Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  He was so still. She laid a hand on his shoulder, felt his shirt sticky with blood—his own or the giant’s, she couldn’t tell. “Jace?”

  His eyes opened. “Is it dead?”

  “Almost,” Clary said grimly.

  “Hell.” He winced. “My legs—”

  “Hold still.” Crawling around to his head, Clary slipped her hands under his arms and pulled. He grunted with pain as his legs slipped out from under the creature’s spasming carcass. Clary let go, and he struggled to his feet, his left arm across his chest. She stood up. “Is your arm all right?”

  “No. Broken,” he said. “Can you reach into my pocket?”

  She hesitated, nodded. “Which one?”

  “Inside jacket, right side. Take out one of the seraph blades and hand it to me.” He held still as she nervously slipped her fingers into his pocket. She was standing so close that she could smell the scent of him, sweat and soap and blood. His breath tickled the back of her neck. Her fingers closed on a tube and she drew it out, not looking at him.

  “Thanks,” he said. His fingers traced it briefly before he named it: “Sanvi.” Like its predecessor, the tube grew into a wicked-looking dagger, its glow illuminating his face. “Don’t watch,” he said, going to stand over the scarred thing’s body. He raised the blade over his head and brought it down. Blood fountained from the giant’s throat, splattering Jace’s boots.

  She half-expected the giant to vanish, folding in on itself the way the kid in Pandemonium had. But it didn’t. The air was full of the smell of blood: heavy and metallic. Jace made a sound low in his throat. He was white-faced, whether with pain or disgust she couldn’t tell. “I told you not to watch,” he said.

  “I thought it would disappear,” she said. “Back to its own dimension—you said.”

  “I said that’s what happens to demons when they die.” Wincing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulder, baring the upper part of his left arm. “That wasn’t a demon.” With his right hand he drew something out of his belt. It was the smooth wand-shaped object he’d used to carve those overlapping circles into Clary’s skin. Looking at it, she felt her forearm begin to burn.

  Jace saw her staring and grinned the ghost of a grin. “This,” he said, “is a stele.” He touched it to an inked mark just below his shoulder, a curious shape almost like a star. Two arms of the star jutted out from the rest of the mark, unconnected. “And this,” he said, “is what happens when Shadowhunters are wounded.”

  With the tip of the stele, he traced a line connecting the two arms of the star. When he lowered his hand, the mark was shining as if it had been etched with phosphorescent ink. As Clary watched, it sank into his skin, like a weighted object sinking into water. It left behind a ghostly reminder: a pale, thin scar, almost invisible.

  An image rose in Clary’s mind. Her mother’s back, not quite covered by her bathing suit top, the blades of her shoulders and curves of her spine dappled with narrow, white marks. It was like something she had seen in a dream—her mother’s back didn’t really look like that, she knew. But the image nagged at her.

  Jace let out a sigh, the tense look of pain leaving his face. He moved the arm, slowly at first, then more easily, lifting it up and down, clenching his fist. Clearly it was no longer broken.

  “That’s amazing,” Clary said. “How did you—?”

  “That was an iratze—a healing rune,” Jace said. “Finishing the rune with the stele activates it.” He shoved the slim wand into his belt and shrugged his jacket back on. With the toe of his boot he prodded the giant’s corpse. “We’re going to have to report this to Hodge,” he said. “He’ll freak out,” he added, as if the thought of Hodge’s alarm gave him some satisfaction. Jace, Clary thought, was the sort of person who liked it when things were happening, even things that were bad.

  “Why will he freak?” Clary said. “And I get that that thing isn’t a demon—that’s why the Sensor didn’t register it, right?”

