City of Glass - Chapter 4

Night had fallen over Alicante when Simon and Alec left the Penhallows’ house and headed uphill toward the Gard. The
streets of the city were narrow and twisting, wending upward like pale stone ribbons in the moonlight. The air was cold, though
Simon felt it only distantly.
Alec walked along in silence, striding ahead of Simon as if pretending that he were alone. In his previous life Simon would have had
to hurry, panting, to keep up; now he discovered he could pace Alec just by speeding up his stride. “Must suck,” Simon said
finally, as Alec stared morosely ahead. “Getting stuck with escorting me, I mean.”
Alec shrugged. “I’m eighteen. I’m an adult, so I have to be the responsible one. I’m the only one who can go in and out of the
Gard when the Clave’s in session, and besides, the Consul knows me.”
“What’s a Consul?”
“He’s like a very high officer of the Clave. He counts the votes of the Council, interprets the Law for the Clave, and advises them
and the Inquisitor. If you head up an Institute and you run into a problem you don’t know how to deal with, you call the Consul.”
“He advises the Inquisitor? I thought—isn’t the Inquisitor dead?”
Alec snorted. “That’s like saying, ‘Isn’t the president dead?’ Yeah, the Inquisitor died; now there’s a new one. Inquisitor
Aldertree.”
Simon glanced down the hill toward the dark water of the canals far below. They’d left the city behind them and were treading a
narrow road between shadowy trees. “I’ll tell you, inquisitions haven’t worked out well for my people in the past.” Alec looked
blank. “Never mind. Just a mundane history joke. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“You’re not a mundane,” Alec pointed out. “That’s why Aline and Sebastian were so excited to get a look at you. Not that you
can tell with Sebastian; he always acts like he’s seen everything already.”
Simon spoke without thinking. “Are he and Isabelle…Is there something going on there?”
That startled a laugh out of Alec. “Isabelle and Sebastian? Hardly. Sebastian’s a nice guy—Isabelle only likes dating thoroughly
inappropriate boys our parents will hate. Mundanes, Downworlders, petty crooks…”
“Thanks,” Simon said. “I’m glad to be classed with the criminal element.”
“I think she does it for attention,” Alec said. “She’s the only girl in the family too, so she has to keep proving how tough she is. Or
at least, that’s what she thinks.”
“Or maybe she’s trying to take the attention off you,” Simon said, almost absently. “You know, since your parents don’t know
you’re gay and all.”
Alec stopped in the middle of the road so suddenly that Simon almost crashed into him. “No,” he said, “but apparently everyone
else does.”
“Except Jace,” Simon said. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
Alec took a deep breath. He was pale, Simon thought, or it could have just been the moonlight, washing the color out of
everything. His eyes looked black in the darkness. “I really don’t see what business it is of yours. Unless you’re trying to threaten
me.”
“Trying to threaten you?” Simon was taken aback. “I’m not—”
“Then why?” said Alec, and there was a sudden, sharp vulnerability in his voice that took Simon aback. “Why bring it up?”
“Because,” Simon said. “You seem to hate me most of the time. I don’t take it that personally, even if I did save your life. You
seem to kind of hate the whole world. And besides, we have practically nothing in common. But I see you looking at Jace, and I
see myself looking at Clary, and I figure—maybe we have that one thing in common. And maybe it might make you dislike me a
little less.”
“So you’re not going to tell Jace?” Alec said. “I mean—you told Clary how you felt, and…”
“And it wasn’t the best idea,” said Simon. “Now I wonder all the time how you go back after something like that. Whether we can
ever be friends again, or if what we had is broken into pieces. Not because of her, but because of me. Maybe if I found someone
else…”
“Someone else,” Alec repeated. He had started walking again, very quickly, staring at the road ahead of him.
Simon hurried to keep up. “You know what I mean. For instance, I think Magnus Bane really likes you. And he’s pretty cool. He
throws great parties, anyway. Even if I did get turned into a rat that time.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Alec’s voice was dry. “But I don’t think he likes me all that much. He barely spoke to me when he came
to open the Portal at the Institute.”
“Maybe you should call him,” Simon suggested, trying not to think too hard about how weird it was to be giving a demon hunter
advice about possibly dating a warlock.
“Can’t,” Alec said. “No phones in Idris. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” His tone was abrupt. “We’re here. This is the Gard.”
A high wall rose in front of them, set with a pair of enormous gates. The gates were carved with the swirling, angular patterns of
runes, and though Simon couldn’t read them as Clary could, there was something dazzling in their complexity and the sense of
power that emanated from them. The gates were guarded by stone angel statues on either side, their faces fierce and beautiful.
Each held a carved sword in its hand, and a writhing creature—a mixture of rat, bat, and lizard, with nasty pointed teeth—lay dying
at its feet. Simon stood looking at them for a long moment. Demons, he figured—but they could just as easily be vampires.
Alec pushed the gate open and gestured for Simon to pass through. Once inside, he blinked around in confusion. Since he’d
become a vampire, his night vision had sharpened to a laserlike clarity, but the dozens of torches lining the path to the doors of the
Gard were made of witchlight, and the harsh white glow seemed to bleach the detail out of everything. He was vaguely aware of
Alec guiding him forward down a narrow stone pathway that shone with reflected illumination, and then there was someone
standing on the path in front of him, blocking his way with an upraised arm.
“So this is the vampire?” The voice that spoke was deep enough to nearly be a growl. Simon looked up, the light stinging his eyes
to burning—they would have teared up if he’d still been able to shed tears. Witchlight, he thought, angel light, burns me. I
suppose it’s no surprise.
The man standing in front of them was very tall, with sallow skin stretched over prominent cheekbones. Under a close-cropped
dome of black hair, his forehead was high, his nose beaked and Roman. His expression as he looked down at Simon was the look
of a subway commuter watching a large rat run back and forth on the rails, half-hoping a train will come along and squish it.
“This is Simon,” said Alec, a little uncertainly. “Simon, this is Consul Malachi Dieudonné. Is the Portal ready, sir?”
“Yes,” Malachi said. His voice was harsh and carried a faint accent. “Everything is in readiness. Come, Downworlder.” He
beckoned to Simon. “The sooner this is all over, the better.”
Simon moved to go to the chief officer, but Alec stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Just a moment,” he said, addressing the
Consul. “He’ll be sent directly back to Manhattan? And there will be someone waiting there on the other side for him?”
“Indeed,” said Malachi. “The warlock Magnus Bane. Since he unwisely allowed the vampire into Idris in the first place, he’s taken
responsibility for his return.”
“If Magnus hadn’t let Simon through the Portal, he would have died,” Alec said, a little sharply.
“Perhaps,” said Malachi. “That’s what your parents say, and the Clave has chosen to believe them. Against my advice, in fact. Still,
one does not lightly bring Downworlders into the City of Glass.”
“There was nothing light about it.” Anger surged in Simon’s chest. “We were under attack—”
Malachi turned his gaze on Simon. “You will speak when you are spoken to, Downworlder, not before.”
Alec’s hand tightened on Simon’s arm. There was a look on his face—half hesitation, half suspicion, as if he were doubting his
wisdom in bringing Simon here after all.
“Now, Consul, really!” The voice carrying through the courtyard was high, a little breathless, and Simon saw with some surprise
that it belonged to a man—a small, round man hurrying along the path toward them. He was wearing a loose gray cloak over his
Shadowhunter gear, and his bald head glistened in the witchlight. “There’s no need to alarm our guest.”
“Guest?” Malachi looked outraged.
The small man came to a halt before Alec and Simon and beamed at them both. “We’re so glad—pleased, really—that you
decided to cooperate with our request that you return to New York. It does make everything so much easier.” He twinkled at
Simon, who stared back at him in confusion. He didn’t think he’d ever met a Shadowhunter who seemed pleased to see him—not
when he was a mundane, and definitely not now that he was a vampire. “Oh, I almost forgot!” The little man slapped himself on the
forehead in remorse. “I should have introduced myself. I’m the Inquisitor—the new Inquisitor. Inquisitor Aldertree is my name.”
Aldertree held his hand out to Simon, and in a welter of confusion Simon took it. “And you. Your name is Simon?”
“Yes,” Simon said, drawing his hand back as soon as he could. Aldertree’s grip was unpleasantly moist and clammy. “There’s no
need to thank me for cooperating. All I want is to go home.”
“I’m sure you do, I’m sure you do!” Though Aldertree’s tone was jovial, something flashed across his face as he spoke—an
expression Simon couldn’t pin down. It was gone in a moment, as Aldertree smiled and gestured toward a narrow path that wound
alongside the Gard. “This way, Simon, if you please.”
Simon moved forward, and Alec made as if to follow him. The Inquisitor held up a hand. “That’s all we’ll be needing from you,
Alexander. Thank you for your help.”
“But Simon—,” Alec began.
“Will be just fine,” the Inquisitor assured him. “Malachi, please show Alexander out. And give him a witchlight rune-stone to get
him back home if he hasn’t brought one. The path can be tricky at night.”
And with another beatific smile, he whisked Simon away, leaving Alec staring after them both.
The world flared up around Clary in an almost tangible blur as Luke carried her over the threshold of the house and down a long
hallway, Amatis hurrying ahead of them with her witch- light. More than half-delirious, she stared as the corridor unfolded before
her, growing longer and longer like a corridor in a nightmare.
The world turned on its side. Suddenly she was lying on a cold surface, and hands were smoothing a blanket over her. Blue eyes
gazed down at her. “She seems so ill, Lucian,” Amatis said, in a voice that was warped and distorted like an old recording. “What
happened to her?”
“She drank about half of Lake Lyn.” The sound of Luke’s voice faded, and for a moment Clary’s vision cleared: She was lying on
the cold tiled floor of a kitchen, and somewhere above her head Luke was rummaging in a cabinet. The kitchen had peeling yellow
walls and an old-fashioned black cast-iron stove against one wall; flames leaped behind the stove grating, making her eyes hurt.
“Anise, belladonna, hellbore…” Luke turned away from the cabinet with an armful of glass canisters. “Can you boil these together,
Amatis? I’m going to move her closer to the stove. She’s shivering.”
Clary tried to speak, to say that she didn’t need to be warmed, that she was burning up, but the sounds that came out of her mouth
weren’t the ones she’d intended. She heard herself whimper as Luke lifted her, and then there was heat, thawing her left side—she
hadn’t even realized she was cold. Her teeth clicked together hard, and she tasted blood in her mouth. The world began to tremble
around her like water shaken in a glass.
“The Lake of Dreams?” Amatis’s voice was full of disbelief. Clary couldn’t see her clearly, but she seemed to be standing near the
stove, a long-handled wooden spoon in her hand. “What were you doing there? Does Jocelyn know where—”
And the world was gone, or at least the real world, the kitchen with the yellow walls and the comforting fire behind the grate.
Instead she saw the waters of Lake Lyn, with fire reflected in them as if in the surface of a piece of polished glass. Angels were
walking on the glass—angels with white wings that hung bloodied and broken from their backs, and each of them had Jace’s face.
And then there were other angels, with wings of black shadow, and they touched their hands to the fire and laughed….
“She keeps calling out for her brother.” Amatis’s voice sounded hollow, as if filtering down from impossibly high overhead. “He’s
with the Lightwoods, isn’t he? They’re staying with the Penhallows on Princewater Street. I could—”
“No,” Luke said sharply. “No. It’s better Jace doesn’t know about this.”
Was I calling out for Jace? Why would I do that? Clary wondered, but the thought was short-lived; the darkness came back,
and the hallucinations claimed her again. This time she dreamed of Alec and of Isabelle; both looked as if they’d been through a
fierce battle, their faces streaked with grime and tears. Then they were gone, and she dreamed of a faceless man with black wings
sprouting from his back like a bat’s. Blood ran from his mouth when he smiled. Praying that the visions would vanish, Clary
squeezed her eyes shut….
It was a long time before she surfaced again to the sound of voices above her. “Drink this,” Luke said. “Clary, you have to drink
this,” and then there were hands on her back and fluid was being dripped into her mouth from a soaked rag. It tasted bitter and
awful and she choked and gagged on it, but the hands on her back were firm. She swallowed, past the pain in her swollen throat.
“There,” said Luke. “There, that should be better.”
Clary opened her eyes slowly. Kneeling beside her were Luke and Amatis, their nearly identically blue eyes filled with matching
concern. She glanced behind them and saw nothing—no angels or devils with bat wings, only yellow walls and a pale pink teakettle
balanced precariously on a windowsill.
