Clary turned and saw that the ocean
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had drawn far out, leaving brackish piles of garbage, heaps of seaweed and flopping,
desperate fish in its wake. The water had gathered itself into a huge wave, rising like the side
of a mountain, like an avalanche ready to fall. The shouts of children from the boardwalk had
turned into screams. As Clary stared in horror, she saw that the side of the wave was as
transparent as a membrane, and through it she could see things that seemed to move under the
surface of the sea, huge dark shapeless things pushing against the skin of the water. She threw
up her hands—
And woke up, gasping, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs. She was in her bed in the
spare room in Luke's house, and afternoon light was filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was
plastered to her neck with sweat, and her arm burned and ached. When she sat up and flipped on
the bedside light, she saw without surprise the black Mark that ran the length of her forearm.
When she went into the kitchen, she found Luke had left breakfast for her in the form of a
Danish in a grease-spotted cardboard box. He'd also left a note stuck to the fridge. Gone to the
hospital.
Clary ate the Danish on the way to meet Simon. He was supposed to be on the corner of
Bedford by the L train stop at five, but he wasn't. She felt a faint tug of anxiety before she
remembered the used record store on the corner of Sixth. Sure enough, he was sorting through
the CDs in the new arrivals section. He wore a rust-colored corduroy jacket with a torn sleeve and
a blue T-shirt bearing the logo of a headphone-wearing boy dancing with a chicken. He grinned
when he saw her. "Eric thinks we should change the name of our band to Mojo Pie," he said, by
way of greeting.
"What is it now? I forgot."
"Champagne Enema," he said, selecting a Yo La Tengo CD.
"Change it," Clary said. "By the way, I know what your T-shirt means."
"No you don't." He headed up to the front of the store to buy his CD. "You're a good girl."
Outside, the wind was cold and brisk. Clary drew her striped scarf up around her chin. "I was
worried when I didn't see you at the L stop."
Simon pulled his knit cap down, wincing as if the sunlight hurt his eyes. "Sorry. I remembered
I wanted this CD, and I thought—"
"It's fine." She waved a hand at him. "It's me. I panic way too easily these days."
"Well, after what you've been through, no one could blame you." Simon sounded contrite. "I
still can't believe what happened to the Silent City. I can't believe you were there."
"Neither could Luke. He freaked out completely."
"I bet." They were walking through McCarren Park, the grass underfoot turning winter brown,
the air full of golden light. Dogs were running off their leashes among the trees. Everything
changes in my life, and the world stays the same, Clary thought. "Have you talked to Jace since
it happened?" Simon asked, keeping his voice neutral.
"No, but I checked in with Isabelle and Alec a few times. Apparently he's fine."
"Did he ask to see you? Is that why we're going?"
"He doesn't have to ask." Clary tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as they turned onto
Magnus's street. It was lined with low warehouse buildings that had been converted into lofts and
studios for artistic—and wealthy—residents. Most of the cars parked along the shallow curb were
expensive.
As they neared Magnus's building, Clary saw a lanky figure unfurl itself from where it had been
sitting on the stoop. Alec. He was wearing a long black coat made of the tough, slightly shiny
material Shadowhunters liked to use for their gear. His hands and throat were marked with runes,
and it was evident from the faint shimmer in the air around him that he was glamoured into
invisibility.
"I didn't know you were bringing the mundane." His blue eyes flicked uneasily over Simon.
"That's what I like about you people," said Simon. "You always make me feel so welcome."
"Oh, come on, Alec," said Clary. "What's the big deal? It's not like Simon hasn't been here
before."
Alec heaved a theatrical sigh, shrugged, and led the way up the stairs. He unlocked the door to
Magnus's apartment using a thin silver key, which he tucked back into the breast pocket of his
jacket the moment he'd finished, as if he hoped to keep his companions from seeing it.
In daylight the apartment looked the way an empty nightclub might look during off hours:
dark, dirty, and unexpectedly small. The walls were bare, spackled here and there with glitter
paint, and the floorboards where faeries had danced a week ago were warped and shiny with age.
"Hello, hello." Magnus swept toward them. He was wearing a floor-length green silk dressing
gown open over a silver mesh shirt and black jeans. A glittering red stone winked in his left ear.
"Alec, my darling. Clary. And rat-boy." He swept a bow toward Simon, who looked annoyed.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We came to see Jace," Clary said. "Is he all right?"
"I don't know," Magnus said. "Does he normally just lie on the floor like that without
moving?"
"What—," Alec began, and broke off as Magnus laughed. "That's not funny."
"You're so easy to tease. And yes, your friend is just fine. Well, except that he keeps putting
all my things away and trying to clean up. Now I can't find anything. He's compulsive."
"Jace does like things neat," Clary said, thinking of his monk-like room at the Institute.
"Well, I don't." Magnus was watching Alec out of the corner of his eye while Alec stared off
into the middle distance, scowling. "Jace is in there if you want to see him." He pointed toward a
door at the end of the room.
"In there" turned out to be a medium-size den—surprisingly cozy, with smudged walls, velvet
curtains drawn across the windows, and cloth-draped armchairs marooned like fat, colorful
icebergs in a sea of nubbly beige carpeting. A hot-pink couch was made up with sheets and a
blanket. Next to it was a duffel bag stuffed full of clothes. No light came through the heavy
curtains; the only source of illumination was a flickering television screen, which glowed brightly
despite the fact that the television itself was not plugged in.
"What's on?" Magnus inquired.
"What Not to Wear," came a familiar drawling voice, emanating from a sprawled figure in one
of the armchairs. He sat forward and for a moment Clary thought Jace might get up and greet
them. Instead, he shook his head at the screen. "High-waisted khaki pants? Who wears those?"
He turned and glared at Magnus. "Nearly unlimited supernatural power," he said, "and all you do
is use it to watch reruns. What a waste."
"Also, TiVo accomplishes much the same thing," pointed out Simon.
"My way is cheaper." Magnus clapped his hands together and the room was suddenly flooded
with light. Jace, slumped in the chair, raised an arm to cover his face. "Can you do that without
magic?"
"Actually," said Simon, "yes. If you watched infomercials, you'd know that."
Clary sensed the mood in the room was deteriorating. "That's enough," she said. She looked
at Jace, who had lowered his arm and was blinking resentfully into the light. "We need to talk,"
she said. "All of us. About what we're going to do now."
"I was going to watch Project Runway," said Jace. "It's on next."
"No you're not," said Magnus. He snapped his fingers and the TV went off, releasing a small
puff of smoke as the picture died. "You need to deal with this."
"Suddenly you're interested in solving my problems?"
"I'm interested in getting my apartment back. I'm tired of you cleaning all the time." Magnus
snapped his fingers again, menacingly. "Get up."
"Or you'll be the next one to go up in smoke," said Simon with relish.
"There's no need to clarify my finger snap," said Magnus. "The implication was clear in the
snap itself."
"Fine." Jace got up out of the chair. He was barefoot and there was a line of purplish silver
skin around his wrist where his injuries were still healing. He looked tired, but not as if he were still
in pain. "You want a round table meeting, we can have a round table meeting."
"I love round tables," said Magnus brightly. "They suit me so much better than square."
In the living room Magnus conjured up an enormous circular table surrounded by five highbacked
wooden chairs. "That's amazing," Clary said, sliding into a chair. It was surprisingly
comfortable. "How can you create something out of nothing like that?"
