Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  “How awfully convenient for you, regardless. And for him. He won’t have to worry about you spilling his secrets.”

  “Yeah,” Jace said, “he’s terrified I’ll tell everyone that he’s always really wanted to be a ballerina.” The Inquisitor simply stared at him. “I don’t know any of my father’s secrets,” he said, less sharply. “He never told me anything.”

  The Inquisitor regarded him with something close to boredom. “If your father didn’t take the Sword to protect you, then why did he take it?”

  “It’s a Mortal Instrument,” said Clary. “It’s powerful. Like the Cup. Valentine likes power.”

  “The Cup has an immediate use,” said the Inquisitor. “He can use it to make an army. The Sword is used in trials. I can’t see how that would interest him.”

  “He might have done it to destabilize the Clave,” suggested Maryse. “To sap our morale. To say that there is nothing we can protect from him if he wants it badly enough.” It was a surprisingly good argument, Clary thought, but Maryse didn’t sound very convinced. “The fact is—”

  But they never got to hear what the fact was, because at that moment Jace raised his hand as if he meant to ask a question, looked startled, and sat down on the grass suddenly, as if his legs had given out. Alec knelt down next to him, but Jace waved away his concern. “Leave me alone. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.” Clary joined Alec on the grass, Jace watching her with eyes whose pupils were huge and dark, despite the witchlight illuminating the night. She glanced down at his wrist, where Alec had drawn the iratze. The Mark was gone, not even a faint white scar left behind to show that it had worked. Her eyes met Alec’s and she saw her own anxiety reflected there. “Something’s wrong with him,” she said. “Something serious.”

  “He probably needs a healing rune.” The Inquisitor looked as if she were exquisitely annoyed at Jace for being injured during events of such importance. “An iratze, or—”

  “We tried that,” said Alec. “It isn’t working. I think there’s something of demonic origin going on here.”

  “Like demon poison?” Maryse moved as if she meant to go to Jace, but the Inquisitor held her back.

  “He’s shamming,” she said. “He ought to be in the Silent City’s cells right now.”

  Alec rose to his feet at that. “You can’t say that—look at him!” He gestured at Jace, who had slumped back on the grass, his eyes closed. “He can’t even stand up. He needs doctors, he needs—”

  “The Silent Brothers are dead,” said the Inquisitor. “Are you suggesting a mundane hospital?”

  “No.” Alec’s voice was tight. “I thought he could go to Magnus.”

  Isabelle made a sound somewhere between a sneeze and a cough. She turned away as the Inquisitor looked at Alec blankly. “Magnus?”

  “He’s a warlock,” said Alec. “Actually, he’s the High Warlock of Brooklyn.”

  “You mean Magnus Bane,” said Maryse. “He has a reputation—”

  “He healed me after I fought a Greater Demon,” said Alec. “The Silent Brothers couldn’t do anything, but Magnus . . .”

  “It’s ridiculous,” said the Inquisitor. “What you want is to help Jonathan escape.”

  “He’s not well enough to escape,” Isabelle said. “Can’t you see that?”

  “Magnus would never let that happen,” Alec said, with a quelling glance at his sister. “He’s not interested in crossing the Clave.”

  “And how would he propose preventing it?” The Inquisitor’s voice dripped acid sarcasm. “Jonathan is a Shadowhunter; we’re not so easy to keep under lock and key.”

  “Maybe you should ask him,” Alec suggested.

  The Inquisitor smiled her razor smile. “By all means. Where is he?”

  Alec glanced down at the phone in his hand and then back at the thin gray figure in front of him. “He’s here,” he said. He raised his voice. “Magnus! Magnus, come on out.”

  Even the Inquisitor’s eyebrows shot up when Magnus strode through the gate. The High Warlock was wearing black leather pants, a belt with a buckle in the shape of a jeweled M, and a cobalt-blue Prussian military jacket open over a white lace shirt. He shimmered with layers of glitter. His gaze rested for a moment on Alec’s face with amusement and a hint of something else before moving on to Jace, prone on the grass. “Is he dead?” he inquired. “He looks dead.”