  Jace nodded. “You see the scars all over its face?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those were made with a stele. Like this one.” He tapped the wand in his belt. “You asked me what happens when you carve Marks onto someone who doesn’t have Shadowhunter blood. Just one Mark will only burn you, but a lot of Marks, powerful ones? Carved into the flesh of a totally ordinary human being with no trace of Shadowhunter ancestry? You get this.” He jerked his chin at the corpse. “The runes are agonizingly painful. The Marked ones go insane—the pain drives them out of their minds. They become fierce, mindless killers. They don’t sleep or eat unless you make them, and they die, usually quickly. Runes have great power and can be used to do great good—but they can be used for evil. The Forsaken are evil.”

  Clary stared at him in horror. “But why would anyone do that to themselves?”

  “Nobody would. It’s something that gets done to them. By a warlock, maybe, some Downworlder gone bad. The Forsaken are loyal to the one who Marked them, and they’re fierce killers. They can obey simple commands, too. It’s like having a—a slave army.” He stepped over the dead Forsaken, and glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’m going back upstairs.”

  “But there’s nothing there.”

  “There might be more of them,” he said, almost as if he were hoping there would be. “You should wait here.” He started up the steps.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a shrill and familiar voice. “There are more of them where the first one came from.”

  Jace, who was nearly at the top of the stairs, spun and stared. So did Clary, although she knew immediately who had spoken. That gravelly accent was unmistakable.

  “Madame Dorothea?”

  The old woman inclined her head regally. She stood in the doorway of her apartment, dressed in what looked like a tent made of raw purple silk. Gold chains glittered on her wrists and roped her throat. Her long badger-striped hair straggled from the bun pinned to the top of her head.

  Jace was still staring. “But . . .”

  “More what?” Clary said.

  “More Forsaken,” replied Dorothea with a cheerfulness that, Clary felt, didn’t really fit the circumstances. She glanced around the entryway. “You have made a mess, haven’t you? I’m sure you weren’t planning on cleaning up either. Typical.”

  “But you’re a mundane,” Jace said, finally finishing his sentence.

  “So observant,” said Dorothea, her eyes gleaming. “The Clave really broke the mold with you.”

  The bewilderment on Jace’s face was fading, replaced by a dawning anger. “You know about the Clave?” he demanded. “You knew about them, and you knew there were Forsaken in this house, and you didn’t notify them? Just the existence of Forsaken is a crime against the Covenant—”

  “Neither Clave nor Covenant have ever done anything for me,” said Madame Dorothea, her eyes flashing angrily. “I owe them nothing.” For a moment her gravelly New York accent vanished, replaced with something else, a thicker, deeper accent that Clary didn’t recognize.

  “Jace, stop it,” Clary said. She turned to Madame Dorothea. “If you know about the Clave and the Forsaken,” she said, “then maybe you know what happened to my mother?”

  Dorothea shook her head, her earrings swinging. There was something like pity on her face. “My advice to you,” she said, “is to forget about your mother. She’s gone.”

  The floor under Clary seemed to tilt. “You mean she’s dead?”

  “No.” Dorothea spoke the word almost reluctantly. “I’m sure she’s still alive. For now.”

  “Then I have to find her,” Clary said. The world had stopped tilting; Jace was standing behind her, his hand on her elbow as if to brace her, but she barely noticed. “You understand? I have to find her before—”

  Madame Dorothea held up a hand. “I don’t want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business.”

  “But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor—”

  “This is an official Clave investig
ation.” Jace cut her off. “I can always come back with the Silent Brothers.”

  “Oh, for the—” Dorothea glanced at her door, then at Jace and Clary. “I suppose you might as well come in,” she said, finally. “I’ll tell you what I can.” She started toward the door, then halted on the threshold, glaring. “But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you’ll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and an extra pair of arms.”

  “That might be nice, an extra pair of arms,” Jace said. “Handy in a fight.”

  “Not if they’re growing out of your . . .” Dorothea paused and smiled at him, not without malice. “Neck.”

  “Yikes,” said Jace mildly.

  “Yikes is right, Jace Wayland.” Dorothea marched into the apartment, her purple tent flying around her like a gaudy flag.

  Clary looked at Jace. “Wayland?”

  “It’s my name.” Jace looked shaken. “I can’t say I like that she knows it.”