"You can't," said Magnus. "Everything comes from somewhere. These come from an antiques
reproduction store on Fifth Avenue, for instance. And these"—suddenly five white waxed paper
cups appeared on the table, steam rising gently from the holes in their plastic lids—"come from
Dean & DeLuca on Broadway."
"That seems like stealing, doesn't it?" Simon pulled a cup toward him. He drew the lid back.
"Ooh. Mochaccino." He looked at Magnus. "Did you pay for these?"
"Sure," said Magnus, while Jace and Alec snickered. "I make dollar bills magically appear in
their cash register."
"Really?"
"No." Magnus popped the lid off his own coffee. "But you can pretend I did if it makes you
feel better. So, first order of business is what?"
Clary put her hands around her own coffee cup. Maybe it was stolen, but it was also hot and
full of caffeine. She could stop by Dean & DeLuca and drop a dollar in their tip jar some other
time. "Figuring out what's going on would be a start," she said, blowing on her foam. "Jace, you
said what happened in the Silent City was Valentine's fault?"
Jace stared down at his coffee. "Yes."
Alec put his hand on Jace's arm. "What happened? Did you see him?"
"I was in the cell," said Jace, his voice dead. "I heard the Silent Brothers screaming. Then
Valentine came downstairs with—with something. I don't know what it was. Like smoke, with
glowing eyes. A demon, but not like any I've ever seen before. He came up to the bars and he
told me…"
"Told you what?" Alec's hand slid up Jace's arm to his shoulder. Magnus cleared his throat.
Alec dropped his hand, red-faced, while Simon grinned into his undrunk coffee.
"Maellartach," Jace said. "He wanted the Soul-Sword and he killed the Silent Brothers to get
it."
Magnus was frowning. "Alec, last night, when the Silent Brothers called for your help, where
was the Conclave? Why was no one at the Institute?"
Alec looked surprised to be asked. "There was a Downworlder murder in Central Park last
night. A faerie child was killed. The body was drained of blood."
"I bet the Inquisitor thinks I did that, too," said Jace. "My reign of terror continues."
Magnus stood up and went to the window. He pushed the curtain back, letting in just enough
light to silhouette his hawklike profile. "Blood," he said, half to himself. "I had a dream two nights
ago. I saw a city all of blood, with towers made of bone, and blood ran in the streets like water."
Simon slewed his eyes over to Jace. "Is standing by the window muttering about blood
something he does all the time?"
"No," said Jace, "sometimes he sits on the couch and does it."
Alec shot them both a sharp glance. "Magnus, what's wrong?"
"The blood," said Magnus again. "It can't be a coincidence." He seemed to be looking down
at the street. Sunset was coming on fast over the silhouette of the city in the distance: The sky
was striped with bars of aluminum and rosy gold. "There have been several murders this week,"
he said, "of Downworlders. A warlock, killed in an apartment tower down by the South Street
Seaport. His neck and wrists were cut and the body drained of blood. And a werewolf was killed
at the Hunter's Moon a few days ago. The throat was cut in that case as well."
"It sounds like vampires," said Simon, suddenly very pale.
"I don't think so," Jace said. "At least, Raphael said it wasn't the Night Children's work. He
seemed adamant about it."
"Yeah, 'cause he's trustworthy," muttered Simon.
"In this case I think he was telling the truth," said Magnus, drawing the curtain closed. His face
was angular, shadowed. As he came back to the table, Clary saw that he was carrying a heavy
book bound in green cloth. She didn't think he'd been holding it a few moments ago. "There was
a strong demonic presence at both locations. I think someone else was responsible for all three
deaths. Not Raphael and his tribe, but Valentine."
Clary's eyes went to Jace. His mouth was a thin line, but "Why do you say that?" was all he
asked.
"The Inquisitor thought the faerie murder was a diversion," she said quickly. "So that he could
plunder the Silent City without worrying about the Conclave."
"There are easier ways to create a diversion," said Jace, "and it is unwise to antagonize the
Fair Folk. He wouldn't have murdered one of the clan of faerie if he didn't have a reason."
"He had a reason," said Magnus. "There was something he wanted from the faerie child, just
as there was something he wanted from the warlock and the werewolf he killed."
"What's that?" asked Alec.
"Their blood," said Magnus, and opened the green book. The thin parchment pages had
words written on them that glowed like fire. "Ah," he said, "here." He looked up, tapping the page
with a sharp fingernail. Alec leaned forward. "You won't be able to read it," Magnus warned him.
"It's written in a demon language. Purgatic."
"I can recognize the drawing, though. That's Maellartach. I've seen it before in books." Alec
pointed at an illustration of a silver sword, familiar to Clary—it was the one she'd noticed was
missing from the wall of the Silent City.
"The Ritual of Infernal Conversion," Magnus said. "That's what Valentine's trying to do."
"The what of what?" Clary frowned.
"Every magical object has an alliance," Magnus explained. "The alliance of the Soul-Sword is
seraphic—like those angel knives you Shadowhunters use, but a thousand times more so,
because its power was drawn from the Angel himself, not simply from the invocation of an
angelic name. What Valentine wants to do is reverse its alliance—make it an object of demonic
rather than angelic power."
"Lawful good to lawful evil!" said Simon, pleased.
"He's quoting Dungeons and Dragons," said Clary. "Ignore him."
"As the Angel's Sword, Maellartach's use to Valentine would be limited," said Magnus. "But
as a sword whose demonic power is equal to the angelic power it once possessed—well, there is
much it could offer him. Power over demons, for one. Not just the limited protection the Cup
might offer, but power to call demons to him, to force them to do his bidding."
"A demon army?" said Alec.
"This guy is big on armies," observed Simon.
"Power even to bring them into Idris, perhaps," Magnus finished.
"I don't know why he'd want to go there," Simon said. "That's where all the demon hunters
are, aren't they? Wouldn't they just annihilate the demon guys?"
"Demons come from other dimensions," said Jace. "We don't know how many of them there
are. Their numbers could be infinite. The wardings keep most of them back, but if they all came
through at once…"
Infinite, Clary thought. She remembered the Greater Demon, Abbadon, and tried to imagine
hundreds more of it. Or thousands. Her skin felt cold and exposed.
"I don't get it," said Alec. "What does the ritual have to do with dead Downworlders?"
"To perform the Ritual of Conversion, you need to seethe the Sword until it's red-hot, then
cool it four times, each time in the blood of a Downworld child. Once in the blood of a child of
Lilith, once in the blood of a child of the moon, once in the blood of a child of the night, and
once in the blood of a child of faerie," Magnus explained.
"Oh my God," said Clary. "So he's not done killing? There's still one more child to go?"
"Two more. He didn't succeed with the werewolf child. He was interrupted before he could
get all the blood he needed." Magnus shut the book, dust puffing out from its pages. "Whatever
Valentine's ultimate goal is, he's already more than halfway to reversing the Sword. He's probably
able to garner some power from it already. He could already be calling on demons—"
"But you'd think if he were doing that, there'd be reports of disturbances, excess demon
activity," Jace said. "But the Inquisitor said the opposite is true—that everything's been quiet."
"And so it might be," said Magnus, "if Valentine were calling all the demons to him. No
wonder it's quiet."
The group stared at one another. Before anyone could think of a single thing to say, a sharp
noise cut through the room, making Clary start. Hot coffee spilled onto her wrist and she gasped
at the sudden pain.