  “No,” snapped Maryse. “He’s not dead.”

  “Have you checked? I could kick him if you want.” Magnus moved toward Jace.

  “Stop that!” the Inquisitor snapped, sounding like Clary’s third-grade teacher demanding that she stop doodling on her desk with a marker. “He’s not dead, but he’s injured,” she added, almost grudgingly. “Your medical skills are required. Jonathan needs to be well enough for the interrogation.”

  “Fine, but it’ll cost you.”

  “I’ll pay it,” said Maryse.

  The Inquisitor didn’t even blink. “Very well. But he can’t remain at the Institute. Just because the Sword is gone doesn’t mean the interrogation won’t proceed as planned. And in the meantime, the boy must be held under observation. He’s clearly a flight risk.”

  “A flight risk?” Isabelle demanded. “You act as if he tried to escape from the Silent City—”

  “Well,” the Inquisitor said. “He’s no longer in his cell now, is he?”

  “That’s not fair! You couldn’t have expected him to stay down there surrounded by dead people!”

  “Not fair? Not fair? Do you honestly expect me to believe that you and your brother were motivated to come to the Bone City because of a distress call, and not because you wanted to free Jonathan from what you clearly consider unnecessary confinement? And do you expect me to believe you won’t try to free him again if he’s allowed to remain at the Institute? Do you think you can fool me as easily as you fool your parents, Isabelle Lightwood?”

  Isabelle turned scarlet. Magnus cut in before she could reply:

  “Look, it’s not a problem,” he said. “I can keep Jace at my place easily enough.”

  The Inquisitor turned to Alec. “Your warlock does realize,” she said, “that Jonathan is a witness of utmost importance to the Clave?”

  “He’s not my warlock.” The tops of Alec’s angular cheekbones flared a dark red.

  “I’ve held prisoners for the Clave before,” Magnus said. The joking edge had left his voice. “I think you’ll find I have an excellent record in that department. My contract is one of the best.”

  Was it Clary’s imagination, or did his eyes seem to linger on Maryse when he said that? She didn’t have time to wonder; the Inquisitor made a sharp noise that might have been amusement or disgust, and said, “It’s settled, then. Let me know when he’s well enough to talk, warlock. I’ve still got plenty of questions for him.”

  “Of course,” Magnus said, but Clary got the sense that he wasn’t really listening to her. He crossed the lawn gracefully and came to stand over Jace; he was as tall as he was thin, and when Clary glanced up to look at him, she was surprised how many stars he blotted out. “Can he talk?” Magnus asked Clary, indicating Jace.

  Before Clary could respond, Jace’s eyes slid open. He looked up at the warlock, dazed and dizzy. “What are you doing here?”

  Magnus grinned down at Jace, and his teeth sparkled like sharpened diamonds.

  “Hey, roommate,” he said.

  Part Two

  The Gates of Hell

  Before me things created were none, save things

  Eternal, and eternal I endure.

  All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

  —Dante, Inferno

  8

  THE SEELIE COURT

  In the dream Clary was a child again, walking down the narrow strip of beach near the boardwalk at Coney Island. The air was thick with the smell of hot dogs and roasting peanuts, and with the shouts of children. The sea surged in the distance, its blue-gray surface alive with sunlight.


  She could see herself as if from a distance, wearing oversize child’s pajamas. The hems of the pajama bottoms dragged along the beach. Damp sand grated between her toes, and her hair hung heavily against the nape of her neck. There were no clouds and the sky was blue and clear, but she shivered as she walked along the perimeter of the water toward a figure she could see only dimly in the distance.

  As she approached, the figure became suddenly clear, as if Clary had focused the lens of a camera. It was her mother, kneeling in the ruins of a half-built sand castle. She wore the same white dress Valentine had put her in at Renwick’s. In her hand was a twisted bit of driftwood, silvery from long exposure to salt and wind.

  “Have you come to help me?” her mother said, raising her head. Jocelyn’s hair was undone and it blew free in the wind, making her look younger than she was. “There’s so much to do and so little time.”

  Clary swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. “Mom—I’ve missed you, Mom.”