  Clary glanced after Dorothea. The lights were on inside the apartment; already the heavy smell of incense was flooding the entryway, mixing unpleasantly with the stench of blood.“Still, I think we might as well try talking to her. What have we got to lose?”

  “Once you’ve spent a bit more time in our world,” Jace said, “you won’t ask me that again.”

  7

  THE FIVE-DIMENSIONAL DOOR

  Madame Dorothea’s apartment seemed to have roughly the same layout as Clary’s, though she’d made a very different use of the space. The entryway, reeking of incense, was hung with bead curtains and astrological posters. One showed the constellations of the zodiac, another a guide to Chinese magical symbols, and another showed a hand with fingers spread, each line on the palm carefully labeled. Above the hand Latinate script spelled out the words “In Manibus Fortuna.” Narrow shelves holding stacked books ran along the wall beside the door.

  One of the bead curtains rattled, and Madame Dorothea poked her head through. “Interested in chiromancy?” she said, noting Clary’s gaze. “Or just nosy?”

  “Neither,” Clary said. “Can you really tell fortunes?”

  “My mother had a great talent. She could see a man’s future in his hand or the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. She taught me some of her tricks.” She transferred her gaze to Jace. “Speaking of tea, young man, would you like some?”

  “What?” Jace said, looking flustered.

  “Tea. I find it both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea.”

  “I’ll have tea,” Clary said, realizing how long it had been since she had eaten or drunk anything. She felt as if she’d been running on pure adrenaline since she woke up.

  Jace succumbed. “All right. As long as it isn’t Earl Grey,” he added, wrinkling his fine-boned nose. “I hate bergamot.”

  Madame Dorothea cackled loudly and disappeared back through the bead curtain, leaving it swaying gently behind her.

  Clary raised an eyebrow at Jace. “You hate bergamot?”

  Jace had wandered over to the narrow bookshelf and was examining its contents. “You have a problem with that?”

  “You may be the only guy my age I’ve ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it’s in Earl Grey tea.”

  “Yes, well,” Jace said, with a supercilious look, “I’m not like other guys. Besides,” he added, flipping a book off the shelf, “at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It’s required.”

  “I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners.”

  Jace flipped a page. “Very funny, Fray.”

  Clary, who had been studying the palmistry poster, whirled on him. “Don’t call me that.”

  He glanced up, surprised. “Why not? It’s your last name, isn’t it?”

  The image of Simon rose up behind her eyes. Simon the last time she had seen him, staring after her as she ran out of Java Jones. She turned back to the poster, blinking. “No reason.”

  “I see,” Jace said, and she could tell from his voice that he did see, more than she wanted him to. She heard him drop the book back onto the shelf. “This must be the trash she keeps up front to impress credible mundanes,” he said, sounding disgusted. “There’s not one serious text here.”

  “Just because it’s not the kind of magic you do—,” Clary began crossly.

  He scowled furiously, silencing her. “I do not do magic,” he said. “Get it through your head: Human beings are not magic users. It’s part of what makes them human. Witches and warlocks can only use magic because they have demon blood.”

  Clary took a moment to process this. “But I’ve seen you use magic. You use enchanted weapons—”

  “I use tools that are magical. And just to be able to do that, I have to undergo rigorous training. The rune tattoos on my skin protect me too. If you tried to use one of the seraph blades, for instance, it’d probably burn your skin, maybe kill you.”

  “What if I got the tattoos?” Clary asked. “Could I use them then?”

  “No,” Jace said crossly. “The Marks are only part of it. There are tests, ordeals, levels of training—look, just forget it, okay? Stay away from my blades. In fact, don’t touch any of my weapons without my permission.”

  “Well, there goes my plan for selling them all on eBay,” Clary muttered.

  “Selling them on what?”

  Clary smiled blandly at him. “A mythical place of great magical power.”

  Jace looked confused, then shrugged. “Most myths are true, at least in part.”

  “I’m starting to get that.”