“Am I going to die?” she whispered.
Luke smiled haggardly. “No. It’ll be a little while before you’re back on form, but—you’ll survive.”
“Okay.” She was too exhausted to feel much of anything, even relief. It felt as if all her bones had been removed, leaving a limp suit
of skin behind. Looking up drowsily through her eyelashes, she said, almost without thinking, “Your eyes are the same.”
Luke blinked. “The same as what?”
“As hers,” Clary said, moving her sleepy gaze to Amatis, who looked perplexed. “The same blue.”
The ghost of a smile passed over Luke’s face. “Well, it’s not that surprising, considering,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to
introduce you properly before. Clary, this is Amatis Herondale. My sister.”
The Inquisitor fell silent the moment Alec and the chief officer were out of earshot. Simon followed him up the narrow witch-lit
path, trying not to squint into the light. He was aware of the Gard rising up around him like the side of a ship rising up out of the
ocean; lights blazed from its windows, staining the sky with a silvery light. There were low windows too, set at ground level.
Several were barred, and there was only darkness within.
At length they reached a wooden door set into an archway at the side of the building. Aldertree moved to free the lock, and
Simon’s stomach tightened. People, he’d noticed since he’d become a vampire, had a scent around them that changed with their
moods. The Inquisitor stank of something bitter and strong as coffee, but much more unpleasant. Simon felt the prickling pain in his
jaw that meant that his fang teeth wanted to come out, and shrank back from the Inquisitor as he passed through the door.
The hallway beyond was long and white, almost tunnel-like, as if it had been carved out of white rock. The Inquisitor hurried along,
his witchlight bouncing brightly off the walls. For such a short-legged man he moved remarkably fast, turning his head from side to
side as he went, his nose wrinkling as if he were smelling the air. Simon had to hurry to keep pace as they passed a set of huge
double doors, thrown wide open like wings. In the room beyond, Simon could see an amphitheater with row upon row of chairs in
it, each one occupied by a black-clad Shadowhunter. Voices echoed off the walls, many raised in anger, and Simon caught
snatches of the conversation as he passed, the words blurring as the speakers overlapped each other.
“But we have no proof of what Valentine wants. He has communicated his wishes to no one—”
“What does it matter what he wants? He’s a renegade and a liar; do you really think any attempt to appease him would benefit us
in the end?”
“You know a patrol found the dead body of a werewolf child on the outskirts of Brocelind? Drained of blood. It looks like
Valentine’s completed the Ritual here in Idris.”
“With two of the Mortal Instruments in his possession, he’s more powerful than any one Nephilim has a right to be. We may have
no choice—”
“My cousin died on that ship in New York! There’s no way we’re letting Valentine get away with what he’s already done! There
must be retribution!”
Simon hesitated, curious to hear more, but the Inquisitor was buzzing around him like a fat, irritable bee. “Come along, come
along,” he said, swinging his witchlight in front of him. “We don’t have a lot of time to waste. I should get back to the meeting
before it ends.”
Reluctantly, Simon allowed the Inquisitor to push him along the corridor, the word “retribution” still ringing in his ears. The reminder
of that night on the ship was cold, unpleasant. When they reached a door carved with a single stark black rune, the Inquisitor
produced a key and unlocked it, ushering Simon inside with a broad gesture of welcome.
The room beyond was bare, decorated with a single tapestry that showed an angel rising out of a lake, clutching a sword in one
hand and a cup in the other. The fact that he’d seen both the Cup and the Sword before momentarily distracted Simon. It wasn’t
until he heard the click of a lock sliding home that he realized the Inquisitor had bolted the door behind him, locking them both in.
Simon glanced around. There was no furniture in the room besides a bench with a low table beside it. A decorative silver bell
rested on the table. “The Portal…It’s in here?” he asked uncertainly.
“Simon, Simon.” Aldertree rubbed his hands together as if anticipating a birthday party or some other delightful event. “Are you
really in such a hurry to leave? There are a few questions I had so hoped to ask you first….”
“Okay.” Simon shrugged uncomfortably. “Ask me whatever you want, I guess.”
“How very cooperative of you! How delightful!” Aldertree beamed. “So, how long is it exactly that you’ve been a vampire?”
“About two weeks.”
“And how did it happen? Were you attacked on the street, or perhaps in your bed at night? Do you know who it was who Turned
you?”
“Well—not exactly.”
“But, my boy!” Aldertree cried. “How could you not know something like that?” The look he bent on Simon was open and
curious. He seemed so harmless, Simon thought. Like someone’s grandfather or funny old uncle. Simon must have imagined the
bitter smell.
“It really wasn’t that simple,” said Simon, and went on to explain about his two trips to the Dumort, one as a rat and the second
under a compulsion so strong it had felt like a giant set of pincers holding him in their grasp and marching him exactly where they
wanted him to go. “And so you see,” he finished, “the moment I walked in the door of the hotel, I was attacked—I don’t know
which of them it was who Turned me, or if it was all of them somehow.”
The Inquisitor clucked. “Oh dear, oh dear. That’s not good at all. That’s very upsetting.”
“I certainly thought so,” Simon agreed.
“The Clave won’t be pleased.”
“What?” Simon was baffled. “What does the Clave care how I became a vampire?”
“Well, it would be one thing if you were attacked,” Aldertree said apologetically. “But you just walked out there and, well, gave
yourself up to the vampires, you see? It looks a bit as if you wanted to be one.”
“I didn’t want to be one! That’s not why I went to the hotel!”
“Of course, of course.” Aldertree’s voice was soothing. “Let’s move to another topic, shall we?” Without waiting for a response,
he went on. “How is it that the vampires let you survive to rise again, young Simon? Considering that you trespassed on their
territory, their normal procedure would have been to feed until you died, and then burn your body to prevent you from rising.”
Simon opened his mouth to reply, to tell the Inquisitor how Raphael had taken him to the Institute, and how Clary and Jace and
Isabelle had brought him to the cemetery and watched over him as he’d dug his way out of his own grave. Then he hesitated. He
had only the vaguest idea how the Law worked, but he doubted somehow that it was standard Shadowhunter procedure to watch
over vampires as they rose, or to provide them with blood for their first feeding. “I don’t know,” he said. “I have no idea why they
Turned me instead of killing me.”
“But one of them must have let you drink his blood, or you wouldn’t be…well, what you are today. Are you saying you don’t
know who your vampire sire was?”
My vampire sire? Simon had never thought of it that way—he’d gotten Raphael’s blood in his mouth almost by accident. And it
was hard to think of the vampire boy as a sire of any sort. Raphael looked younger than Simon did. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, dear.” The Inquisitor sighed. “Most unfortunate.”
“What’s unfortunate?”
“Well, that you’re lying to me, my boy.” Aldertree shook his head. “And I had so hoped you’d cooperate. This is terrible, just
terrible. You wouldn’t consider telling me the truth? Just as a favor?”
“I am telling you the truth!”
The Inquisitor drooped like an unwatered flower. “Such a shame.” He sighed again. “Such a shame.” He crossed the room then
and rapped sharply on the door, still shaking his head.
“What’s going on?” Alarm and confusion tinged Simon’s voice. “What about the Portal?”
“The Portal?” Aldertree giggled. “You didn’t really think I was just going to let you go, did you?”
Before Simon could say a word in reply, the door burst open and Shadowhunters in black gear poured into the room, seizing hold
of him. He struggled as strong hands clamped themselves around each of his arms. A hood was tugged down over his head,
blinding him. He kicked out at the darkness; his foot connected, and he heard someone swear.
He was jerked backward viciously; a hot voice snarled in his ear. “Do that again, vampire, and I’ll pour holy water down your
throat and watch you die puking blood.”
“That’s enough!” The Inquisitor’s thin, worried voice rose like a balloon. “There will be no more threats! I’m just trying to teach
our guest a lesson.” He must have moved forward, because Simon smelled the strange, bitter smell again, muffled through the hood.
“Simon, Simon,” Aldertree said. “I did so enjoy meeting you. I hope a night in the cells of the Gard will have the desired effect and
in the morning you’ll be a bit more cooperative. I do still see such a bright future for us, once we get over this little hiccup.” His
hand came down on Simon’s shoulder. “Take him downstairs, Nephilim.”
Simon yelled aloud, but his cries were muffled by the hood. The Shadowhunters dragged him from the room and propelled him
down what felt like an endless series of mazelike corridors, twisting and turning. Eventually they reached a set of stairs and he was
shoved down it by main force, his feet slipping on the steps. He couldn’t tell anything about where they were—except that there
was a close, dark smell around them, like wet stone, and that the air was growing wetter and colder as they descended.
At last they paused. There was a scraping sound, like iron dragging over stone, and Simon was thrown forward to land on his
hands and knees on hard ground. There was a loud, metallic clang, as of a door being slammed shut, and the sound of retreating
footsteps, the echo of boots on stone growing fainter as Simon staggered to his feet. He dragged the hood from his head and threw
it to the ground. The close, hot, suffocating feeling around his face vanished, and he fought the urge to gasp for breath—breath he
didn’t need. He knew it was just a reflex, but his chest ached as if he’d really been deprived of air.
He was in a square barren stone room, with just a single barred window set into the wall above the small, hard-looking bed.
Through a low door Simon could see a tiny bathroom with a sink and toilet. The west wall of the room was also barred—thick,
iron-looking bars running from floor to ceiling, sunk deeply into the floor. A hinged iron door, made of bars itself, was set into the
wall; it was fitted with a brass knob, which was carved across its face with a dense black rune. In fact, all the bars were carved
with runes; even the window bars were wrapped with spidery lines of them.
Though he knew the cell door must be locked, Simon couldn’t help himself; he strode across the floor and seized the knob. A
searing pain shot through his hand. He yelled and jerked his arm back, staring. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his burned palm; an
intricate design had been charred into the skin. It looked a little like a Star of David inside a circle, with delicate runes drawn in
each of the hollow spaces between the lines.
The pain felt like white heat. Simon curled his hand in on itself as a gasp rose to his lips. “What is this?” he whispered, knowing no
one could hear him.
“It’s the Seal of Solomon,” said a voice. “It contains, they claim, one of the True Names of God. It repels demons—and your kind
as well, being an article of your faith.”
Simon jerked upright, half-forgetting the pain in his hand. “Who’s there? Who said that?”
There was a pause. Then, “I’m in the cell next to yours, Daylighter,” said the voice. It was male, adult, slightly hoarse. “The guards
were here half the day talking about how to keep you penned in. So I wouldn’t bother trying to get it open. You’re better off saving
your strength till you find out what the Clave wants from you.”
“They can’t hold me here,” Simon protested. “I don’t belong to this world. My family will notice I’m missing—my teachers—”
“They’ve taken care of that. There are simple enough spells—a beginning warlock could use them—that will supply your parents
with the illusion that there’s a perfectly legitimate reason for your absence. A school trip. A visit to family. It can be done.” There
was no threat in the voice, and no sorrow; it was matter-of-fact. “Do you really think they’ve never made a Downworlder
disappear before?”
“Who are you?” Simon’s voice cracked. “Are you a Downworlder too? Is this where they keep us?”
This time there was no answer. Simon called out again, but his neighbor had evidently decided that he’d said all he wanted to say.
Nothing answered Simon’s cries but silence.
The pain in his hand had faded. Looking down, Simon saw that the skin no longer looked burned, but the mark of the Seal was
printed on his palm as if it had been drawn there in ink. He looked back at the cell bars. He realized now that not all the runes were
runes at all: Carved between them were Stars of David and lines from the Torah in Hebrew. The carvings looked new.
The guards were here half the day talking about how to keep you penned in, the voice had said.
But it hadn’t just been because he was a vampire, laughably; it had partly been because he was Jewish. They had spent half the day
carving the Seal of Solomon into that doorknob so it would burn him when he touched it. It had taken them this long to turn the
articles of his faith against him.
For some reason the realization stripped away the last of Simon’s self-possession. He sank down onto the bed and put his head in
his hands.
Princewater Street was dark when Alec returned from the Gard, the windows of the houses shuttered and shaded, only the
occasional witchlight streetlamp casting a pool of white illumination onto the cobblestones. The Penhallows’ house was the brightest
on the block—candles glowed in the windows, and the front door was slightly ajar, letting a slice of yellow light out to curve along
the walkway.