"It's my mother," said Alec, checking his phone. "I'll be right back." He went over to the
window, head down, voice too low to overhear.
"Let me see," said Simon, taking Clary's hand. There was an angry red blotch on her wrist
where the hot liquid had scalded her.
"It's okay," she said. "No big deal."
Simon lifted her hand and kissed the injury. "All better now."
Clary made a startled noise. He had never done anything like that before. Then again, that was
the sort of thing boyfriends did, didn't they? Drawing her wrist back, she looked across the table
and saw Jace staring at them, his golden eyes blazing. "You're a Shadowhunter," he said. "You
know how to deal with injuries." He slid his stele across the table toward her. "Use it."
"No," Clary said, and pushed the stele back across the table at him.
Jace slammed his hand down on the stele. "Clary—"
"She said she doesn't want it," said Simon. "Ha-ha."
"Ha-ha?" Jace looked incredulous. "That's your comeback?"
Alec, folding his phone, approached the table with a puzzled look. "What's going on?"
"We seem to be trapped in an episode of One Life to Waste," Magnus observed. "It's all very
dull."
Alec flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes. "I told my mother about the Infernal Conversion."
"Let me guess," said Jace. "She didn't believe you. Plus, she blamed everything on me."
Alec frowned. "Not exactly. She said she'd bring it up with the Conclave, but that she didn't
have the Inquisitor's ear right now. I get the feeling the Inquisitor has pushed Mom out of the way
and taken over. She sounded angry." The phone in his hand rang again. He held up a finger.
"Sorry. It's Isabelle. One sec." He wandered to the window, phone in hand.
Jace glanced over at Magnus. "I think you're right about the werewolf at the Hunter's Moon.
The guy who found his body said someone else was in the alley with him. Someone who ran off."
Magnus nodded. "It sounds to me like Valentine was interrupted in the middle of doing
whatever it is he does to get the blood he needs. He'll probably try again with a different
lycanthrope child."
"I ought to warn Luke," Clary said, half-rising out of her chair.
"Wait." Alec was back, phone in hand, a peculiar expression on his face.
"What did Isabelle want?" Jace asked.
Alec hesitated. "Isabelle says the Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an audience with
us."
"Sure," said Magnus. "And Madonna wants me as a backup dancer on her next world tour."
Alec looked puzzled. "Who's Madonna?"
"Who's the Queen of the Seelie Court?" said Clary.
"She is the Queen of Faerie," said Magnus. "Well, the local one, anyway."
Jace put his head in his hands. "Tell Isabelle no."
"But she thinks it's a good idea," Alec protested.
"Then tell her no twice."
Alec frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, just that some of Isabelle's ideas are world-beaters and some are total disasters.
Remember that idea she had about using abandoned subway tunnels to get around under the city?
Talk about giant rats—"
"Let's not," said Simon. "I'd rather not talk about rats at all, in fact."
"This is different," said Alec. "She wants us to go to the Seelie Court."
"You're right, this is different," said Jace. "This is her worst idea ever."
"She knows a knight in the Court," said Alec. "He told her that the Seelie Queen is interested
in meeting with us. Isabelle overheard my conversation with our mother—and she thought if we
could explain our theory about Valentine and the Soul-Sword to the Queen, the Seelie Court
would side with us, maybe even ally with us against Valentine."
"Is it safe to go there?" Clary asked.
"Of course it's not safe," Jace said, as if she'd asked the stupidest question he'd ever heard.
She shot a glare at him. "I don't know anything about the Seelie Court. Vampires and
werewolves I get. There are enough movies about them. But faeries are little-kid stuff. I dressed
up as a faerie for Halloween when I was eight. My mom made me a hat shaped like a buttercup."
"I remember that." Simon had leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "I was a
Transformer. Actually, I was a Decepticon."
"Can we get back to the point?" Magnus asked.
"Fine," Alec said. "Isabelle thinks—and I agree—that it's not a good idea to ignore the Fair
Folk. If they want to talk, what harm can it do? Besides, if the Seelie Court were on our side, the
Clave would have to listen to what we have to say."
Jace laughed without any humor. "The Fair Folk don't help humans."
"Shadowhunters are not human," Clary said. "Not really."
"We are not much better to them," said Jace.
"They can't be worse than vampires," Simon muttered. "And you did all right with them."
Jace looked at Simon as if he were something he'd found growing under the sink. "Did all
right with them? By which I take it you mean we survived?"
"Well…"
"Faeries," Jace went on, as if Simon hadn't spoken, "are the offspring of demons and angels,
with the beauty of angels and the viciousness of demons. A vampire might attack you, if you
entered its domain, but a faerie could make you dance until you died with your legs ground down
into stumps, trick you into a midnight swim and drag you screaming underwater until your lungs
burst, fill your eyes with faerie dust until you gouged them out at the roots—"
"Jace!" Clary snapped, cutting him off mid-rant. "Shut up. Jesus. That's enough."
"Look, it's easy to outsmart a werewolf or a vampire," Jace said. "They're no smarter than
anyone else. But faeries live for hundreds of years and they're as cunning as snakes. They can't
lie, but they love to engage in creative truth-telling. They'll find out whatever it is you want most in
the world and give it to you—with a sting in the tail of the gift that will make you regret you ever
wanted it in the first place." He sighed. "They're not really about helping people. More about harm
disguised as help."
"And you don't think we're smart enough to know the difference?" asked Simon.
"I don't think you're smart enough not to get turned into a rat by accident."
Simon glared at him. "I don't see that it matters what you think we should do," he said.
"Considering that you can't go with us in the first place. You can't go anywhere."
Jace stood up, knocking his chair back violently. "You are not taking Clary to the Seelie Court
without me and that is final!"
Clary stared at him with her mouth open. He was flushed with anger, teeth gritted, veins
corded in his neck. He was also avoiding looking at her.
"I can take care of Clary," Alec said, and there was hurt in his voice—whether because Jace
had doubted his abilities or because of something else, Clary wasn't sure.
"Alec," said Jace, his eyes locked with his friend's. "No. You can't."
Alec swallowed. "We're going," he said. He spoke the words like an apology. "Jace—a
request from the Seelie Court—it would be stupid to ignore it. Besides, Isabelle's probably
already told them we're coming."
"There is no chance I'm going to let you do this, Alec," Jace said in a dangerous voice. "I'll
wrestle you to the ground if I have to."
"While that does sound tempting," said Magnus, flipping his long silk sleeves back, "there is
another way."
"What other way? This is a directive from the Clave. I can't just weasel out of it."
"But I can." Magnus grinned. "Never doubt my weaseling abilities, Shadowhunter, for they are
epic and memorable in their scope. I specifically enchanted the contract with the Inquisitor so that
I could let you go for a short time if I desired, as long as another of the Nephilim was willing to
take your place."
"Where are we going to find another—Oh," Alec said meekly. "You mean me."
Jace's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, now you don't want to go to the Seelie Court?"
Alec flushed. "I think it's more important for you to go than me. You're Valentine's son, I'm
sure you're the one the Queen really wants to see. Besides, you're charming."
Jace glared at him.
"Maybe not at the moment," Alec amended. "But you're usually charming. And faeries are
very susceptible to charm."
"Plus, if you stay here, I've got the whole first season of Gilligan's Island on DVD," Magnus
said.
"No one could turn that down," said Jace. He still wouldn't look at Clary.
"Isabelle can meet you in the park by Turtle Pond," said Alec. "She knows the secret entrance
to the Court. She'll be waiting."