  Jocelyn smiled. “I’ve missed you, too, honey. But I’m not gone, you know. I’m only sleeping.”

  “Then how do I wake you up?” Clary cried, but her mother was looking out to sea, her face troubled. The sky had turned a twilight iron gray and the black clouds looked like heavy stones.

  “Come here,” said Jocelyn, and when Clary came to her, she said, “Hold out your arm.”

  Clary did. Jocelyn moved the driftwood over her skin. The touch stung like the burning of a stele, and left the same thick black line behind. The rune Jocelyn drew was a shape Clary had never seen before, but she found it instinctively soothing to her eye. “What does this do?”

  “It should protect you.” Clary’s mother released her.

  “Against what?”

  Jocelyn didn’t answer, just looked out toward the sea. Clary turned and saw that the ocean had drawn far out, leaving brackish piles of garbage, heaps of seaweed and flopping, desperate fish in its wake. The water had gathered itself into a huge wave, rising like the side of a mountain, like an avalanche ready to fall. The shouts of children from the boardwalk had turned into screams. As Clary stared in horror, she saw that the side of the wave was as transparent as a membrane, and through it she could see things that seemed to move under the surface of the sea, huge dark shapeless things pushing against the skin of the water. She threw up her hands—

  And woke up, gasping, her heart slamming painfully against her ribs. She was in her bed in the spare room in Luke’s house, and afternoon light was filtering in through the curtains. Her hair was plastered to her neck with sweat, and her arm burned and ached. When she sat up and flipped on the bedside light, she saw without surprise the black Mark that ran the length of her forearm.

  When she went into the kitchen, she found Luke had left breakfast for her in the form of a Danish in a grease-spotted cardboard box. He’d also left a note stuck to the fridge. Gone to the hospital.

  Clary ate the Danish on the way to meet Simon. He was supposed to be on the corner of Bedford by the L train stop at five, but he wasn’t. She felt a faint tug of anxiety before she remembered the used record store on the corner of Sixth. Sure enough, he was sorting through the CDs in the new arrivals section. He wore a rust-colored corduroy jacket with a torn sleeve and a blue T-shirt bearing the logo of a headphone-wearing boy dancing with a chicken. He grinned when he saw her. “Eric thinks we should change the name of our band to Mojo Pie,” he said, by way of greeting.

  “What is it now? I forgot.”

  “Champagne Enema,” he said, selecting a Yo La Tengo CD.

  “Change it,” Clary said. “By the way, I know what your T-shirt means.”

  “No you don’t.” He headed up to the front of the store to buy his CD. “You’re a good girl.”

  Outside, the wind was cold and brisk. Clary drew her striped scarf up around her chin. “I was worried when I didn’t see you at the L stop.”

  Simon pulled his knit cap down, wincing as if the sunlight hurt his eyes. “Sorry. I remembered I wanted this CD, and I thought—”

  “It’s fine.” She waved a hand at him. “It’s me. I panic way too easily these days.”

  “Well, after what you’ve been through, no one could blame you.” Simon sounded contrite. “I still can’t believe what happened to the Silent City. I can’t believe you were there.”

  “Neither could Luke. He freaked out completely.”

  “I bet.” They were walking through McCarren Park, the grass underfoot turning winter brown, the air full of golden light. Dogs were running off their leashes among the trees. Everything changes in my life, and the world stays the same, Clary thought. “Have you talked to Jace since it happened?” Simon asked, keeping his voice neutral.

  “No, but I checked in with Isabelle and Alec a few times. Apparently he’s fine.”

  “Did he ask to see you? Is that why we’re going?”

  “He doesn’t have to ask.” Clary tried to keep the irritation out of her voice as they turned onto Magnus’s street. It was lined with low warehouse buildings that had been converted into lofts and studios for artistic—and wealthy—residents. Most of the cars parked along the shallow curb were expensive.

  As they neared Magnus’s building, Clary saw a lanky figure unfurl itself from where it had been sitting on the stoop. Alec. He was wearing a long black coat made of the tough, slightly shiny material Shadowhunters liked to use for their gear. His hands and throat were marked with runes, and it was evident from the faint shimmer in the air around him that he was glamoured into invisibility.