Jace was sitting on the low stone wall that bordered the Penhallows’ front garden, his hair very bright under the light of the nearest
streetlamp. He looked up as Alec approached, and shivered a little. He was wearing only a light jacket, Alec saw, and it had
grown cold since the sun had gone down. The smell of late roses hung in the chilly air like thin perfume.
Alec sank down onto the wall beside Jace. “Have you been out here waiting for me all this time?”
“Who says I’m waiting for you?”
“It went fine, if that’s what you were worried about. I left Simon with the Inquisitor.”
“You left him? You didn’t stay to make sure everything went all right?”
“It was fine,” Alec repeated. “The Inquisitor said he’d take him inside personally and send him back to—”
“The Inquisitor said, the Inquisitor said,” Jace interrupted. “The last Inquisitor we met completely exceeded her command—if she
hadn’t died, the Clave would have relieved her of her position, maybe even cursed her. What’s to say this Inquisitor isn’t a nut job
too?”
“He seemed all right,” said Alec. “Nice, even. He was perfectly polite to Simon. Look, Jace—this is how the Clave works. We
don’t get to control everything that happens. But you have to trust them, because otherwise everything turns into chaos.”
“But they’ve screwed up a lot recently—you have to admit that.”
“Maybe,” Alec said, “but if you start thinking you know better than the Clave and better than the Law, what makes you any better
than the Inquisitor? Or Valentine?”
Jace flinched. He looked as if Alec had hit him, or worse.
Alec’s stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand. “I didn’t mean that—”
A beam of bright yellow light cut across the garden suddenly. Alec looked up to see Isabelle framed in the open front door, light
pouring out around her. She was only a silhouette, but he could tell from the hands on her hips that she was annoyed. “What are
you two doing out here?” she called. “Everyone’s wondering where you are.”
Alec turned back to his friend. “Jace—”
But Jace, getting to his feet, ignored Alec’s outstretched hand. “You’d better be right about the Clave,” was all he said.
Alec watched as Jace stalked back to the house. Unbidden, Simon’s voice came into his mind. Now I wonder all the time how
you go back after something like that. Whether we can ever be friends again, or if what we had is broken into pieces. Not
because of her, but because of me.
The front door shut, leaving Alec sitting in the half-lit garden, alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, the image of a face hovering
behind his lids. Not Jace’s face, for a change. The eyes set in the face were green, slit-pupiled. Cat eyes.
Opening his eyes, he reached into his satchel and drew out a pen and a piece of paper, torn from the spiral-bound notebook he
used as a journal. He wrote a few words on it and then, with his stele, traced the rune for fire at the bottom of the page. It went up
faster than he’d thought it would; he let go of the paper as it burned, floating in midair like a firefly. Soon all that was left was a fine
drift of ash, sifting like white powder across the rosebushes.

Categories: City of Glass

City of Glass - Chapter 2

There was no amount of magic, Clary thought as she and Luke circled the block for the third time, that could create new
parking spaces on a New York City street. There was nowhere for the truck to pull in, and half the street was double-parked.
Finally Luke pulled up at a hydrant and shifted the pickup into neutral with a sigh. “Go on,” he said. “Let them know you’re here.
I’ll bring your suitcase.”
Clary nodded, but hesitated before reaching for the door handle. Her stomach was tight with anxiety, and she wished, not for the
first time, that Luke were going with her. “I always thought that the first time I went overseas, I’d have a passport with me at least.”
Luke didn’t smile. “I know you’re nervous,” he said. “But it’ll be all right. The Lightwoods will take good care of you.”
I’ve only told you that a million times, Clary thought. She patted Luke’s shoulder lightly before jumping down from the truck.
“See you in a few.”
She made her way down the cracked stone path, the sound of traffic fading as she neared the church doors. It took her several
moments to peel the glamour off the Institute this time. It felt as if another layer of disguise had been added to the old cathedral, like
a new coat of paint. Scraping it off with her mind felt hard, even painful. Finally it was gone and she could see the church as it was.
The high wooden doors gleamed as if they’d just been polished.
There was a strange smell in the air, like ozone and burning. With a frown she put her hand to the knob. I am Clary Morgenstern,
one of the Nephilim, and I ask entrance to the Institute—
The door swung open. Clary stepped inside. She looked around, blinking, trying to identify what it was that felt somehow different
about the cathedral’s interior.
She realized it as the door swung shut behind her, trapping her in a blackness relieved only by the dim glow of the rose window far
overhead. She had never been inside the entrance to the Institute when there had not been dozens of flames lit in the elaborate
candelabras lining the aisle between the pews.
She took her witchlight stone out of her pocket and held it up. Light blazed from it, sending shining spokes of illumination flaring out
between her fingers. It lit the dusty corners of the cathedral’s interior as she made her way to the elevator near the bare altar and
jabbed impatiently at the call button.
Nothing happened. After half a minute she pressed the button again—and again. She laid her ear against the elevator door and
listened. Not a sound. The Institute had gone dark and silent, like a mechanical doll whose clockwork heart had run down.
Her heart pounding now, Clary hurried back down the aisle and pushed the heavy doors open. She stood on the front steps of the
church, glancing about frantically. The sky was darkening to cobalt overhead, and the air smelled even more strongly of burning.
Had there been a fire? Had the Shadowhunters evacuated? But the place looked untouched….
“It wasn’t a fire.” The voice was soft, velvety and familiar. A tall figure materialized out of the shadows, hair sticking up in a corona
of ungainly spikes. He wore a black silk suit over a shimmering emerald green shirt, and brightly jeweled rings on his narrow
fingers. There were fancy boots involved as well, and a good deal of glitter.
“Magnus?” Clary whispered.
“I know what you were thinking,” Magnus said. “But there was no fire. That smell is hellmist—it’s a sort of enchanted demonic
smoke. It mutes the effects of certain kinds of magic.”
“Demonic mist? Then there was—”
“An attack on the Institute. Yes. Earlier this afternoon. Forsaken—probably a few dozen of them.”
“Jace,” Clary whispered. “The Lightwoods—”
“The hellsmoke muted my ability to fight the Forsaken effectively. Theirs, too. I had to send them through the Portal into Idris.”
“But none of them were hurt?”
“Madeleine,” said Magnus. “Madeleine was killed. I’m sorry, Clary.”
Clary sank down onto the steps. She hadn’t known the older woman well, but Madeleine had been a tenuous connection to her
mother—her real mother, the tough, fighting Shadowhunter that Clary had never known.
“Clary?” Luke was coming up the path through the gathering dark. He had Clary’s suitcase in one hand. “What’s going on?”
Clary sat hugging her knees while Magnus explained. Underneath her pain for Madeleine she was full of a guilty relief. Jace was all
right. The Lightwoods were all right. She said it over and over to herself, silently. Jace was all right.
“The Forsaken,” Luke said. “They were all killed?”
“Not all of them.” Magnus shook his head. “After I sent the Lightwoods through the Portal, the Forsaken dispersed; they didn’t
seem interested in me. By the time I shut the Portal, they were all gone.”
Clary raised her head. “The Portal’s closed? But—you can still send me to Idris, right?” she asked. “I mean, I can go through the
Portal and join the Lightwoods there, can’t I?”
Luke and Magnus exchanged a look. Luke set the suitcase down by his feet.
“Magnus?” Clary’s voice rose, shrill in her own ears. “I have to go.”
“The Portal is closed, Clary—”
“Then open another one!”
“It’s not that easy,” the warlock said. “The Clave guards any magical entry into Alicante very carefully. Their capital is a holy place
to them—it’s like their Vatican, their Forbidden City. No Downworlders can come there without permission, and no mundanes.”
“But I’m a Shadowhunter!”
“Only barely,” said Magnus. “Besides, the towers prevent direct Portaling to the city. To open a Portal that went through to
Alicante, I’d have to have them standing by on the other side expecting you. If I tried to send you through on my own, it would be
in direct contravention of the Law, and I’m not willing to risk that for you, biscuit, no matter how much I might like you personally.”
Clary looked from Magnus’s regretful face to Luke’s wary one. “But I need to get to Idris,” she said. “I need to help my mother.
There must be some other way to get there, some way that doesn’t involve a Portal.”
“The nearest airport is a country over,” Luke said. “If we could get across the border—and that’s a big ‘if’—there would be a long
and dangerous overland journey after that, through all sorts of Downworlder territory. It could take us days to get there.”
Clary’s eyes were burning. I will not cry, she told herself. I will not.
“Clary.” Luke’s voice was gentle. “We’ll get in touch with the Lightwoods. We’ll make sure they have all the information they need
to get the antidote for Jocelyn. They can contact Fell—”
But Clary was on her feet, shaking her head. “It has to be me,” she said. “Madeleine said Fell wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”
“Fell? Ragnor Fell?” Magnus echoed. “I can try to get a message to him. Let him know to expect Jace.”
Some of the worry cleared from Luke’s face. “Clary, do you hear that? With Magnus’s help—”
But Clary didn’t want to hear any more about Magnus’s help. She didn’t want to hear anything. She had thought she was going to
save her mother, and now there was going to be nothing for her to do but sit by her mother’s bedside, hold her limp hand, and
hope someone else, somewhere else, would be able to do what she couldn’t.
She scrambled down the steps, pushing past Luke when he tried to reach out for her. “I just need to be alone for a second.”
“Clary—” She heard Luke call out to her, but she pulled away from him, darting around the side of the cathedral. She found herself
following the stone path where it forked, making her way toward the small garden on the Institute’s east side, toward the smell of
char and ashes—and a thick, sharp smell under that. The smell of demonic magic. There was mist in the garden still, scattered bits
of it like trails of cloud caught here and there on the edge of a rosebush or hiding under a stone. She could see where the earth had
been churned up earlier by the fighting—and there was a dark red stain there, by one of the stone benches, that she didn’t want to
look at long.
Clary turned her head away. And paused. There, against the wall of the cathedral, were the unmistakable marks of rune-magic,
glowing a hot, fading blue against the gray stone. They formed a squarish outline, like the outline of light around a half-open door….
The Portal.
Something inside her seemed to twist. She remembered other symbols, shining dangerously against the smooth metal hull of a ship.
She remembered the shudder the ship had given as it had wrenched itself apart, the black water of the East River pouring in.
They’re just runes, she thought. Symbols. I can draw them. If my mother can trap the essence of the Mortal Cup inside a
piece of paper, then I can make a Portal.
She found her feet carrying her to the cathedral wall, her hand reaching into her pocket for her stele. Willing her hand not to shake,
she set the tip of the stele to the stone.
She squeezed her eyelids shut and, against the darkness behind them, began to draw with her mind in curving lines of light. Lines
that spoke to her of doorways, of being carried on whirling air, of travel and faraway places. The lines came together in a rune as
graceful as a bird in flight. She didn’t know if it was a rune that had existed before or one she had invented, but it existed now as if
it always had.
Portal.
She began to draw, the marks leaping out from the stele’s tip in charcoaled black lines. The stone sizzled, filling her nose with the
acidic smell of burning. Hot blue light grew against her closed eyelids. She felt heat on her face, as if she stood in front of a fire.
With a gasp she lowered her hand, opening her eyes.
The rune she had drawn was a dark flower blossoming on the stone wall. As she watched, the lines of it seemed to melt and
change, flowing gently down, unfurling, reshaping themselves. Within moments the shape of the rune had changed. It was now the
outline of a glowing doorway, several feet taller than Clary herself.
She couldn’t tear her eyes from the doorway. It shone with the same dark light as the Portal behind the curtain at Madame
Dorothea’s. She reached out for it—
And recoiled. To use a Portal, she remembered with a sinking feeling, you had to imagine where you wanted to go, where you
wanted the Portal to take you. But she had never been to Idris. It had been described to her, of course. A place of green valleys,
of dark woods and bright water, of lakes and moun tains, and Alicante, the city of glass towers. She could imagine what it might
look like, but imagination wasn’t enough, not with this magic. If only…
She took a sudden sharp breath. But she had seen Idris. She’d seen it in a dream, and she knew, without knowing how she knew,
that it had been a true dream. After all, what had Jace said to her in the dream about Simon? That he couldn’t stay because “this
place is for the living”? And not long after that, Simon had died….
She cast her memory back to the dream. She had been dancing in a ballroom in Alicante. The walls had been gold and white, with
a clear, diamondlike roof overhead. There had been a fountain—a silver dish with a mermaid statue at the center—and lights strung
in the trees outside the windows, and Clary had been wearing green velvet, just as she was now.