"And one last thing," Magnus said, jabbing a ringed finger at Jace. "Try not to get yourself
killed in the Seelie Court. If you die, I'll have a lot of explaining to do."
At that, Jace broke into a grin. It was an unsettling grin, less a flash of amusement than the
gleam of an unsheathed blade. "You know," he said, "I have a feeling that that's going to be the
case whether I get myself killed or not."
Thick tendrils of moss and plants surrounded the rim of Turtle Pond like a bordering of green
lace. The surface of the water was still, rippled here and there in the wake of drifting ducks, or
dimpled by the silvery flick of a fish's tail.
There was a small wooden gazebo built out over the water; Isabelle was sitting in it, staring out
across the lake. She looked like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting at the top of her tower for
someone to ride up and rescue her.
Not that traditional princess behavior was like Isabelle at all. Isabelle with her whip and boots
and knives would chop anyone who tried to pen her up in a tower into pieces, build a bridge out
of the remains, and walk carelessly to freedom, her hair looking fabulous the entire time. This
made Isabelle a hard person to like, though Clary was trying.
"Izzy," said Jace, as they neared the pond, and she jumped up and spun around. Her smile
was dazzling.
"Jace!" She flew at him and hugged him. Now that was the way sisters were supposed to act,
Clary thought. Not all stiff and weird and peculiar, but happy and loving. Watching Jace hug
Isabelle, she tried to school her features into a happy and loving expression.
"Are you all right?" Simon asked, with some concern. "Your eyes are crossing."
"I'm fine." Clary abandoned the attempt.
"Are you sure? You looked sort of… contorted."
"Something I ate."
Isabelle drifted over, Jace a pace behind her. She was wearing a long black dress with boots
and an even longer cutaway coat of soft green velvet, the color of moss. "I can't believe you did
it!" she exclaimed. "How did you get Magnus to let Jace leave?"
"Traded him for Alec," Clary said.
Isabelle looked mildly alarmed. "Not permanently?"
"No," said Jace. "Just for a few hours. Unless I don't come back," he added thoughtfully. "In
which case, maybe he does get to keep Alec. Think of it as a lease with an option to buy."
Isabelle looked dubious. "Mom and Dad won't be pleased if they find out."
"That you freed a possible criminal by trading away your brother to a warlock who looks like
a gay Sonic the Hedgehog and dresses like the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?"
Simon inquired. "No, probably not."
Jace looked at him thoughtfully. "Is there some particular reason that you're here? I'm not so
sure we should be bringing you to the Seelie Court. They hate mundanes."
Simon rolled his eyes upward. "Not this again."
"Not what again?" said Clary.
"Every time I annoy him, he retreats into his No Mundanes Allowed tree house." Simon
pointed at Jace. "Let me remind you, the last time you wanted to leave me behind, I saved all your
lives."
"Sure," said Jace. "One time—"
"The faerie courts are dangerous," cut in Isabelle. "Even your skill with the bow won't help
you. It's not that kind of danger."
"I can take care of myself," said Simon. A sharp wind had come up. It blew drying leaves
across the gravel at their feet and made Simon shiver. He dug his hands into the wool -lined
pockets of his jacket.
"You don't have to come," Clary said.
He looked at her, a steady, measured look. She remembered him back at Luke's, calling her
my girlfriend with no measure of doubt or indecision. Whatever else you could say about Simon,
he knew what he wanted. "Yeah," he said. "I do."
Jace made a noise under his breath. "Then I suppose we're ready," he said. "Don't expect any
special consideration, mundane."
"Look on the bright side," said Simon. "If they need a human sacrifice, you can always offer
me. I'm not sure the rest of you qualify anyway."
Jace brightened. "It's always nice when someone volunteers to be the first up against the wall."
"Come on," Isabelle said. "The door is about to open."
Clary glanced around. The sun had set completely and the moon was up, a wedge of creamy
white casting its reflection onto the pond. It wasn't quite full, but shadowed at one edge, giving it
the look of a half-lidded eye. Night wind rattled the tree branches, knocking them against one
another with a sound like hollow bones.
"Where do we go?" Clary asked. "Where's the door?"
Isabelle's smile was like a whispered secret. "Follow me."
She moved down to the edge of the water, her boots leaving deep impressions in the wet mud.
Clary followed, glad she was wearing jeans and not a skirt as Isabelle hiked her coat and dress up
over her knees, leaving her slim white legs bare above her boots. Her skin was covered in Marks
like licks of black fire.
Simon, behind her, swore as he slipped in the mud; Jace moved automatically to steady him as
they all turned. Simon jerked his arm back. "I don't need your help."
"Stop it." Isabelle tapped a booted foot in the shallow water at the lake's edge. "Both of you.
In fact, all three of you. If we don't stick together in the Seelie Court, we're dead."
"But I haven't—," Clary started.
"Maybe you haven't, but the way you let those two act…" Isabelle indicated the boys with a
disdainful wave of her hand.
"I can't tell them what to do!"
"Why not?" the other girl demanded. "Honestly, Clary, if you don't start utilizing a bit of your
natural feminine superiority, I just don't know what I'll do with you." She turned toward the pond,
then spun around again. "And lest I forget," she added sternly, "for the love of the Angel, don't
eat or drink anything while we're underground, any of you. Okay?"
"Underground?" said Simon worriedly. "Nobody said anything about underground."
Isabelle threw up her hands and splashed out into the pond. Her green velvet coat swirled out
around her like an enormous lily pad. "Come on. We only have until the moon moves."
The moon what? Shaking her head, Clary stepped out into the pond. The water was shallow
and clear; in the bright starlight, she could see the black shapes of tiny darting fish moving past
her ankles. She gritted her teeth as she waded farther out into the pond. The cold was intense.
Behind her, Jace moved out into the water with a contained grace that barely rippled the
surface. Simon, behind him, was splashing and cursing. Isabelle, having reached the center of the
pond, paused there, up to her rib cage in water. She held out her hand toward Clary. "Stop."
Clary stopped. Just in front of her, the reflection of the moon glimmered atop the water like a
huge silvery dinner plate. Some part of her knew that it didn't work like this; the moon was
supposed to move away from you as you approached, ever receding. But here it was, hovering
just on the surface of the water as if it were anchored in place.
"Jace, you go first," Isabelle said, and beckoned him. "Come on."
He brushed past Clary, smelling of wet leather and char. She saw him smile as he turned, and
then he stepped backward into the reflection of the moon—and vanished.
"Okay," said Simon unhappily. "Okay, that was weird."
Clary glanced back at him. He was only hip-deep in water, but he was shivering, his hands
hugging his elbows. She smiled at him and took a step backward, feeling a shock of icier cold
when she moved into the shimmering silver reflection. She teetered for a moment, as if she'd lost
her balance on the highest rung of a ladder—and then fell backward into darkness as the moon
swallowed her up.
She hit packed earth, stumbled, and felt a hand on her arm, steadying her. It was Jace. "Easy
does it," he said, and let her go.
She was soaking wet, rivulets of cold water running down the back of her shirt, her damp hair
clinging to her face. Her drenched clothes felt as if they weighed a ton.
They were in a hollowed-out dirt corridor, illuminated by faintly glowing moss. A tangle of
dangling vines formed a curtain at one end of the corridor and long, hairy tendrils hung like dead
snakes from the ceiling. Tree roots, Clary realized. They were underground. And it was cold
down here, cold enough to make her breath puff out in an icy mist when she exhaled.