  “I didn’t know you were bringing the mundane.” His blue eyes flicked uneasily over Simon.

  “That’s what I like about you people,” said Simon. “You always make me feel so welcome.”

  “Oh, come on, Alec,” said Clary. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like Simon hasn’t been here before.”

  Alec heaved a theatrical sigh, shrugged, and led the way up the stairs. He unlocked the door to Magnus’s apartment using a thin silver key, which he tucked back into the breast pocket of his jacket the moment he’d finished, as if he hoped to keep his companions from seeing it.

  In daylight the apartment looked the way an empty nightclub might look during off hours: dark, dirty, and unexpectedly small. The walls were bare, spackled here and there with glitter paint, and the floorboards where faeries had danced a week ago were warped and shiny with age.

  “Hello, hello.” Magnus swept toward them. He was wearing a floor-length green silk dressing gown open over a silver mesh shirt and black jeans. A glittering red stone winked in his left ear. “Alec, my darling. Clary. And rat-boy.” He swept a bow toward Simon, who looked annoyed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “We came to see Jace,” Clary said. “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Magnus said. “Does he normally just lie on the floor like that without moving?”

  “What—,” Alec began, and broke off as Magnus laughed. “That’s not funny.”

  “You’re so easy to tease. And yes, your friend is just fine. Well, except that he keeps putting all my things away and trying to clean up. Now I can’t find anything. He’s compulsive.”

  “Jace does like things neat,” Clary said, thinking of his monklike room at the Institute.

  “Well, I don’t.” Magnus was watching Alec out of the corner of his eye while Alec stared off into the middle distance, scowling. “Jace is in there if you want to see him.” He pointed toward a door at the end of the room.

  “In there” turned out to be a medium-size den—surprisingly cozy, with smudged walls, velvet curtains drawn across the windows, and cloth-draped armchairs marooned like fat, colorful icebergs in a sea of nubbly beige carpeting. A hot-pink couch was made up with sheets and a blanket. Next to it was a duffel bag stuffed full of clothes. No light came through the heavy curtains; the only source of illumination was a flickering television screen, which glowed brightly despite the fact that the television itself was not plugged in.


  “What’s on?” Magnus inquired.

  “What Not to Wear,” came a familiar drawling voice, emanating from a sprawled figure in one of the armchairs. He sat forward and for a moment Clary thought Jace might get up and greet them. Instead, he shook his head at the screen. “High-waisted khaki pants? Who wears those?” He turned and glared at Magnus. “Nearly unlimited supernatural power,” he said, “and all you do is use it to watch reruns. What a waste.”

  “Also, TiVo accomplishes much the same thing,” pointed out Simon.

  “My way is cheaper.” Magnus clapped his hands together and the room was suddenly flooded with light. Jace, slumped in the chair, raised an arm to cover his face. “Can you do that without magic?”

  “Actually,” said Simon, “yes. If you watched infomercials, you’d know that.”

  Clary sensed the mood in the room was deteriorating. “That’s enough,” she said. She looked at Jace, who had lowered his arm and was blinking resentfully into the light. “We need to talk,” she said. “All of us. About what we’re going to do now.”

  “I was going to watch Project Runway,” said Jace. “It’s on next.”

  “No you’re not,” said Magnus. He snapped his fingers and the TV went off, releasing a small puff of smoke as the picture died. “You need to deal with this.”

  “Suddenly you’re interested in solving my problems?”

  “I’m interested in getting my apartment back. I’m tired of you cleaning all the time.” Magnus snapped his fingers again, menacingly. “Get up.”

  “Or you’ll be the next one to go up in smoke,” said Simon with relish.

  “There’s no need to clarify my finger snap,” said Magnus. “The implication was clear in the snap itself.”

  “Fine.” Jace got up out of the chair. He was barefoot and there was a line of purplish silver skin around his wrist where his injuries were still healing. He looked tired, but not as if he were still in pain. “You want a round table meeting, we can have a round table meeting.”

  “I love round tables,” said Magnus brightly. “They suit me so much better than square.”