As if she were still in the dream, she reached for the Portal. A bright light spread under the touch of her fingers, a door opening
onto a lighted place beyond. She found herself staring into a whirling golden maelstrom that slowly began to coalesce into
discernible shapes—she thought she could see the outline of mountains, a piece of sky—
“Clary!” It was Luke, racing up the path, his face a mask of anger and dismay. Behind him strode Magnus, his cat eyes shining
like metal in the hot Portal light that bathed the garden. “Clary, stop! The wards are dangerous! You’ll get yourself killed!”
But there was no stopping now. Beyond the Portal the golden light was growing. She thought of the gold walls of the Hall in her
dream, the golden light refracting off the cut glass everywhere. Luke was wrong; he didn’t understand her gift, how it worked—
what did wards matter when you could create your own reality just by drawing it? “I have to go,” she cried, moving forward, her
fingertips outstretched. “Luke, I’m sorry—”
She stepped forward—and with a last, swift leap, he was at her side, catching at her wrist, just as the Portal seemed to explode all
around them. Like a tornado snatching a tree up by the roots, the force yanked them both off their feet. Clary caught a last glimpse
of the cars and buildings of Manhattan spinning away from her, vanishing as a whiplash-hard current of wind caught her, sending
her hurtling, her wrist still in Luke’s iron grip, into a whirling golden chaos.
Simon awoke to the rhythmic slap of water. He sat up, sudden terror freezing his chest—the last time he’d woken up to the sound
of waves, he’d been a prisoner on Valentine’s ship, and the soft liquid noise brought him back to that terrible time with an
immediacy that was like a dash of ice water in the face.
But no—a quick look around told him that he was somewhere else entirely. For one thing, he was lying under soft blankets on a
comfortable wooden bed in a small, clean room whose walls were painted a pale blue. Dark curtains were drawn over the
window, but the faint light around their edges was enough for his vampire’s eyes to see clearly. There was a bright rug on the floor
and a mirrored cupboard on one wall.
There was also an armchair pulled up to the side of the bed. Simon sat up, the blankets falling away, and realized two things: one,
that he was still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing when he’d headed to the Institute to meet Jace; and two,
that the person in the chair was dozing, her head propped on her hand, her long black hair spilling down like a fringed shawl.
“Isabelle?” Simon said.
Her head popped up like a startled jack-in-the-box’s, her eyes flying open. “Oooh! You’re awake!” She sat up straight, flicking
her hair back. “Jace’ll be so relieved. We were almost totally sure you were going to die.”
“Die?” Simon echoed. He felt dizzy and a little sick. “From what?” He glanced around the room, blinking. “Am I in the Institute?”
he asked, and realized the moment the words were out of his mouth that, of course, that was impossible. “I mean—where are we?”
An uneasy flicker passed across Isabelle’s face. “Well…you mean, you don’t remember what happened in the garden?” She
tugged nervously at the crochet trim that bordered the chair’s upholstery. “The Forsaken attacked us. There were a lot of them,
and the hellmist made it hard to fight them. Magnus opened up the Portal, and we were all running into it when I saw you coming
toward us. You tripped over—over Madeleine. And there was a Forsaken just behind you; you must not have seen him, but Jace
did. He tried to get to you, but it was too late. The Forsaken stuck his knife into you. You bled—a lot. And Jace killed the
Forsaken and picked you up and dragged you through the Portal with him,” she finished, speaking so rapidly that her words
blurred together and Simon had to strain to catch them. “And we were already on the other side, and let me tell you, everyone was
pretty surprised when Jace came through with you bleeding all over him. The Consul wasn’t at all pleased.”
Simon’s mouth was dry. “The Forsaken stuck his knife into me?” It seemed impossible. But then, he had healed before, after
Valentine had cut his throat. Still, he at least ought to remember. Shaking his head, he looked down at himself. “Where?”
“I’ll show you.” Much to his surprise, a moment later Isabelle was seated on the bed beside him, her cool hands on his midriff. She
pushed his T-shirt up, baring a strip of pale stomach, bisected by a thin red line. It was barely a scar. “Here,” she said, her fingers
gliding over it. “Is there any pain?”
“N-no.” The first time Simon had ever seen Isabelle, he’d found her so striking, so alight with life and vitality and energy, he’d
thought he’d finally found a girl who burned bright enough to blot out the image of Clary that always seemed to be printed on the
inside of his eyelids. It was right around the time she’d gotten him turned into a rat at Magnus Bane’s loft party that he’d realized
maybe Isabelle burned a little too bright for an ordinary guy like him. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“But my eyes do,” said a coolly amused voice from the doorway. Jace. He had come in so quietly that even Simon hadn’t heard
him; closing the door behind him, he grinned as Isabelle pulled Simon’s shirt down. “Molesting the vampire while he’s too weak to
fight back, Iz?” he asked. “I’m pretty sure that violates at least one of the Accords.”
“I’m just showing him where he got stabbed,” Isabelle protested, but she scooted back to her chair with a certain amount of haste.
“What’s going on downstairs?” she asked. “Is everyone still freaking out?”
The smile left Jace’s face. “Maryse has gone up to the Gard with Patrick,” he said. “The Clave’s in session and Malachi thought it
would be better if she…explained…in person.”
Malachi. Patrick. Gard. The unfamiliar names whirled through Simon’s head. “Explained what?”
Isabelle and Jace exchanged a look. “Explained you,” Jace said finally. “Explained why we brought a vampire with us to Alicante,
which is, by the way, expressly against the Law.”
“To Alicante? We’re in Alicante?” A wave of blank panic washed over Simon, quickly replaced by a pain that shot through his
midsection. He doubled over, gasping.
“Simon!” Isabelle reached out her hand, alarm in her dark eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Go away, Isabelle.” Simon, his hands fisted against his stomach, looked up at Jace, pleading in his voice. “Make her go.”
Isabelle recoiled, a hurt look on her face. “Fine. I’ll go. You don’t have to tell me twice.” She flounced to her feet and out of the
room, banging the door behind her.
Jace turned to Simon, his amber eyes expressionless. “What’s going on? I thought you were healing.”
Simon threw up a hand to ward the other boy off. A metallic taste burned in the back of his throat. “It’s not Isabelle,” he ground
out. “I’m not hurt—I’m just…hungry.” He felt his cheeks burn. “I lost blood, so—I need to replace it.”
“Of course,” Jace said, in the tone of someone who’s just been enlightened by an interesting, if not particularly necessary, scientific
fact. The faint concern left his expression, to be replaced by something that looked to Simon like amused contempt. It struck a
chord of fury inside him, and if he hadn’t been so debilitated by pain, he would have flung himself off the bed and onto the other
boy in a rage. As it was, all he could do was gasp, “Screw you, Wayland.”
“Wayland, is it?” The amused look didn’t leave Jace’s face, but his hands went to his throat and began to unzip his jacket.
“No!” Simon shrank back on the bed. “I don’t care how hungry I am. I’m not—drinking your blood—again.”
Jace’s mouth twisted. “Like I’d let you.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a glass flask. It was half-full
of a thin red-brown liquid. “I thought you might need this,” he said. “I squeezed the juice out of a few pounds of raw meat in the
kitchen. It was the best I could do.”
Simon took the flask from Jace with hands that were shaking so badly that the other boy had to unscrew the top for him. The liquid
inside was foul—too thin and salty to be proper blood, and with that faint unpleasant taste that Simon knew meant the meat had
been a few days old.
“Ugh,” he said, after a few swallows. “Dead blood.”
Jace’s eyebrows went up. “Isn’t all blood dead?”
“The longer the animal whose blood I’m drinking has been dead, the worse the blood tastes,” Simon explained. “Fresh is better.”
“But you’ve never drunk fresh blood. Have you?”
Simon raised his own eyebrows in response.
“Well, aside from mine, of course,” Jace said. “And I’m sure my blood is fan-tastic.”
Simon set the empty flask down on the arm of the chair by the bed. “There’s something very wrong with you,” he said. “Mentally, I
mean.” His mouth still tasted of spoiled blood, but the pain was gone. He felt better, stronger, as if the blood were a medicine that
worked instantly, a drug he had to have to live. He wondered if this was what it was like for heroin addicts. “So I’m in Idris.”
“Alicante, to be specific,” said Jace. “The capital city. The only city, really.” He went to the window and drew back the curtains.
“The Penhallows didn’t really believe us,” he said. “That the sun wouldn’t bother you. They put these blackout curtains up. But you
should look.”
Rising from the bed, Simon joined Jace at the window. And stared.
A few years ago his mother had taken him and his sister on a trip to Tuscany—a week of heavy, unfamiliar pasta dishes, unsalted
bread, hardy brown countryside, and his mother speeding down narrow, twisting roads, barely avoiding crashing their Fiat into the
beautiful old buildings they’d ostensibly come to see. He remembered stopping on a hillside just opposite a town called San
Gimignano, a collection of rust-colored buildings dotted here and there with high towers whose tops soared upward as if reaching
for the sky. If what he was looking at now reminded him of anything, it was that; but it was also so alien that it was genuinely unlike
anything he’d ever seen before.
He was looking out of an upper window in what must have been a fairly tall house. If he glanced up, he could see stone eaves and
sky beyond. Across the way was another house, not quite as tall as this one, and between them ran a narrow, dark canal, crossed
here and there by bridges—the source of the water he’d heard before. The house seemed to be built partway up a hill—below it
honey-colored stone houses, clustered along narrow streets, fell away to the edge of a green circle: woods, surrounded by hills that
were very far away; from here they resembled long green and brown strips dotted with bursts of autumn colors. Behind the hills
rose jagged mountains frosted with snow.
But none of that was what was strange; what was strange was that here and there in the city, placed seemingly at random, rose
soaring towers crowned with spires of reflective whitish-silvery material. They seemed to pierce the sky like shining daggers, and
Simon realized where he had seen that material before: in the hard, glasslike weapons the Shadowhunters carried, the ones they
called seraph blades.
“Those are the demon towers,” Jace said, in response to Simon’s unasked question. “They control the wards that protect the city.
Because of them, no demon can enter Alicante.”
The air that came in through the window was cold and clean, the sort of air you never breathed in New York City: It tasted of
nothing, not dirt or smoke or metal or other people. Just air. Simon took a deep, unnecessary breath of it before he turned to look
at Jace; some human habits died hard. “Tell me,” he said, “that bringing me here was an accident. Tell me this wasn’t somehow all
part of you wanting to stop Clary from coming with you.”
Jace didn’t look at him, but his chest rose and fell once, quickly, in a sort of suppressed gasp. “That’s right,” he said. “I created a
bunch of Forsaken warriors, had them attack the Institute and kill Madeleine and nearly kill the rest of us, just so that I could keep
Clary at home. And lo and behold, my diabolical plan is working.”
“Well, it is working,” Simon said quietly. “Isn’t it?”
“Listen, vampire,” Jace said. “Keeping Clary from Idris was the plan. Bringing you here was not the plan. I brought you through the
Portal because if I’d left you behind, bleeding and unconscious, the Forsaken would have killed you.”
“You could have stayed behind with me—”
“They would have killed us both. I couldn’t even tell how many of them there were, not with the hellmist. Even I can’t fight off a
hundred Forsaken.”
“And yet,” Simon said, “I bet it pains you to admit that.”
“You’re an ass,” Jace said, without inflection, “even for a Downworlder. I saved your life and I broke the Law to do it. Not for the
first time, I might add. You could show a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” Simon felt his fingers curl in against his palms. “If you hadn’t dragged me to the Institute, I wouldn’t be here. I never
agreed to this.”
“You did,” said Jace, “when you said you’d do anything for Clary. This is anything.”
Before Simon could snap back an angry retort, there was a knock on the door. “Hello?” Isabelle called from the other side.
“Simon, is your diva moment over? I need to talk to Jace.”
“Come in, Izzy.” Jace didn’t take his eyes off Simon; there was an electric anger in his gaze, and a sort of challenge that made
Simon long to hit him with something heavy. Like a pickup truck.
Isabelle entered the room in a swirl of black hair and tiered silvery skirts. The ivory corset top she wore left her arms and
shoulders, twined with inky runes, bare. Simon supposed it was a nice change of pace for her to be able to show her Marks off in a
place where no one would think them out of the ordinary.
“Alec’s going up to the Gard,” Isabelle said without preamble. “He wants to talk to you about Simon before he leaves. Can you
come downstairs?”
“Sure.” Jace headed for the door; halfway there, he realized Simon was following him and turned with a glower. “You stay here.”