"Cold?" Jace was soaking wet too, his light hair almost colorless where it stuck to his cheeks
and forehead. Water ran from his wet jeans and jacket, and made the white shirt he was wearing
transparent. She could see the dark lines of his permanent Marks through it and the faint scar on
his shoulder.
She looked away quickly. Water clung to her lashes, blurring her vision like tears. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." He moved closer, and she could feel the warmth of him even through
his wet clothes and hers, thawing her icy skin.
A dark shape hurtled by, just out of the corner of her eye, and hit the ground with a thud. It
was Simon, also soaking wet. He rolled onto his knees and looked around frantically. "My
glasses—"
"I've got them." Clary was used to retrieving Simon's glasses for him during soccer games.
They always seemed to fall just under his feet, where they were inevitably stepped on. "Here you
go."
He slid them on, scraping dirt off the lenses. "Thanks."
Clary could feel Jace watching them, feel his gaze like a weight on her shoulders. She
wondered if Simon could too. He stood up with a frown, just as Isabelle dropped out of the
heavens, landing gracefully on her feet. Water ran from her long, streaming hair and weighed
down her heavy velvet coat, but she barely seemed to notice. "Oooh, that was fun."
"That does it," said Jace. "I'm going to get you a dictionary for Christmas this year."
"Why?" Isabelle said.
"So you can look up 'fun.' I'm not sure you know what it means."
Isabelle pulled the long heavy mass of her wet hair forward and wrung it out as if it were wet
washing. "You're raining on my parade."
"It's a pretty wet parade already, if you hadn't noticed." Jace glanced around. "Now what?
Which way do we go?"
"Neither way," said Isabelle. "We wait here, and they come and get us."
Clary was not impressed by this suggestion. "How do they know we're here? Is there a
doorbell we have to ring or something?"
"The Court knows all that happens in their lands. Our presence won't go unnoticed."
Simon looked at her with suspicion. "And how do you know so much about faeries and the
Seelie Court, anyway?"
Isabelle, to everyone's surprise, blushed. A moment later the curtain of vines was drawn aside
and a faerie stepped through it, shaking back his long hair. Clary had seen some of the fey before
at Magnus's party and had been struck by both their cold beauty and a certain wild unearthliness
they possessed even when they were dancing and drinking. This faerie was no exception: His hair
fell in blue-black sheets around a cool, sharp, lovely face; his eyes were green as vines or moss
and there was the shape of a leaf, either a birthmark or tattoo, across one of his cheekbones. He
wore an armor of a silvery brown like the bark of trees in winter, and when he moved, the armor
flashed a multitude of colors: peat black, moss green, ash gray, sky blue.
Isabelle gave a cry and jumped into his arms. "Meliorn!"
"Ah," said Simon, quietly and not without amusement, "so that's how she knows."
The faerie—Meliorn—looked down at her gravely, then detached her and set her gently aside.
"This is not a time for affection," he said. "The Queen of the Seelie Court has requested an
audience with the three Nephilim among you. Will you come?"
Clary put a protective hand on Simon's shoulder. "What about our friend?"
Meliorn looked impassive. "Mundane humans are not permitted in the Court."
"I wish someone had mentioned that earlier," said Simon, to no one in particular. "I take it I'm
just supposed to wait out here until vines start growing on me?"
Meliorn considered. "That might offer significant amusement."
"Simon's not an ordinary mundane. He can be trusted," Jace said, startling them all, and
Simon more than the rest. Clary could tell Simon was surprised because he stared at Jace without
offering a single smart remark. "He has fought many battles with us."
"By which you mean one battle," muttered Simon. "Two if you count the one where I was a
rat."
"We will not enter the Seelie Court without Simon," Clary said, her hand still on Simon's
shoulder. "Your Queen requested this audience with us, remember? It wasn't our idea to come
here."
There was a spark of dark amusement in Meliorn's green eyes. "As you wish," he said. "Let it
not be said that the Seelie Court does not respect the desires of its guests." He spun on a
perfectly booted heel and began to lead them down the corridor without pausing to see if they
were following him. Isabelle hurried to walk alongside him, leaving Jace, Clary, and Simon to
follow the two of them in silence.
"Are you allowed to date faeries?" Clary asked finally. "Would your—would the Lightwoods
be cool with Isabelle and whatshisname—"
"Meliorn," put in Simon.
"—Meliorn going out?"
"I'm not sure they're going out," Jace said, weighting the last two words with a heavy irony.
"I'd guess they mostly stay in. Or in this case, under."
"You sound like you disapprove." Simon pushed a tree root aside. They had moved from a
dirt-walled corridor to one lined with smooth stones, only the occasional root snaking down
between the stones from above. The floor was some kind of polished hard stuff, not marble but
stone veined and flaked with lines of shimmering material like powdered jewels.
"I don't disapprove exactly," said Jace. "The faeries are known to dally with the occasional
mortal, but they always end in abandoning them, usually the worse for wear."
His words sent a shiver down Clary's spine. At that moment Isabelle laughed, and Clary could
see now why Jace had dropped his voice, because the stone walls threw Isabelle's voice back to
them amplified and echoing so that Isabelle's laughter seemed to bounce off the walls.
"You're so funny!" She tripped as the heel of her boot caught between two stones, and
Meliorn caught and righted her without changing expression.
"I do not understand how you humans can walk in shoes that are that tall."
"It's my motto," said Isabelle, with a sultry smile. " 'Nothing less than seven inches.' "
Meliorn gazed at her stonily.
"I'm talking about my heels," she said. "It's a pun. You know? A play on—"
"Come," the faerie knight said. "The Queen will be growing impatient." He headed down the
corridor without giving Isabelle a second glance.
"I forgot," Isabelle muttered as the rest of them caught up to her. "Faeries have no sense of
humor."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Jace. "There's a pixie nightclub downtown called Hot Wings.
Not," he added, "that I have ever been there."
Simon looked at Jace, opened his mouth as if he intended to ask him a question, then seemed
to think better of it. He closed his mouth with a snap just as the corridor opened out into a wide
room whose floor was packed dirt and whose walls were lined with high stone pillars twined all
over with vines and bright flowers bursting with color. Thin cloths were hung between the pillars,
dyed a soft blue that was almost the exact hue of the sky. The room was filled with light, though
Clary could see no torches, and the overall effect was of a summer pavilion in bright sunshine
rather than a dirt and stone room underground.
Clary's first impression was that she was outside; her second was that the room was full of
people. There was a strange sweet music playing, flawed with sweet-sour notes, a sort of aural
equivalent of honey mixed with lemon juice, and there was a circle of faeries dancing to the music,
their feet barely seeming to skim the floor. Their hair—blue, black, brown and scarlet, metal gold
and ice white—flew like banners.
She could see why they were called the Fair Folk, for they were fair indeed with their pale
lovely faces, their wings of lilac and gold and blue—how could she have believed Jace that they
meant to harm her? The music that had jarred her ears at first now sounded only sweet. She felt
the urge to toss her own hair and to move her own feet in the dance. The music told her that if she
did that, she too would be so light that her feet would barely touch the earth. She took a step
forward—
And was jerked back by a hand on her arm. Jace was glaring at her, his golden eyes bright as a
cat's. "If you dance with them," he said in a low voice, "you'll dance until you die."
Clary blinked at him. She felt as if she'd been pulled out of a dream, groggy and half-awake.