  The bead curtain rattled again, and Madame Dorothea’s head appeared. “Tea’s on the table,” she said. “There’s no need for you two to keep standing there like donkeys. Come into the parlor.”

  “There’s a parlor?” Clary said.

  “Of course there’s a parlor,” said Dorothea. “Where else would I entertain?”

  “I’ll just leave my hat with the footman,” said Jace.

  Madame Dorothea shot him a dark look. “If you were half as funny as you thought you were, my boy, you’d be twice as funny as you are.” She disappeared back through the curtain, her loud “Hmph!” nearly drowned out by rattling beads.

  Jace frowned. “I’m not quite sure what she meant by that.”

  “Really,” said Clary. “It made perfect sense to me.” She marched through the bead curtain before he could reply.

  The parlor was so dimly lit that it took several blinks for Clary’s eyes to adjust. Faint light outlined the black velvet curtains drawn across the entire left wall. Stuffed birds and bats dangled from the ceiling on thin cords, shiny dark beads where their eyes should have been. The floor was layered with frayed Persian rugs that spat up puffs of dust underfoot. A group of overstuffed pink armchairs were gathered around a low table: A stack of tarot cards bound with a silk ribbon occupied one end of the table, a crystal ball on a gold stand the other. In the middle of the table was a silver tea service, laid out for company: a neat plate of stacked sandwiches, a blue teapot unfurling a thin stream of white smoke, and two teacups on matching saucers set carefully in front of two of the armchairs.

  “Wow,” Clary said weakly. “This looks great.” She took a seat in one of the armchairs. It felt good to sit down.

  Dorothea smiled, her eyes glinting with a sly humor. “Have some tea,” she said, hefting the pot. “Milk? Sugar?”

  Clary looked sideways at Jace, who was sitting beside her and who had taken possession of the sandwich plate. He was examining it closely. “Sugar,” she said.

  Jace shrugged, took a sandwich, and set the plate down. Clary watched him warily as he bit into it. He shrugged again. “Cucumber,” he said, in response to her stare.

  “I always think cucumber sandwiches are just the thing for tea, don’t you?” Madame Dorothea inquired, of no one in particular.

  “I hate cucumber,” Jace said, and handed the rest of his sandwich to Clary. She bi
t into it—it was seasoned with just the right amount of mayonnaise and pepper. Her stomach rumbled in grateful appreciation of the first food she’d tasted since the nachos she’d eaten with Simon.

  “Cucumber and bergamot,” Clary said. “Is there anything else you hate that I ought to know about?”

  Jace looked at Dorothea over the rim of his teacup. “Liars,” he said.

  Calmly the old woman set her teapot down. “You can call me a liar all you like. It’s true, I’m not a witch. But my mother was.”

  Jace choked on his tea. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why impossible?” Clary asked curiously. She took a sip of her tea. It was bitter, strongly flavored with a peaty smokiness.

  Jace expelled a breath. “Because they’re half-human, half-demon. All witches and warlocks are crossbreeds. And because they’re crossbreeds, they can’t have children. They’re sterile.”

  “Like mules,” Clary said thoughtfully, remembering something from biology class. “Mules are sterile crossbreeds.”

  “Your knowledge of livestock is astounding,” said Jace. “All Downworlders are in some part demon, but only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It’s why their powers are the strongest.”

  “Vampires and werewolves—they’re part demon too? And faeries?”

  “Vampires and werewolves are the result of diseases brought by demons from their home dimensions. Most demon diseases are deadly to humans, but in these cases they worked strange changes on the infected, without actually killing them. And faeries—”

  “Faeries are fallen angels,” said Dorothea, “cast down out of heaven for their pride.”

  “That’s the legend,” Jace said. “It’s also said that they’re the offspring of demons and angels, which always seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixing together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to be, but they have a lot of mischief and cruelty in them. And you’ll notice most of them avoid midday sunlight—”

  “For the devil has no power,” said Dorothea softly, as if she were reciting an old rhyme, “except in the dark.”