“No,” Simon said. “If you’re going to be discussing me, I want to be there for it.”
For a moment it looked as if Jace’s icy calm were about to snap; he flushed and opened his mouth, his eyes flashing. Just as
quickly, the anger vanished, tamped down by an obvious act of will. He gritted his teeth and smiled. “Fine,” he said. “Come on
downstairs, vampire. You can meet the whole happy family.”
The first time Clary had gone through a Portal, there had been a sense of flying, of weightless tumbling. This time it was like being
thrust into the heart of a tornado. Howling winds tore at her, ripped her hand from Luke’s and the scream from her mouth. She fell
whirling through the heart of a black and gold maelstrom.
Something flat and hard and silvery like the surface of a mirror rose up in front of her. She plunged toward it, shrieking, throwing
her hands up to cover her face. She struck the surface and broke through, into a world of brutal cold and gasping suffocation. She
was sinking through a thick blue darkness, trying to breathe, but she couldn’t draw air into her lungs, only more of the freezing
coldness—
Suddenly she was seized by the back of her coat and hauled upward. She kicked feebly but was too weak to break the hold on
her. It drew her up, and the indigo darkness around her turned to pale blue and then to gold as she broke the surface of the
water—it was water—and sucked in a gasp of air. Or tried to. Instead she choked and gagged, black spots dotting her vision. She
was being dragged through the water, fast, weeds catching and tugging at her legs and arms—she twisted around in the grip that
held her and caught a terrifying glimpse of something, not quite wolf and not quite human, ears as pointed as daggers and lips drawn
back from sharp white teeth. She tried to scream, but only water came up.
A moment later she was out of the water and being flung onto damp hard-packed earth. There were hands on her shoulders,
slamming her facedown against the ground. The hands struck her back, over and over, until her chest spasmed and she coughed up
a bitter stream of water.
She was still choking when the hands rolled her onto her back. She was looking up at Luke, a black shadow against a high blue
sky touched with white clouds. The gentleness she was used to seeing in his expression was gone; he was no longer wolflike, but he
looked furious. He hauled her into a sitting position, shaking her hard, over and over, until she gasped and struck out at him weakly.
“Luke! Stop it! You’re hurting me—”
His hands left her shoulders. He grabbed her chin in one hand instead, forcing her head up, his eyes searching her face. “The
water,” he said. “Did you cough up all the water?”
“I think so,” she whispered. Her voice came faintly from her swollen throat.
“Where’s your stele?” he demanded, and when she hesitated, his voice sharpened. “Clary. Your stele. Find it.”
She pulled away from his grasp and rummaged in her wet pockets, her heart sinking as her fingers scrabbled against nothing but
damp material. She turned a miserable face up to Luke. “I think I must have dropped it in the lake.” She sniffled. “My…my
mother’s stele…”
“Jesus, Clary.” Luke stood up, clasping his hands distractedly behind his head. He was soaking wet too, water running off his jeans
and heavy flannel coat in thick rivulets. The spectacles he usually wore halfway down his nose were gone. He looked down at her
somberly. “You’re all right,” he said. It wasn’t really a question. “I mean, right now. You feel all right?”
She nodded. “Luke, what’s wrong? Why do we need my stele?”
Luke said nothing. He was looking around as if hoping to glean some assistance from their surroundings. Clary followed his gaze.
They were on the wide dirt bank of a good-size lake. The water was pale blue, sparked here and there with reflected sunlight. She
wondered if it was the source of the gold light she’d seen through the half-open Portal. There was nothing sinister about the lake
now that she was next to it instead of in it. It was surrounded by green hills dotted with trees just beginning to turn russet and gold.
Beyond the hills rose high mountains, their peaks capped in snow.
Clary shivered. “Luke, when we were in the water—did you go part wolf? I thought I saw—”
“My wolf self can swim better than my human self,” Luke said shortly. “And it’s stronger. I had to drag you through the water, and
you weren’t offering much help.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. You weren’t—you weren’t supposed to come with me.”
“If I hadn’t, you’d be dead now,” he pointed out. “Magnus told you, Clary. You can’t use a Portal to get into the Glass City unless
you have someone waiting for you on the other side.”
“He said it was against the Law. He didn’t say if I tried to get there I’d bounce off.”
“He told you there are wards up around the city that prevent Portaling into it. It’s not his fault you decided to play around with
magic you just barely understand. Just because you have power doesn’t mean you know how to use it.” He scowled.
“I’m sorry,” Clary said in a small voice. “It’s just—where are we now?”
“Lake Lyn,” said Luke. “I think the Portal took us as close to the city as it could and then dumped us. We’re on the outskirts of
Alicante.” He looked around, shaking his head half in amazement and half in weariness. “You did it, Clary. We’re in Idris.”
“Idris?” Clary said, and stood staring stupidly out across the lake. It twinkled back at her, blue and undisturbed. “But—you said
we were on the outskirts of Alicante. I don’t see the city anywhere.”
“We’re miles away.” Luke pointed. “You see those hills in the distance? We have to cross over those; the city is on the other side.
If we had a car, we could get there in an hour, but we’re going to have to walk, which will probably take all afternoon.” He
squinted up at the sky. “We’d better get going.”
Clary looked down at herself in dismay. The prospect of a daylong hike in soaking-wet clothes did not appeal. “Isn’t there anything
else…?”
“Anything else we can do?” Luke said, and there was a sudden sharp edge of anger to his voice. “Do you have any suggestions,
Clary, since you’re the one who brought us here?” He pointed away from the lake. “That way lie mountains. Passable on foot only
in high summer. We’d freeze to death on the peaks.” He turned, stabbed his finger in another direction. “That way lie miles of
woods. They run all the way to the border. They’re uninhabited, at least by human beings. Past Alicante there’s farmland and
country houses. Maybe we could get out of Idris, but we’d still have to pass through the city. A city, I may add, where
Downworlders like myself are hardly welcome.”
Clary looked at him with her mouth open. “Luke, I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t know. You don’t know anything about Idris. You don’t even care about Idris. You were just upset about
being left behind, like a child, and you had a tantrum. And now we’re here. Lost and freezing and—” He broke off, his face tight.
“Come on. Let’s start walking.”
Clary followed Luke along the edge of Lake Lyn in a miserable silence. As they walked, the sun dried her hair and skin, but the
velvet coat held water like a sponge. It hung on her like a lead curtain as she tripped hastily over rocks and mud, trying to keep up
with Luke’s long-legged stride. She made a few further attempts at conversation, but Luke remained stubbornly silent. She’d never
done anything so bad before that an apology hadn’t softened Luke’s anger. This time, it seemed, was different.
The cliffs rose higher around the lake as they progressed, pocked with spots of darkness, like splashes of black paint. As Clary
looked more closely, she realized they were caves in the rock. Some looked like they went very deep, twisting away into darkness.
She imagined bats and creepy-crawling things hiding in the blackness, and shivered.
At last a narrow path cutting through the cliffs led them to a wide road lined with crushed stones. The lake curved away behind
them, indigo in the late afternoon sunlight. The road cut through a flat grassy plain that rose to rolling hills in the distance. Clary’s
heart sank; the city was nowhere in sight.
Luke was staring toward the hills with a look of intense dismay on his face. “We’re farther than I thought. It’s been such a long
time….”
“Maybe if we found a bigger road,” Clary suggested, “we could hitchhike, or get a ride to the city, or—”
“Clary. There are no cars in Idris.” Seeing her shocked expression, Luke laughed without much amusement. “The wards foul up
the machinery. Most technology doesn’t work here—mobile phones, computers, the like. Alicante itself is lit—and powered—
mostly by witchlight.”
“Oh,” Clary said in a small voice. “Well—about how far from the city are we?”
“Far enough.” Without looking at her, Luke raked both his hands back through his short hair. “There’s something I’d better tell
you.”
Clary tensed. All she’d wanted before was for Luke to talk to her; now she didn’t want it anymore. “It’s all right—”
“Did you notice,” Luke said, “that there weren’t any boats on Lake Lyn—no docks—nothing that might suggest the lake is used in
any way by the people of Idris?”
“I just thought that was because it was so remote.”
“It’s not that remote. A few hours from Alicante on foot. The fact is, the lake—” Luke broke off and sighed. “Did you ever notice
the pattern on the library floor at the Institute in New York?”
Clary blinked. “I did, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.”
“It was an angel rising out of a lake, holding a cup and a sword. It’s a repeating motif in Nephilim decorations. The legend is that
the angel Raziel rose out of Lake Lyn when he first appeared to Jonathan Shadowhunter, the first of the Nephilim, and gave him the
Mortal Instruments. Ever since then the lake has been—”
“Sacred?” Clary suggested.
“Cursed,” Luke said. “The water of the lake is in some way poisonous to Shadowhunters. It won’t hurt Downworlders—the Fair
Folk call it the Mirror of Dreams, and they drink its water because they claim it gives them true visions. But for a Shadowhunter to
drink the water is very dangerous. It causes hallucinations, fever—it can drive a person to madness.”
Clary felt cold all over. “That’s why you tried to make me spit the water out.”
Luke nodded. “And why I wanted you to find your stele. With a healing rune, we could stave off the water’s effects. Without it, we
need to get you to Alicante as quickly as possible. There are medicines, herbs, that will help, and I know someone who will almost
certainly have them.”
“The Lightwoods?”
“Not the Lightwoods.” Luke’s voice was firm. “Someone else. Someone I know.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “Let’s just pray this person hasn’t moved away in the last fifteen years.”
“But I thought you said it was against the Law for Downworlders to come into Alicante without permission.”
His answering smile was a reminder of the Luke who had caught her when she’d fallen off the jungle gym as a child, the Luke who
had always protected her. “Some Laws were meant to be broken.”
The Penhallows’ house reminded Simon of the Institute—it had that same sense of belonging somehow to another era. The halls
and stairways were narrow, made of stone and dark wood, and the windows were tall and thin, giving out onto views of the city.
There was a distinctly Asian feel to the decorations: a shoji screen stood on the first-floor landing, and there were lacquer-flowered
tall Chinese vases on the windowsills. There were also a number of silkscreen prints on the walls, showing what must have been
scenes from Shadowhunter mythology, but with an Eastern feel to them—warlords wielding glowing seraph blades were
prominently featured, alongside colorful dragonlike creatures and slithering, pop-eyed demons.
“Mrs. Penhallow—Jia—used to run the Beijing Institute. She splits her time between here and the Forbidden City,” Isabelle said as
Simon paused to examine a print. “And the Penhallows are an old family. Wealthy.”
“I can tell,” Simon muttered, looking up at the chandeliers, dripping cut-glass crystals like teardrops.
Jace, on the step behind them, grunted. “Move it along. We’re not taking a historical tour here.”
Simon weighed a rude retort and decided it wasn’t worth bothering. He took the rest of the stairs at a rapid pace; they opened out
at the bottom into a large room. It was an odd mixture of the old and the new: A glass picture window looked out onto the canal,
and there was music playing from a stereo that Simon couldn’t see. But there was no television, no stack of DVDs or CDs, the sort
of detritus Simon associated with modern living rooms. Instead there were a number of overstuffed couches grouped around a
large fireplace, in which flames were crackling.
Alec stood by the fireplace, in dark Shadowhunter gear, drawing on a pair of gloves. He looked up as Simon entered the room and
scowled his habitual scowl, but said nothing.
Seated on the couches were two teenagers Simon had never seen before, a boy and a girl. The girl looked as if she were partly
Asian, with delicate, almond-shaped eyes, glossy dark hair pulled back from her face, and a mischievous expression. Her delicate
chin narrowed into a point like a cat’s. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was very striking.
The black-haired boy beside her was more than striking. He was probably Jace’s height, but seemed taller, even sitting down; he
was slender and muscular, with a pale, elegant, restless face, all cheekbones and dark eyes. There was something strangely familiar
about him, as if Simon had met him before.
The girl spoke first. “Is that the vampire?” She looked Simon up and down as if she were taking his measurements. “I’ve never
really been this close to a vampire before—not one I wasn’t planning to kill, at least.” She cocked her head to the side. “He’s cute,
for a Downworlder.”
“You’ll have to forgive her; she has the face of an angel and the manners of a Moloch demon,” said the boy with a smile, getting to
his feet. He held his hand out to Simon. “I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Verlac. And this is my cousin, Aline Penhallow. Aline—”
“I don’t shake hands with Downworlders,” Aline said, shrinking back against the couch cushions. “They don’t have souls, you
know. Vampires.”