Her voice slurred when she spoke. "Whaaat?"
Jace made an impatient noise. He had his stele in his hand; she hadn't seen him take it out. He
gripped her wrist and inscribed a quick, stinging Mark onto the skin of her inner arm. "Now
look."
She looked again—and froze. The faces that had seemed so lovely to her were still lovely, yet
behind them lurked something vulpine, almost feral. The girl with the pink and blue wings
beckoned, and Clary saw that her fingers were made of twigs, budded with closed leaves. Her
eyes were entirely black, without iris or pupil. The boy dancing next to her had poison green skin
and curling horns twisting from his temples. When he turned in the dance, his coat fell open and
Clary saw that beneath it, his chest was an empty rib cage. Ribbons were woven through his bare
rib bones, possibly to make him look more festive. Clary's stomach lurched.
"Come on." Jace pushed her and she stumbled forward. When she regained her balance, she
looked around anxiously for Simon. He was up ahead and she saw that Isabelle had a firm grip on
him. This once, she didn't mind. She doubted Simon would have made it through the room on his
own.
Skirting the circle of dancers, they made their way to the far end of the room and through a
parted curtain of blue silk. It was a relief to be out of the room and into another corridor, this one
carved from a glossy brown material like the outside of a nut. Isabelle let go of Simon and he
stopped walking immediately; when Clary caught up to him, she saw that this was because
Isabelle had tied her scarf across his eyes. He was fiddling with the knot when Clary reached him.
"Let me get it," she said, and he went still while she untied him and handed the scarf back to
Isabelle with a nod of thanks.
Simon pushed his hair back; it was damp where the scarf had held it down. "That was some
music," he observed. "A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll."
Meliorn, who had paused to wait for them, frowned. "You didn't care for it?"
"I cared for it a little too much," Clary said. "What was that supposed to be, some kind of
test? Or a joke?"
He shrugged. "I am used to mortals who are easily swayed by our faerie glamours; not so the
Nephilim. I thought you had protections."
"She does," Jace said, meeting Meliorn's jade green gaze with his own.
Meliorn only shrugged and began walking again. Simon kept pace beside Clary for a few
moments without speaking before he said, "So what did I miss? Naked dancing ladies?"
Clary thought of the male faerie's torn-open ribs and shuddered. "Nothing that pleasant."
"There are ways for a human to join the faerie revels," Isabelle, who had been eavesdropping,
put in. "If they give you a token—like a leaf or a flower—to hold on to, and you keep it through
the night, you'll be fine in the morning. Or if you go with a faerie for a companion…" She shot a
glance at Meliorn, but he had reached a leafy screen set into the wall and paused there.
"These are the Queen's chambers," he said. "She's come from her Court in the north to see
about the child's death. If there's to be war, she wants to be the one declaring it."
Up close, Clary could see that the screen was made of thickly woven vines, budded with
amber droplets. He drew the vines apart and ushered them into the chamber on the other side.
Jace ducked through first, followed by Clary. She straightened up, looking around her
curiously.
The room itself was plain, the earthen walls hung with pale fabric. Will-o'-the-wisps glowed in
glass jars. A lovely woman reclined on a low couch surrounded by what must have been her
courtiers—a motley assortment of faeries, from tiny sprites to what looked like lovely human girls
with long hair… if you discounted their black, pupil-less eyes.
"My Queen," said Meliorn, bowing low. "I have brought the Nephilim to you."
The Queen sat up straight. She had long scarlet hair that seemed to float around her like
autumn leaves in a breeze. Her eyes were clear blue as glass, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Three of
these are Nephilim," she said. "The other is a mundane."
Meliorn seemed to shrink back, but the Queen didn't even look at him. Her gaze was on the
Shadowhunters. Clary could feel the weight of it, like a touch. Despite her loveliness, there was
nothing fragile about the Queen. She was as bright and hard to look at as a burning star.
"Our apologies, my lady." Jace stepped forward, putting himself between the Queen and his
companions. His voice had changed its tone—there was something in the way he spoke now,
something careful and delicate. "The mundane is our responsibility. We owe him protection.
Therefore we keep him with us."
The Queen tilted her head to the side, like an interested bird. All her attention was on Jace
now. "A blood debt?" she murmured. "To a mundane?"
"He saved my life," Jace said. Clary felt Simon stiffen beside her in surprise. She willed him
not to show it. Faeries couldn't lie, Jace had said, and Jace wasn't lying, either—Simon had saved
his life. That just wasn't why they'd brought him with them. Clary began to appreciate what Jace
had meant by creative truth-telling. "Please, my lady. We had hoped you would understand. We
had heard you were as kind as you were beautiful, and in that case—well," Jace said, "your
kindness must be extreme indeed."
The Queen smirked and leaned forward, gleaming hair falling to shadow her face. "You are as
charming as your father, Jonathan Morgenstern," she said, and gestured at the cushions scattered
around the floor. "Come, sit beside me. Eat something. Drink. Rest yourselves. Talk is better with
wet lips."
For a moment Jace looked thrown. He hesitated. Meliorn leaned over to him and spoke softly.
"It would be unwise to refuse the bounty of the Queen of the Seelie Court."
Isabelle's eyes flicked toward him. Then she shrugged. "It won't hurt us just to sit down."
Meliorn led them over to a pile of silky cushions near the Queen's divan. Clary sat down
cautiously, half-expecting there to be some kind of big sharp root just waiting to poke her in the
behind. It seemed like the sort of thing the Queen would find amusing. But nothing happened. The
cushions were very comfortable; she settled back with the others around her.
A pixie with bluish skin came toward them carrying a platter with four silver cups on it. They
each took a cup of the gold-toned liquid. There were rose petals floating on the top.
Simon set his cup down beside him.
"Don't you want any?" the pixie asked.
"The last faerie drink I had didn't agree with me," he muttered.
Clary barely heard him. The drink had a heady, intoxicating scent, richer and more delicious
than roses. She picked a petal out of the liquid and crushed it between her thumb and forefinger,
releasing more of the scent.
Jace jostled her arm. "Don't drink any of it," he said under his breath.
"But—"
"Just don't."
She set the cup down, as Simon had done. Her finger and thumb were stained pink.
"Now," said the Queen. "Meliorn tells me you claim to know who killed our child in the park
last night. Though I tell you now, it seems no mystery to me. A faerie child, drained of blood? Is
it that you bring me the name of a single vampire? But all vampires are at fault here, for the
breaking of the Law, and should be punished accordingly. Despite what may seem, we are not
such a particular people."
"Oh, come on," said Isabelle. "It isn't vampires."
Jace shot her a look. "What Isabelle means to say is that we're almost certain that the murderer
is someone else. We think he may be trying to throw suspicion on the vampires to shield himself."
"Have you proof of that?"
Jace's tone was calm, but the shoulder that brushed Clary's was tight with tension. "Last night
the Silent Brothers were slaughtered as well, and none of them were drained of blood."
"And this has to do with our child, how? Dead Nephilim are a tragedy to Nephilim, but nothing
to me."
Clary felt a sharp sting at her left hand. Looking down, she saw the tiny shape of a sprite
darting away between the pillows. A red bead of blood had risen on her finger. She put the finger
into her mouth with a wince. The sprites were cute, but they had a mean bite.
"The Soul-Sword was stolen as well," said Jace. "You know of Maellartach?"
"The sword that makes Shadowhunters tell the truth," said the Queen, with dark amusement.