Sebastian’s smile disappeared. “Aline—”
“It’s true. That’s why they can’t see themselves in mirrors, or go in the sun.”
Very deliberately, Simon stepped backward, into the patch of sunlight in front of the window. He felt the sun hot on his back, his
hair. His shadow was cast, long and dark, across the floor, almost reaching Jace’s feet.
Aline took a sharp breath but said nothing. It was Sebastian who spoke, looking at Simon with curious black eyes. “So it’s true.
The Lightwoods said, but I didn’t think—”
“That we were telling the truth?” Jace said, speaking for the first time since they’d come downstairs. “We wouldn’t lie about
something like this. Simon’s…unique.”
“I kissed him once,” Isabelle said, to no one in particular.
Aline’s eyebrows shot up. “They really do let you do whatever you want in New York, don’t they?” she said, sounding halfhorrified
and half-envious. “The last time I saw you, Izzy, you wouldn’t even have considered—”
“The last time we all saw each other, Izzy was eight,” Alec said. “Things change. Now, Mom had to leave here in a hurry, so
someone has to take her notes and records up to the Gard for her. I’m the only one who’s eighteen, so I’m the only one who can
go while the Clave’s in session.”
“We know,” Isabelle said, flopping down onto a couch. “You’ve already told us that, like, five times.”
Alec, who was looking important, ignored this. “Jace, you brought the vampire here, so you’re in charge of him. Don’t let him go
outside.”
The vampire, Simon thought. It wasn’t like Alec didn’t know his name. He’d saved Alec’s life once. Now he was “the vampire.”
Even for Alec, who was prone to the occasional fit of inexplicable sullenness, this was obnoxious. Maybe it had something to do
with being in Idris. Maybe Alec felt a greater need to assert his Shadowhunter-ness here.
“That’s what you brought me down here to tell me? Don’t let the vampire go outside? I wouldn’t have done that anyway.” Jace
slid onto the couch beside Aline, who looked pleased. “You’d better hurry up to the Gard and back. God knows what depravity
we might get up to here without your guidance.”
Alec gazed at Jace with calm superiority. “Try to hold it together. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He vanished through an archway that
led to a long corridor; somewhere in the distance, a door clicked shut.
“You shouldn’t bait him,” Isabelle said, shooting Jace a severe look. “They did leave him in charge.”
Aline, Simon couldn’t help but notice, was sitting very close to Jace, their shoulders touching, even though there was plenty of room
around them on the couch. “Did you ever think that in a past life Alec was an old woman with ninety cats who was always yelling at
the neighborhood kids to get off her lawn? Because I do,” he said, and Aline giggled. “Just because he’s the only one who can go
to the Gard—”
“What’s the Gard?” Simon asked, tired of having no idea what anyone was talking about.
Jace looked at him. His expression was cool, unfriendly; his hand was atop Aline’s where it rested on her thigh. “Sit down,” he
said, jerking his head toward an armchair. “Or did you plan to hover in the corner like a bat?”
Great. Bat jokes. Simon settled himself uncomfortably in the chair.
“The Gard is the official meeting place of the Clave,” Sebastian said, apparently taking pity on Simon. “It’s where the Law is made,
and where the Consul and Inquisitor reside. Only adult Shadowhunters are allowed onto its grounds when the Clave is in session.”
“In session?” Simon asked, remembering what Jace had said earlier, upstairs. “You mean—not because of me?”
Sebastian laughed. “No. Because of Valentine and the Mortal Instruments. That’s why everyone’s here. To discuss what
Valentine’s going to do next.”
Jace said nothing, but at the sound of Valentine’s name, his face tightened.
“Well, he’ll go after the Mirror,” Simon said. “The third of the Mortal Instruments, right? Is it here in Idris? Is that why everyone’s
here?”
There was a short silence before Isabelle answered. “The thing about the Mirror is that no one knows where it is. In fact, no one
knows what it is.”
“It’s a mirror,” Simon said. “You know—reflective, glass. I’m just assuming.”
“What Isabelle means,” said Sebastian kindly, “is that nobody knows anything about the Mirror. There are multiple mentions of it in
Shadowhunter histories, but no specifics about where it is, what it looks like, or, most important, what it does.”
“We assume Valentine wants it,” said Isabelle, “but that doesn’t help much, since no one’s got a clue where it is. The Silent
Brothers might have had an idea, but Valentine killed them all. There won’t be more for at least a little while.”
“All of them?” Simon demanded in surprise. “I thought he only killed the ones in New York.”
“The Bone City isn’t really in New York,” Isabelle said. “It’s like—remember the entrance to the Seelie Court, in Central Park?
Just because the entrance was there doesn’t mean the Court itself is under the park. It’s the same with the Bone City. There are
various entrances, but the City itself—” Isabelle broke off as Aline shushed her with a quick gesture. Simon looked from her face
to Jace’s to Sebastian’s. They all had the same guarded expression, as if they’d just realized what they’d been doing: telling
Nephilim secrets to a Downworlder. A vampire. Not the enemy, precisely, but certainly someone who couldn’t be trusted.
Aline was the first one to break the silence. Fixing her pretty, dark gaze on Simon, she said, “So—what’s it like, being a vampire?”
“Aline!” Isabelle looked appalled. “You can’t just go around asking people what it’s like to be a vampire.”
“I don’t see why,” Aline said. “He hasn’t been a vampire that long, has he? So he must remember what it was like being a person.”
She turned back to Simon. “Does blood still taste like blood to you? Or does it taste like something else now, like orange juice or
something? Because I would think the taste of blood would—”
“It tastes like chicken,” Simon said, just to shut her up.
“Really?” Aline looked astonished.
“He’s making fun of you, Aline,” said Sebastian, “as well he should. I apologize for my cousin again, Simon. Those of us who were
brought up outside Idris tend to have a little more familiarity with Downworlders.”
“But weren’t you brought up in Idris?” Isabelle asked. “I thought your parents—”
“Isabelle,” Jace interrupted, but it was already too late; Sebastian’s expression darkened.
“My parents are dead,” he said. “A demon nest near Calais—it’s all right, it was a long time ago.” He waved away Isabelle’s
protestation of sympathy. “My aunt—Aline’s father’s sister—brought me up at the Institute in Paris.”
“So you speak French?” Isabelle sighed. “I wish I spoke another language. But Hodge never thought we needed to learn anything
but ancient Greek and Latin, and nobody speaks those.”
“I also speak Russian and Italian. And some Romanian,” Sebastian said with a modest smile. “I could teach you some phrases—”
“Romanian? That’s impressive,” said Jace. “Not many people speak it.”
“Do you?” Sebastian asked with interest.
“Not really,” Jace said with a smile so disarming Simon knew he was lying. “My Romanian is pretty much limited to useful phrases
like, ‘Are these snakes poisonous?’ and ‘But you look much too young to be a police officer.’”
Sebastian didn’t smile. There was something about his expression, Simon thought. It was mild—everything about him was calm—
but Simon had the sense that the mildness hid something beneath it that belied his outward tranquility. “I do like traveling,” he said,
his eyes on Jace. “But it’s good to be back, isn’t it?”
Jace paused in the act of playing with Aline’s fingers. “What do you mean?”
“Just that there’s nowhere else quite like Idris, however much we Nephilim might make homes for ourselves elsewhere. Don’t you
agree?”
“Why are you asking me?” Jace’s look was icy.
Sebastian shrugged. “Well, you lived here as a child, didn’t you? And it’s been years since you’ve been back. Or did I get that
wrong?”
“You didn’t get it wrong,” Isabelle said impatiently. “Jace likes to pretend that everyone isn’t talking about him, even when he
knows they are.”
“They certainly are.” Though Jace was glaring at him, Sebastian seemed unruffled. Simon felt a sort of half-reluctant liking for the
dark-haired Shadowhunter boy. It was rare to find someone who didn’t react to Jace’s taunts. “These days in Idris it’s all anyone
talks about. You, the Mortal Instruments, your father, your sister—”
“Clarissa was supposed to come with you, wasn’t she?” Aline said. “I was looking forward to meeting her. What happened?”
Though Jace’s expression didn’t change, he drew his hand back from Aline’s, curling it into a fist. “She didn’t want to leave New
York. Her mother’s ill in the hospital.” He never says our mother, Simon thought. It’s always her mother.
“It’s weird,” Isabelle said. “I really thought she wanted to come.”
“She did,” said Simon. “In fact—”
Jace was on his feet, so fast that Simon didn’t even see him move. “Come to think of it, I have something I need to discuss with
Simon. In private.” He jerked his head toward the double doors at the far end of the room, his eyes glittering a challenge. “Come
on, vampire,” he said, in a tone that left Simon with the distinct feeling that a refusal would probably end in some kind of violence.
“Let’s talk.”

Categories: City of Glass

City of Glass - Chapter 1

The cold snap of the previous week was over; the sun was shining brightly as Clary hurried across Luke’s dusty front yard,

the hood of her jacket up to keep her hair from blowing across her face. The weather might have warmed up, but the wind off the
East River could still be brutal. It carried with it a faint chemical smell, mixed with the Brooklyn smell of asphalt, gasoline, and
burned sugar from the abandoned factory down the street.
Simon was waiting for her on the front porch, sprawled in a broken-springed armchair. He had his DS balanced on his blue-jeaned
knees and was poking away at it industriously with the stylus. “Score,” he said as she came up the steps. “I’m kicking butt at Mario
Kart.”
Clary pushed her hood back, shaking hair out of her eyes, and rummaged in her pocket for her keys. “Where have you been? I’ve
been calling you all morning.”
Simon got to his feet, shoving the blinking rectangle into his messenger bag. “I was at Eric’s. Band practice.”
Clary stopped jiggling the key in the lock—it always stuck—long enough to frown at him. “Band practice? You mean you’re still—
”
“In the band? Why wouldn’t I be?” He reached around her. “Here, let me do it.”
Clary stood still while Simon expertly twisted the key with just the right amount of pressure, making the stubborn old lock spring
open. His hand brushed hers; his skin was cool, the temperature of the air outside. She shivered a little. They’d only called off their
attempt at a romantic relationship last week, and she still felt confused whenever she saw him.
“Thanks.” She took the key back without looking at him.
It was hot in the living room. Clary hung her jacket up on the peg inside the front hall and headed to the spare bedroom, Simon
trailing in her wake. She frowned. Her suitcase was open like a clamshell on the bed, her clothes and sketchbooks strewn
everywhere.
“I thought you were just going to be in Idris a couple of days,” Simon said, taking in the mess with a look of faint dismay.
“I am, but I can’t figure out what to pack. I hardly own any dresses or skirts, but what if I can’t wear pants there?”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to wear pants there? It’s another country, not another century.”
“But the Shadowhunters are so old-fashioned, and Isabelle always wears dresses—” Clary broke off and sighed. “It’s nothing. I’m
just projecting all my anxiety about my mom onto my wardrobe. Let’s talk about something else. How was practice? Still no band
name?”
“It was fine.” Simon hopped onto the desk, legs dangling over the side. “We’re considering a new motto. Something ironic, like
‘We’ve seen a million faces and rocked about eighty percent of them.’”
“Have you told Eric and the rest of them that—”
“That I’m a vampire? No. It isn’t the sort of thing you just drop into casual conversation.”
“Maybe not, but they’re your friends. They should know. And besides, they’ll just think it makes you more of a rock god, like that
vampire Lester.”
“Lestat,” Simon said. “That would be the vampire Lestat. And he’s fictional. Anyway, I don’t see you running to tell all your friends
that you’re a Shadowhunter.”
“What friends? You’re my friend.” She threw herself down onto the bed and looked up at Simon. “And I told you, didn’t I?”
“Because you had no choice.” Simon put his head to the side, studying her; the bedside light reflected off his eyes, turning them
silver. “I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” Clary said, although her skin was prickling all over with a nervous anticipation that made it hard to concentrate.
I’m going to Idris! her mind sang. I’ll see the Shadowhunter home country, the City of Glass. I’ll save my mother.
And I’ll be with Jace.
Simon’s eyes flashed as if he could hear her thoughts, but his voice was soft. “Tell me again—why do you have to go to Idris?
Why can’t Madeleine and Luke take care of this without you?”
“My mom got the spell that put her in this state from a warlock—Ragnor Fell. Madeleine says we need to track him down if we
want to know how to reverse the spell. But he doesn’t know Madeleine. He knew my mom, and Madeleine thinks he’ll trust me
because I look so much like her. And Luke can’t come with me. He could come to Idris, but apparently he can’t get into Alicante
without permission from the Clave, and they won’t give it. And don’t say anything about it to him, please—he’s really not happy
about not going with me. If he hadn’t known Madeleine before, I don’t think he’d let me go at all.”
“But the Lightwoods will be there too. And Jace. They’ll be helping you. I mean, Jace did say he’d help you, didn’t he? He doesn’t
mind you coming along?”
“Sure, he’ll help me,” Clary said. “And of course he doesn’t mind. He’s fine with it.”
But that, she knew, was a lie.
Clary had gone straight to the Insititute after she’d talked to Madeleine at the hospital. Jace had been the first one she’d told her
mother’s secret to, before even Luke. And he’d stood there and stared at her, getting paler and paler as she spoke, as if she
weren’t so much telling him how she could save her mother as draining the blood out of him with cruel slowness.
“You’re not going,” he said as soon as she’d finished. “If I have to tie you up and sit on you until this insane whim of yours passes,
you are not going to Idris.”
Clary felt as if he’d slapped her. She had thought he’d be pleased. She’d run all the way from the hospital to the Institute to tell
him, and here he was standing in the entryway glaring at her with a look of grim death. “But you’re going.”
“Yes, we’re going. We have to go. The Clave’s called every active Clave member who can be spared back to Idris for a massive
Council meeting. They’re going to vote on what to do about Valentine, and since we’re the last people who’ve seen him—”
Clary brushed this aside. “So if you’re going, why can’t I go with you?”
The straightforwardness of the question seemed to make him even angrier. “Because it isn’t safe for you there.”
“Oh, and it’s so safe here? I’ve nearly been killed a dozen times in the past month, and every time it’s been right here in New
York.”
“That’s because Valentine’s been concentrating on the two Mortal Instruments that were here.” Jace spoke through gritted teeth.
“He’s going to shift his focus to Idris now, we all know it—”
“We’re hardly as certain of anything as all that,” said Maryse Lightwood. She had been standing in the shadow of the corridor
doorway, unseen by either of them; she moved forward now, into the harsh entryway lights. They illuminated the lines of exhaustion
that seemed to draw her face down. Her husband, Robert Lightwood, had been injured by demon poison during the battle last
week and had needed constant nursing since; Clary could only imagine how tired she must be. “And the Clave wants to meet
Clarissa. You know that, Jace.”
“The Clave can screw itself.”
“Jace,” Maryse said, sounding genuinely parental for a change. “Language.”
“The Clave wants a lot of things,” Jace amended. “It shouldn’t necessarily get them all.”
Maryse shot him a look, as if she knew exactly what he was talking about and didn’t appreciate it. “The Clave is often right, Jace.
It’s not unreasonable for them to want to talk to Clary, after what she’s been through. What she could tell them—”
“I’ll tell them whatever they want to know,” Jace said.
Maryse sighed and turned her blue eyes on Clary. “So you want to go to Idris, I take it?”
“Just for a few days. I won’t be any trouble,” Clary said, gazing entreatingly past Jace’s white-hot glare at Maryse. “I swear.”
“The question isn’t whether you’ll be any trouble; the question is whether you’ll be willing to meet with the Clave while you’re
there. They want to talk to you. If you say no, I doubt we can get the authorization to bring you with us.”
“No—,” Jace began.
“I’ll meet with the Clave,” Clary interrupted, though the thought sent a ripple of cold down her spine. The only emissary of the
Clave she’d known so far was the Inquisitor, who hadn’t exactly been pleasant to be around.
Maryse rubbed at her temples with her fingertips. “Then it’s settled.” She didn’t sound settled, though; she sounded as tense and
fragile as an overtightened violin string. “Jace, show Clary out and then come see me in the library. I need to talk to you.”
She disappeared back into the shadows without even a word of farewell. Clary stared after her, feeling as if she’d just been
drenched with ice water. Alec and Isabelle seemed genuinely fond of their mother, and she was sure Maryse wasn’t a bad person,
really, but she wasn’t exactly warm.
Jace’s mouth was a hard line. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“I need to go to Idris, even if you can’t understand why,” Clary said. “I need to do this for my mother.”
“Maryse trusts the Clave too much,” said Jace. “She has to believe they’re perfect, and I can’t tell her they aren’t, because—” He
stopped abruptly.
“Because that’s something Valentine would say.”
She expected an explosion, but “No one is perfect” was all he said. He reached out and stabbed at the elevator button with his
index finger. “Not even the Clave.”
Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that really why you don’t want me to come? Because it isn’t safe?”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. “What do you mean? Why else wouldn’t I want you to come?”
She swallowed. “Because—” Because you told me you don’t have feelings for me anymore, and you see, that’s very
awkward, because I still have them for you. And I bet you know it.
“Because I don’t want my little sister following me everywhere?” There was a sharp note in his voice, half mockery, half something
else.
The elevator arrived with a clatter. Pushing the gate aside, Clary stepped into it and turned to face Jace. “I’m not going because
you’ll be there. I’m going because I want to help my mother. Our mother. I have to help her. Don’t you get it? If I don’t do this,
she might never wake up. You could at least pretend you care a little bit.”
Jace put his hands on her shoulders, his fingertips brushing the bare skin at the edge of her collar, sending pointless, helpless shivers
through her nerves. There were shadows below his eyes, Clary noticed without wanting to, and dark hollows under his
cheekbones. The black sweater he was wearing only made his bruise-marked skin stand out more, and the dark lashes, too; he
was a study in contrasts, something to be painted in shades of black, white, and gray, with splashes of gold here and there, like his
eyes, for an accent color—
“Let me do it.” His voice was soft, urgent. “I can help her for you. Tell me where to go, who to ask. I’ll get what you need.”
“Madeleine told the warlock I’d be the one coming. He’ll be expecting Jocelyn’s daughter, not Jocelyn’s son.”
Jace’s hands tightened on her shoulders. “So tell her there was a change of plans. I’ll be going, not you. Not you.”
“Jace—”
“I’ll do whatever,” he said. “Whatever you want, if you promise to stay here.”
“I can’t.”
He let go of her, as if she’d pushed him away. “Why not?”
“Because,” she said, “she’s my mother, Jace.”
“And mine.” His voice was cold. “In fact, why didn’t Madeleine approach both of us about this? Why just you?”
“You know why.”
“Because,” he said, and this time he sounded even colder, “to her you’re Jocelyn’s daughter. But I’ll always be Valentine’s son.”
He slammed the gate shut between them. For a moment she stared at him through it—the mesh of the gate divided up his face into
a series of diamond shapes, outlined in metal. A single golden eye stared at her through one diamond, furious anger flickering in its
depths.
“Jace—,” she began.
But with a jerk and a clatter, the elevator was already moving, carrying her down into the dark silence of the cathedral.
“Earth to Clary.” Simon waved his hands at her. “You awake?”
“Yeah, sorry.” She sat up, shaking her head to clear it of cobwebs. That had been the last time she’d seen Jace. He hadn’t picked
up the phone when she’d called him afterward, so she’d made all her plans to travel to Idris with the Lightwoods using Alec as
reluctant and embarrassed point person. Poor Alec, stuck between Jace and his mother, always trying to do the right thing. “Did
you say something?”
“Just that I think Luke is back,” Simon said, and jumped off the desk just as the bedroom door opened. “And he is.”
“Hey, Simon.” Luke sounded calm, maybe a little tired—he was wearing a battered denim jacket, a flannel shirt, and old cords
tucked into boots that looked like they’d seen their best days ten years ago. His glasses were pushed up into his brown hair, which
seemed flecked with more gray now than Clary remembered. There was a square package under his arm, tied with a length of
green ribbon. He held it out to Clary. “I got you something for your trip.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” Clary protested. “You’ve done so much….” She thought of the clothes he’d bought her after
everything she owned had been destroyed. He’d given her a new phone, new art supplies, without ever having to be asked. Almost
everything she owned now was a gift from Luke. And you don’t even approve of the fact that I’m going. That last thought hung
unspoken between them.
“I know. But I saw it, and I thought of you.” He handed over the box.
The object inside was swathed in layers of tissue paper. Clary tore through it, her hand seizing on something soft as kitten’s fur. She
gave a little gasp. It was a bottle-green velvet coat, old-fashioned, with a gold silk lining, brass buttons, and a wide hood. She drew
it onto her lap, smoothing her hands lovingly down the soft material. “It looks like something Isabelle would wear,” she exclaimed.
“Like a Shadowhunter traveling cloak.”
“Exactly. Now you’ll be dressed more like one of them,” Luke said. “When you’re in Idris.”
She looked up at him. “Do you want me to look like one of them?”
“Clary, you are one of them.” His smile was tinged with sadness. “Besides, you know how they treat outsiders. Anything you can
do to fit in…”
Simon made an odd noise, and Clary looked guiltily at him—she’d almost forgotten he was there. He was looking studiously at his
watch. “I should go.”
“But you just got here!” Clary protested. “I thought we could hang out, watch a movie or something—”
“You need to pack.” Simon smiled, bright as sunshine after rain. She could almost believe there was nothing bothering him. “I’ll
come by later to say good-bye before you go.”
“Oh, come on,” Clary protested. “Stay—”
“I can’t.” His tone was final. “I’m meeting Maia.”
“Oh. Great,” Clary said. Maia, she told herself, was nice. She was smart. She was pretty. She was also a werewolf. A werewolf
with a crush on Simon. But maybe that was as it should be. Maybe his new friend should be a Downworlder. After all, he was a
Downworlder himself now. Technically, he shouldn’t even be spending time with Shadowhunters like Clary. “I guess you’d better
go, then.”
“I guess I’d better.” Simon’s dark eyes were unreadable. This was new—she’d always been able to read Simon before. She
wondered if it was a side effect of the vampirism, or something else entirely. “Good-bye,” he said, and bent as if to kiss her on the
cheek, sweeping her hair back with one of his hands. Then he paused and drew back, his expression uncertain. She frowned in
surprise, but he was already gone, brushing past Luke in the doorway. She heard the front door bang in the distance.
“He’s acting so weird,” she exclaimed, hugging the velvet coat against herself for reassurance. “Do you think it’s the whole vampire
thing?”
“Probably not.” Luke looked faintly amused. “Becoming a Downworlder doesn’t change the way you feel about things. Or people.
Give him time. You did break up with him.”
“I did not. He broke up with me.”
“Because you weren’t in love with him. That’s an iffy proposition, and I think he’s handling it with grace. A lot of teenage boys
would sulk, or lurk around under your window with a boom box.”
“No one has a boom box anymore. That was the eighties.” Clary scrambled off the bed, pulling the coat on. She buttoned it up to
the neck, luxuriating in the soft feel of the velvet. “I just want Simon to go back to normal.” She glanced at herself in the mirror and
was pleasantly surprised—the green made her red hair stand out and brightened the color of her eyes. She turned to Luke. “What
do you think?”
He was leaning in the doorway with his hands in his pockets; a shadow passed over his face as he looked at her. “Your mother had
a coat just like that when she was your age,” was all he said.
Clary clutched the cuffs of the coat, digging her fingers into the soft pile. The mention of her mother, mixed with the sadness in his
expression, was making her want to cry. “We’re going to see her later today, right?” she asked. “I want to say good-bye before I
go, and tell her—tell her what I’m doing. That she’s going to be okay.”
Luke nodded. “We’ll visit the hospital later today. And, Clary?”
“What?” She almost didn’t want to look at him, but to her relief, when she did, the sadness was gone from his eyes.
He smiled. “Normal isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Simon glanced down at the paper in his hand and then at the cathedral, his eyes slitted against the afternoon sun. The Institute rose
up against the high blue sky, a slab of granite windowed with pointed arches and surrounded by a high stone wall. Gargoyle faces
leered down from its cornices, as if daring him to approach the front door. It didn’t look anything like it had the first time he had
ever seen it, disguised as a run-down ruin, but then glamours didn’t work on Downworlders.
You don’t belong here. The words were harsh, sharp as acid; Simon wasn’t sure if it was the gargoyle speaking or the voice in his
own mind. This is a church, and you are damned.
“Shut up,” he muttered halfheartedly. “Besides, I don’t care about churches. I’m Jewish.”
There was a filigreed iron gate set into the stone wall. Simon put his hand to the latch, half-expecting his skin to sear with pain, but
nothing happened. Apparently the gate itself wasn’t particularly holy. He pushed it open and was halfway up the cracked
stonework path to the front door when he heard voices—several of them, and familiar—nearby.