"We fey have no need of such an object."
"It was taken by Valentine Morgenstern," said Jace. "He killed the Silent Brothers to get it, and
we think he killed the faerie as well. He needed the blood of a faerie child to effect a
transformation on the Sword. To make it a tool he could use."
"And he won't stop," Isabelle added. "He needs more blood after that."
The Queen's high eyebrows were arched even higher. "More blood of the Folk?"
"No," Jace said, shooting a look at Isabelle that Clary couldn't quite interpret. "More
Downworlder blood. He needs the blood of a werewolf, and a vampire—"
The Queen's eyes shone with reflected light. "That seems hardly our concern."
"He killed one of yours," Isabelle said. "Don't you want revenge?"
The Queen's gaze brushed her like a moth's wing. "Not immediately," she said. "We are a
patient folk, for we have all the time in the world. Valentine Morgenstern is an old enemy of
ours—but we have enemies older still. We are content to wait and watch."
"He's summoning demons to him," Jace said. "Creating an army—"
"Demons," said the Queen lightly, as her courtiers chattered behind her. "Demons are your
charge, are they not, Shadowhunter? Is that not why you hold authority over us all? Because you
are the ones who slay demons?"
"I'm not here to give you orders on behalf of the Clave. We came when you asked us because
we thought that if you knew the truth, you'd help us."
"Is that what you thought?" The Queen sat forward in her chair, her long hair rippling and
alive. "Remember, Shadowhunter, there are those of us who chafe under the rule of the Clave.
Perhaps we are tired of fighting your wars for you."
"But it isn't our war alone," said Jace. "Valentine hates Downworlders more than he hates
demons. If he defeats us, he'll go after you next."
The Queen's eyes bored into him.
"And when he does," said Jace, "remember that it was a Shadowhunter who warned you what
was coming."
There was silence. Even the Court had fallen silent, watching their Lady. At last, the Queen
leaned back on her cushions and took a swallow from a silver chalice. "Warning me about your
own parent," she said. "I had thought you mortals capable of filial affection, at least, and yet you
seem to feel no loyalty toward Valentine your father."
Jace said nothing. He seemed, for a change, lost for words.
Sweetly, the Queen went on, "Or perhaps this hostility of yours is the pretense. Love does
make liars out of your kind."
"But we don't love our father," said Clary, as Jace remained frighteningly silent. "We hate
him."
"Do you?" The Queen looked almost bored.
"You know how the bonds of family are, my lady," said Jace, recovering his voice. "They
cling as tightly as vines. And sometimes, like vines, they cling tightly enough to kill." The Queen's
lashes fluttered.
"You would betray your own father for the sake of the Clave?"
"Even so, Lady."
She laughed, a sound as bright and cold as icicles. "Who would have thought," she said, "that
Valentine's little experiments would turn on him?"
Clary looked at Jace, but she could see by the expression on his face that he had no idea what
the Queen meant. It was Isabelle who spoke. "Experiments?"
The Queen didn't even glance at her. Her gaze, a luminous blue, was fixed on Jace. "The Fair
Folk are a people of secrets," she said. "Our own, and others'. Ask your father, when next you
see him, what blood runs in your veins, Jonathan."
"I hadn't planned on asking him anything next time I see him," Jace said. "But if you desire it,
my lady, it will be done."
The Queen's lips curved into a smile. "I think you are a liar. But what a charming one.
Charming enough that I will swear you this: Ask your father that question, and I will promise you
what aid is in my power, should you strike against Valentine." Jace smiled. "Your generosity is as
remarkable as your loveliness, Lady." Clary made a gagging noise, but the Queen looked pleased.
"And I think we're done here now," Jace added, rising from the cushions. He'd set his untouched
drink down earlier, beside Isabelle's. They all rose after him. Isabelle was already talking to
Meliorn in the corner, by the vine door. He looked slightly hunted.
"A moment." The Queen rose. "One of you must remain."
Jace paused halfway to the door, and turned to face her. "What do you mean?"
She stretched out one hand to indicate Clary. "Once our food or drink passes mortal lips, the
mortal is ours. You know that, Shadowhunter."
Clary was stunned. "But I didn't drink any of it!" She turned to Jace. "She's lying."
"Faeries don't lie," he said, confusion and dawning anxiety chasing each other across his face.
He turned back to the Queen. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lady."
"Look to her fingers and tell me she didn't lick them clean."
Simon and Isabelle were staring now. Clary glanced down at her hand. "Of blood," she said.
"One of the sprites bit my finger—it was bleeding—" She remembered the sweet taste of the
blood, mixed with the juice on her finger. Panicked, she moved toward the vine door, and
stopped as what felt like invisible hands shoved her back into the room. She turned to Jace,
stricken. "It's true."
Jace's face was flushed. "I suppose I should have expected a trick like that," he said to the
Queen, his previous flirtatiousness gone. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from us?"
The Queen's voice was soft as spider's fur. "Perhaps I am only curious," she said. "It is not
often I have young Shadowhunters so close within my purview. Like us, you trace your ancestry
to heaven; that intrigues me."
"But unlike you," said Jace, "there is nothing of hell in us."
"You are mortal; you age; you die," the Queen said dismissively. "If that is not hell, pray tell
me, what is?"
"If you just want to study a Shadowhunter, I won't be much use to you," Clary cut in. Her
hand ached where the sprite had bitten it, and she fought the urge to scream or burst into tears. "I
don't know anything about Shadowhunting. I hardly have any training. I'm the wrong person to
pick." On, she added silently.
For the first time the Queen looked directly at her. Clary wanted to shrink back. "In truth,
Clarissa Morgenstern, you are precisely the right person." Her eyes gleamed as she took in
Clary's discomfiture. "Thanks to the changes your father worked in you, you are not like other
Shadowhunters. Your gifts are different."
"My gifts?" Clary was bewildered.
"Yours is the gift of words that cannot be spoken," the Queen said to her, "and your brother's
is the Angel's own gift. Your father made sure of it, when your brother was a child and before
you were ever born."
"My father never gave me anything," Clary said. "He didn't even give me a name."
Jace looked as blank as Clary felt. "While the Fair Folk do not lie," he said, "they can be lied
to. I think you have been the victim of a trick or joke, my lady. There is nothing special about
myself or my sister."
"How deftly you downplay your charms," said the Queen with a laugh. "Though you must
know you are not of the usual sort of human boy, Jonathan…" She looked from Clary to Jace to
Isabelle—Isabelle closed her mouth, which had been wide open, with a snap—and back at Jace
again. "Could it be that you do not know?" she murmured.
"I know that I will not leave my sister here in your Court," said Jace, "and since there is
nothing to be learned from either her or myself, perhaps you could do us the favor of releasing
her?" Now that you've had your fun? his eyes said, though his voice was polite and cool as
water.
The Queen's smile was wide and terrible. "What if I told you she could be freed by a kiss?"
"You want Jace to kiss you?" Clary said, bewildered.
The Queen burst out laughing, and immediately, the courtiers copied her mirth. The laughter
was a bizarre and inhuman mix of hoots, squeaks, and cackles, like the high shrieking of animals
in pain.
"Despite his charms," the Queen said, "that kiss will not free the girl."
The four looked at each other, startled. "I could kiss Meliorn," suggested Isabelle.
"Nor that. Nor any one of my Court."
Meliorn moved away from Isabelle, who looked at her companions and threw up her hands.