Or maybe not that nearby. He had nearly forgotten how much his hearing, like his sight, had sharpened since he’d been Turned. It
sounded as if the voices were just over his shoulder, but as he followed a narrow path around the side of the Institute, he saw that
the people were standing quite a distance away, at the far end of the grounds. The grass grew wild here, half-covering the
branching paths that led among what had probably once been neatly arranged rosebushes. There was even a stone bench, webbed
with green weeds; this had been a real church once, before the Shadowhunters had taken it over.
He saw Magnus first, leaning against a mossy stone wall. It was hard to miss Magnus—he was wearing a splash-painted white Tshirt
over rainbow leather trousers. He stood out like a hothouse orchid, surrounded by the black-clad Shadowhunters: Alec,
looking pale and uncomfortable; Isabelle, her long black hair twisted into braids tied with silver ribbons, standing beside a little boy
who had to be Max, the youngest. Nearby was their mother, looking like a taller, bonier version of her daughter, with the same
long black hair. Beside her was a woman Simon didn’t know. At first Simon thought she was old, since her hair was nearly white,
but then she turned to speak to Maryse and he saw that she probably wasn’t more than thirty-five or forty.
And then there was Jace, standing off at a little distance, as if he didn’t quite belong. He was all in Shadowhunter black like the
others. When Simon wore all black, he looked like he was on his way to a funeral, but Jace just looked tough and dangerous. And
blonder. Simon felt his shoulders tighten and wondered if anything—time, or forgetfulness—would ever dilute his resentment of
Jace. He didn’t want to feel it, but there it was, a stone weighting down his unbeating heart.
Something seemed odd about the gathering—but then Jace turned toward him, as if sensing he was there, and Simon saw, even
from this distance, the thin white scar on his throat, just above his collar. The resentment in his chest faded into something else. Jace
dropped a small nod in his direction. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Maryse, in the sort of voice Simon would never have used with
his own mother. He sounded like an adult talking to another adult.
Maryse indicated her permission with a distracted wave. “I don’t see why it’s taking so long,” she was saying to Magnus. “Is that
normal?”
“What’s not normal is the discount I’m giving you.” Magnus tapped the heel of his boot against the wall. “Normally I charge twice
this much.”
“It’s only a temporary Portal. It just has to get us to Idris. And then I expect you to close it back up again. That is our agreement.”
She turned to the woman at her side. “And you’ll remain here to witness that he does it, Madeleine?”
Madeleine. So this was Jocelyn’s friend. There was no time to stare, though—Jace already had Simon by the arm and was
dragging him around the side of the church, out of view of the others. It was even more weedy and overgrown back here, the path
snaked with ropes of undergrowth. Jace pushed Simon behind a large oak tree and let go of him, darting his eyes around as if to
make sure they hadn’t been followed. “It’s okay. We can talk here.”
It was quieter back here certainly, the rush of traffic from York Avenue muffled behind the bulk of the Institute. “You’re the one
who asked me here,” Simon pointed out. “I got your message stuck to my window when I woke up this morning. Don’t you ever
use the phone like normal people?”
“Not if I can avoid it, vampire,” said Jace. He was studying Simon thoughtfully, as if he were reading the pages of a book. Mingled
in his expression were two conflicting emotions: a faint amazement and what looked to Simon like disappointment. “So it’s still true.
You can walk in the sunlight. Even midday sun doesn’t burn you.”
“Yes,” Simon said. “But you knew that—you were there.” He didn’t have to elaborate on what “there” meant; he could see in the
other boy’s face that he remembered the river, the back of the truck, the sun rising over the water, Clary crying out. He
remembered it just as well as Simon did.
“I thought perhaps it might have worn off,” Jace said, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it.
“If I feel the urge to burst into flames, I’ll let you know.” Simon never had much patience with Jace. “Look, did you ask me to
come all the way uptown just so you could stare at me like I was something in a petri dish? Next time I’ll send you a photo.”
“And I’ll frame it and put it on my nightstand,” said Jace, but he didn’t sound as if his heart were in the sarcasm. “Look, I asked
you here for a reason. Much as I hate to admit it, vampire, we have something in common.”
“Totally awesome hair?” Simon suggested, but his heart wasn’t really in it either. Something about the look on Jace’s face was
making him increasingly uneasy.
“Clary,” Jace said.
Simon was caught off guard. “Clary?”
“Clary,” Jace said again. “You know: short, redheaded, bad temper.”
“I don’t see how Clary is something we have in common,” Simon said, although he did. Nevertheless, this wasn’t a conversation he
particularly wanted to have with Jace now, or, in fact, ever. Wasn’t there some sort of manly code that precluded discussions like
this—discussions about feelings?
Apparently not. “We both care about her,” Jace stated, giving him a measured look. “She’s important to both of us. Right?”
“You’re asking me if I care about her?” “Caring” seemed like a pretty insufficient word for it. He wondered if Jace was making fun
of him—which seemed unusually cruel, even for Jace. Had Jace brought him over here just to mock him because it hadn’t worked
out romantically between Clary and himself? Though Simon still had hope, at least a little, that things might change, that Jace and
Clary would start to feel about each other the way they were supposed to, the way siblings were meant to feel about each other—
He met Jace’s gaze and felt that little hope shrivel. The look on the other boy’s face wasn’t the look brothers got when they talked
about their sisters. On the other hand, it was obvious Jace hadn’t brought him over here to mock him for his feelings; the misery
Simon knew must be plainly written across his own features was mirrored in Jace’s eyes.
“Don’t think I like asking you these questions,” Jace snapped. “I need to know what you’d do for Clary. Would you lie for her?”
“Lie about what? What’s going on, anyway?” Simon realized what it was that had bothered him about the tableau of
Shadowhunters in the garden. “Wait a second,” he said. “You’re leaving for Idris right now? Clary thinks you’re going tonight.”
“I know,” Jace said. “And I need you to tell the others that Clary sent you here to say she wasn’t coming. Tell them she doesn’t
want to go to Idris anymore.” There was an edge to his voice—something Simon barely recognized, or perhaps it was simply so
strange coming from Jace that he couldn’t process it. Jace was pleading with him. “They’ll believe you. They know how…how
close you two are.”
Simon shook his head. “I can’t believe you. You act like you want me to do something for Clary, but actually you just want me to
do something for you.” He started to turn away. “No deal.”
Jace caught his arm, spinning him back around. “This is for Clary. I’m trying to protect her. I thought you’d be at least a little
interested in helping me do that.”
Simon looked pointedly at Jace’s hand where it clamped his upper arm. “How can I protect her if you don’t tell me what I’m
protecting her from?”
Jace didn’t let go. “Can’t you just trust me that this is important?”
“You don’t understand how badly she wants to go to Idris,” Simon said. “If I’m going to keep that from happening, there had
better be a damn good reason.”
Jace exhaled slowly, reluctantly—and let go his grip on Simon’s arm. “What Clary did on Valentine’s ship,” he said, his voice low.
“With the rune on the wall—the Rune of Opening—well, you saw what happened.”
“She destroyed the ship,” said Simon. “Saved all our lives.”
“Keep your voice down.” Jace glanced around anxiously.
“You’re not saying no one else knows about that, are you?” Simon demanded in disbelief.
“I know. You know. Luke knows and Magnus knows. No one else.”
“What do they all think happened? The ship just opportunely came apart?”
“I told them Valentine’s Ritual of Conversion must have gone wrong.”
“You lied to the Clave?” Simon wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or dismayed.
“Yes, I lied to the Clave. Isabelle and Alec know Clary has some ability to create new runes, so I doubt I’ll be able to keep that
from the Clave or the new Inquisitor. But if they knew she could do what she does—amplify ordinary runes so they have incredible
destructive power—they’d want her as a fighter, a weapon. And she’s not equipped for that. She wasn’t brought up for it—” He
broke off, as Simon shook his head. “What?”
“You’re Nephilim,” Simon said slowly. “Shouldn’t you want what’s best for the Clave? If that’s using Clary…”
“You want them to have her? To put her in the front lines, up against Valentine and whatever army he’s raising?”
“No,” said Simon. “I don’t want that. But I’m not one of you. I don’t have to ask myself who to put first, Clary or my family.”
Jace flushed a slow, dark red. “It’s not like that. If I thought it would help the Clave—but it won’t. She’ll just get hurt—”
“Even if you thought it would help the Clave,” Simon said, “you’d never let them have her.”
“What makes you say that, vampire?”
“Because no one can have her but you,” said Simon.
The color left Jace’s face. “So you won’t help me,” he said in disbelief. “You won’t help her?”
Simon hesitated—and before he could respond, a noise split the silence between them. A high, shrieking cry, terrible in its
desperation, and worse for the abruptness with which it was cut off. Jace whirled around. “What was that?”
The single shriek was joined by other cries, and a harsh clanging that scraped Simon’s eardrums. “Something’s happened—the
others—”
But Jace was already gone, running along the path, dodging the undergrowth. After a moment’s hesitation Simon followed. He had
forgotten how fast he could run now—he was hard on Jace’s heels as they rounded the corner of the church and burst out into the
garden.
Before them was chaos. A white mist blanketed the garden, and there was a heavy smell in the air—the sharp tang of ozone and
something else under it, sweet and unpleasant. Figures darted back and forth—Simon could see them only in fragments, as they
appeared and disappeared through gaps in the fog. He glimpsed Isabelle, her hair snapping around her in black ropes as she swung
her whip. It made a deadly fork of golden lightning through the shadows. She was fending off the advance of something lumbering
and huge—a demon, Simon thought—but it was full daylight; that was impossible. As he stumbled forward, he saw that the
creature was humanoid in shape, but humped and twisted, somehow wrong. It carried a thick wooden plank in one hand and was
swinging at Isabelle almost blindly.
Only a short distance away, through a gap in the stone wall, Simon could see the traffic on York Avenue rumbling placidly by. The
sky beyond the Institute was clear.
“Forsaken,” Jace whispered. His face was blazing as he drew one of his seraph blades from his belt. “Dozens of them.” He pushed
Simon to the side, almost roughly. “Stay here, do you understand? Stay here.”
Simon stood frozen for a moment as Jace plunged forward into the mist. The light of the blade in his hand lit the fog around him to
silver; dark figures dashed back and forth inside it, and Simon felt as if he were gazing through a pane of frosted glass, desperately
trying to make out what was happening on the other side. Isabelle had vanished; he saw Alec, his arm bleeding, as he sliced
through the chest of a Forsaken warrior and watched it crumple to the ground. Another reared up behind him, but Jace was there,
now with a blade in each hand; he leaped into the air and brought them up and then down with a vicious scissoring movement—and
the Forsaken’s head tumbled free of its neck, black blood spurting. Simon’s stomach wrenched—the blood smelled bitter,
poisonous.
He could hear the Shadowhunters calling to one another out of the mist, though the Forsaken were utterly silent. Suddenly the mist
cleared, and Simon saw Magnus, standing wild-eyed by the wall of the Institute. His hands were raised, blue lightning sparking
between them, and against the wall where he stood, a square black hole seemed to be opening in the stone. It wasn’t empty, or
dark precisely, but shone like a mirror with whirling fire trapped within its glass. “The Portal!” he was shouting. “Go through the
Portal!”
Several things happened at once. Maryse Lightwood appeared out of the mist, carrying the boy, Max, in her arms. She paused to
call something over her shoulder and then plunged toward the Portal and through it, vanishing into the wall. Alec followed,
dragging Isabelle after him, her blood-spattered whip trailing on the ground. As he pulled her toward the Portal, something surged
up out of the mist behind them—a Forsaken warrior, swinging a double-bladed knife.
Simon unfroze. Darting forward, he called out Isabelle’s name—then stumbled and pitched forward, hitting the ground hard enough
to knock the breath out of him, if he’d had any breath. He scrambled into a sitting position, turning to see what he’d tripped over.
It was a body. The body of a woman, her throat slit, her eyes wide and blue in death. Blood stained her pale hair. Madeleine.
“Simon, move!” It was Jace, shouting; Simon looked and saw the other boy running toward him out of the fog, bloody seraph
blades in his hands. Then he looked up. The Forsaken warrior he’d seen chasing Isabelle loomed over him, its scarred face twisted
into a rictus grin. Simon twisted away as the double-bladed knife swung down toward him, but even with his improved reflexes, he
wasn’t fast enough. A searing pain shot through him as everything went black.

Categories: City of Glass