"I'm not kissing any of you," she said firmly. "Just so it's official."
"That hardly seems necessary," Simon said. "If a kiss is all…"
He moved toward Clary, who was frozen in surprise. When he took her by the elbows, she
had to fight the urge to push him away. Not that she hadn't kissed Simon before, but this would
have been a peculiar situation even if kissing him were something she was entirely comfortable
doing, which it wasn't. And yet it was the logical answer, wasn't it? Without being able to help it,
she cast a quick look over her shoulder at Jace and saw him scowl.
"No," said the Queen, in a voice like tinkling crystal. "That is not what I want either."
Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the Angel's sake. Look, if there's no other way of getting out
of this, I'll kiss Simon. I've done it before, it wasn't that bad."
"Thanks," said Simon. "That's very flattering."
"Alas," said the Queen of the Seelie Court. Her expression was sharp with a sort of cruel
delight, and Clary wondered if it weren't a kiss she wanted so much as simply to watch them all
squirm in discomfort. "I'm afraid that won't do either."
"Well, I'm not kissing the mundane," said Jace. "I'd rather stay down here and rot."
"Forever?" said Simon. "Forever's an awfully long time."
Jace raised his eyebrows. "I knew it," he said. "You want to kiss me, don't you?"
Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. "Of course not. But if—"
"I guess it's true what they say," observed Jace. "There are no straight men in the trenches."
"That's atheists, jackass," said Simon furiously. "There are no atheists in the trenches."
"While this is all very amusing," said the Queen coolly, leaning forward, "the kiss that will free
the girl is the kiss that she most desires." The cruel delight in her face and voice had sharpened,
and her words seemed to stab into Clary's ears like needles. "Only that and nothing more."
Simon looked as if she had hit him. Clary wanted to reach out to him, but she stood frozen to
the spot, too horrified to move.
"Why are you doing this?" Jace demanded.
"I rather thought I was offering you a boon."
Jace flushed, but said nothing. He avoided looking at Clary.
Simon said, "That's ridiculous. They're brother and sister."
The Queen shrugged, a delicate twitch of her shoulders. "Desire is not always lessened by
disgust. Nor can it be bestowed, like a favor, to those most deserving of it. And as my words
bind my magic, so you can know the truth. If she doesn't desire his kiss, she won't be free."
Simon said something angrily, but Clary didn't hear him: Her ears were buzzing, as if a swarm
of angry bees were trapped inside her head. Simon whirled around, looking furious, and said,
"You don't have to do this, Clary, it's a trick—"
"Not a trick," said Jace. "A test."
"Well, I don't know about you, Simon," said Isabelle, her voice edged. "But I'd like to get
Clary out of here."
"Like you'd kiss Alec," Simon said, "just because the Queen of the Seelie Court asked you
to?"
"Sure I would." Isabelle sounded annoyed. "If the other option was being stuck in the Seelie
Court forever? Who cares, anyway? It's just a kiss."
"That's right." It was Jace. Clary saw him, at the blurred edge of her vision, as he moved
toward her and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. "It's just a kiss," he said, and
though his tone was harsh, his hands were inexplicably gentle. She let him turn her, looked up at
him. His eyes were very dark, perhaps because it was so dim down here in the Court, perhaps
because of something else. She could see her reflection in each of his dilated pupils, a tiny image
of herself inside his eyes. He said, "You can close your eyes and think of England, if you like."
"I've never even been to England," she said, but she shut her eyelids. She could feel the dank
heaviness of her clothes, cold and itchy against her skin, and the cloying sweet air of the cave,
colder yet, and the weight of Jace's hands on her shoulders, the only things that were warm. And
then he kissed her.
She felt the brush of his lips, light at first, and her own opened automatically beneath the
pressure. Almost against her will she felt herself go fluid and pliant, stretching upward to twine her
arms around his neck the way that a sunflower twists toward light. His arms slid around her, his
hands knotting in her hair, and the kiss stopped being gentle and became fierce, all in a single
moment like tinder flaring into a blaze. Clary heard a sound like a sigh rush through the Court, all
around them, a wave of noise, but it meant nothing, was lost in the rush of her blood through her
veins, the dizzying sense of weightlessness in her body.
Jace's hands moved from her hair, slid down her spine; she felt the hard press of his palms
against her shoulder blades—and then he pulled away, gently disengaging himself, drawing her
hands away from his neck and stepping back. For a moment Clary thought she might fall; she felt
as if something essential had been torn away from her, an arm or a leg, and she stared at Jace in
blank astonishment—what did he feel, did he feel nothing? She didn't think she could bear it if he
felt nothing.
He looked back at her, and when she saw the look on his face, she saw his eyes at Renwick's,
when he had watched the Portal that separated him from his home shatter into a thousand
irretrievable pieces. He held her gaze for a split second, then looked away from her, the muscles
in his throat working. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. "Was that good enough?" he
called, turning to face the Queen and the courtiers behind her. "Did that entertain you?"
The Queen had a hand across her mouth, half-covering a smile. "We are quite entertained,"
she said. "But not, I think, so much as the both of you."
"I can only assume," said Jace, "that mortal emotions amuse you because you have none of
your own."
The smile slipped from her mouth at that.
"Easy, Jace," said Isabelle. She turned to Clary. "Can you leave now? Are you free?"
Clary went to the door and was not surprised to find no resistance barring her way. She stood
with her hand among the vines and turned to Simon. He was staring at her as if he'd never seen
her before.
"We should go," she said. "Before it's too late."
"It's already too late," he said.
Meliorn led them from the Seelie Court and deposited them back in the park, all without
speaking a single word. Clary thought his back looked stiff and disapproving. He turned away
after they'd splashed out of the pond, without even a good-bye for Isabelle, and disappeared
back into the wavering reflection of the moon.
Isabelle watched him go with a scowl. "He is so broken up with."
Jace made a sound like a choked laugh and flipped the collar of his wet jacket up. They were
all shivering. The cold night smelled like dirt and plants and human modernity—Clary almost
thought she could scent the iron on the air. The ring of city surrounding the park sparked with
fierce lights: ice blue, cool green, hot red, and the pond lapped quietly against its dirt shores. The
moon's reflection had moved to the pond's far edge and quivered there as if it were afraid of
them.
"We'd better get back." Isabelle drew her still-wet coat closer around her shoulders. "Before
we freeze to death."
"It's going to take forever to get back to Brooklyn," Clary said. "Maybe we should take a
taxi."
"Or we could just go to the Institute," suggested Isabelle. At Jace's look, she said quickly,
"No one's there anyway—they're all in the Bone City, looking for clues. It'll just take a second to
stop by and grab your clothes, change into something dry. Besides, the Institute is still your
home, Jace."
"It's fine," Jace said, to Isabella's evident surprise. "There's something I need from my room
there anyway."
Clary hesitated. "I don't know. I might just grab a cab back with Simon." Maybe if they spent
a little time alone together, she could explain to him what had happened down in the Seelie Court,
and that it wasn't what he thought.
Jace had been examining his watch for water damage. Now he looked at her, eyebrows raised.
"That might be a little difficult," he said, "seeing that he left already."
"He what?" Clary whirled around and stared. Simon was gone; the three of them were alone
by the pond. She ran a little way up the hill and shouted his name. In the distance, she could just
see him, striding purposefully away along the concrete path that led out of the park and onto the
avenue. She called out to him again, but he didn't turn around.

Categories: City of Ashes