Luke looked toward the river, at the dark water moving slowly under the light of the autumn moon. “Sometimes, Clary,” he said, “love just isn’t enough.”
7
PRAETOR LUPUS
The bottle slid out of Simon’s hand and crashed to the floor, where it shattered, sending shards flying in all directions. “Kyle’s a werewolf?”
“Of course he’s a werewolf, you moron,” said Jace. He looked at Kyle. “Aren’t you?”
Kyle said nothing. The relaxed good humor had gone out of his expression. His hazel eyes were as hard and flat as glass. “Who’s asking?”
Jace moved away from the window. There was nothing overtly hostile in his demeanor, and yet everything about him implied a clear threat. His hands were loose at his sides, but Simon remembered the way he had seen Jace, before, explode into action with almost nothing, it seemed, between thought and response. “Jace Lightwood,” he said. “Of the Lightwood Institute. What pack are you sworn to?”
“Jesus,” said Kyle. “You’re a Shadowhunter?” He looked at Simon. “The cute redheaded girl who was with you in the garage—she’s a Shadowhunter too, isn’t she?”
Taken aback, Simon nodded.
“You know, some people think Shadowhunters are just myths. Like mummies and genies.” Kyle grinned at Jace. “Can you grant wishes?”
The fact that Kyle had just called Clary cute did not seem to have endeared him to Jace, whose face had tightened alarmingly. “That depends,” he said. “Do you wish to be punched in the face?”
“My, my,” said Kyle. “And I thought you all were so gung ho for the Accords these days—”
“The Accords apply to vamps and lycanthropes with clear alliances,” interrupted Jace. “Tell me what pack you’re sworn to, or I’ll have to assume you’re rogue.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Simon said. “Both of you, stop acting like you’re about to hit each other.” He looked at Kyle. “You should have told me you were a werewolf.”
“I didn’t notice you telling me you’re a vampire. Maybe I thought it was none of your business.”
Simon’s whole body jerked with surprise. “What?” He glanced down at the shattered glass and blood on the floor. “I didn’t—I don’t—”
“Don’t bother,” Jace said quietly. “He can sense you’re a vampire. Just like you’ll be able to sense werewolves and other Downworlders when you’ve had a bit more practice. He’s known what you are since he met you. Isn’t that true?” He met Kyle’s icy hazel eyes with his own. Kyle said nothing. “And that stuff he’s growing on the balcony, by the by? That’s wolfsbane. Now you know.”
Simon crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Kyle. “So what the hell is this? Some sort of setup? Why did you ask me to live with you? Werewolves hate vampires.”
“I don’t,” said Kyle. “I’m not too fond of their kind, though.” He jabbed a finger at Jace. “They think they’re better than everyone else.”
“No,” said Jace. “I think I’m better than everyone else. An opinion that has been backed up with ample evidence.”
Kyle looked at Simon. “Does he always talk like this?”
“Yes.”
“Does anything shut him up? Other than getting the crap beaten out of him, of course.”
Jace moved away from the window. “I would love for you to try.”
Simon stepped between them. “I’m not going to let you fight with each other.”
“And what are you going to do about it if . . . Oh.” Jace’s gaze trailed up to Simon’s forehead, and he grinned reluctantly. “So basically you’re threatening to turn me into something you can sprinkle on popcorn if I don’t do what you say?”
Kyle looked baffled. “What are you—”
“I just think you two should talk,” Simon interrupted. “So Kyle’s a werewolf. I’m a vampire. And you’re not exactly the boy next door either,” he added to Jace. “I say we figure out what’s going on and proceed from there.”
“Your trusting idiocy knows no bounds,” Jace said, but he sat down on the windowsill, crossing his arms. After a moment Kyle sat down too, on the futon couch. They both glared at each other. Still, Simon thought. Progress.
“Fine,” Kyle said. “I’m a werewolf. I’m not part of a pack, but I do have an alliance. Have you heard of the Praetor Lupus?”
“I’ve heard of lupus,” said Simon. “Isn’t it a kind of disease?”
Jace gave him a withering look. “‘Lupus’ means ‘wolf,’” he explained. “And the praetorians were an elite Roman military force. So I guess the translation is ‘Wolf Guardians.’” He shrugged. “I’ve run across mentions of them, but they’re a pretty secretive organization.”
“And the Shadowhunters aren’t?” said Kyle.
“We have good reasons.”
“So do we.” Kyle leaned forward. The muscles in his arms flexed as he propped his elbows on his knees. “There are two kinds of werewolves,” he explained. “The kind that are born werewolves, with werewolf parents, and the kind that get infected with lycanthropy through a bite.” Simon looked at him in surprise. He wouldn’t have thought Kyle, slacker-stoner bike messenger, would have known the word “lycanthropy,” much less how to pronounce it. But this was a very different Kyle—focused, intent, and direct. “For those of us who are turned by a bite, those first few years are key. The demon strain that causes lycanthropy causes a whole raft of other changes—waves of uncontrollable aggression, inability to control rage, suicidal anger and despair. The pack can help with that, but a lot of the newly infected aren’t lucky enough to fall in with a pack. They’re on their own, trying to deal with all this overwhelming stuff, and a lot of them turn violent—against others or against themselves. There’s a high suicide rate and a high rate of domestic violence.” He looked at Simon. “The same goes for vampires, except it can be even worse. An orphaned fledgling has literally no idea what’s happened to it. With no guidance, it doesn’t know how to feed safely, or even to stay out of sunlight. That’s where we come in.”
“And do what?” Simon asked.
“We track down ‘orphaned’ Downworlders—vampires and werewolves who’ve just been Turned and don’t know what they are yet. Sometimes even warlocks—some of them don’t realize what they are for years. We intervene, try to get them into a pack or a clan, try to help them control their powers.”
“Good Samaritans, aren’t you.” Jace’s eyes glittered.
“We are, actually.” Kyle sounded like he was trying to keep his voice neutral. “We intervene before the new Downworlder can get violent and hurt themselves or other people. I know what would have happened to me if it hadn’t been for the Guard. I’ve done bad things. Really bad.”
“How bad?” asked Jace. “Illegal bad?”
“Shut up, Jace,” said Simon. “You’re off duty, okay? Stop being a Shadowhunter for a second.” He turned to Kyle. “So how did you end up auditioning for my crappy band, then?”
“I didn’t realize you knew it was crappy.”
“Just answer the question.”
“We got a report of a new vampire—a Daylighter, living on his own, not with a clan. Your secret’s not as secret as you think. Fledgling vampires without a clan to help them can be very dangerous. I got dispatched to keep an eye on you.”
“So, what you’re saying,” said Simon, “is not just that you don’t want me to move out now that I know you’re a werewolf, but that you won’t let me move out?”
“Right,” said Kyle. “I mean, you can move out, but I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Jace. “I can keep a perfectly good eye on Simon, thank you. He’s my neophyte Downworlder to mock and boss around, not yours.”
“Shut up!” Simon yelled. “Both of you. Neither of you were around when someone tried to kill me earlier today—”
“I was,” said Jace. “You know, eventually.”
Kyle’s eyes shone, like a wolf’s eyes at night. “Someon
e tried to kill you? What happened?”
Simon’s gaze met Jace’s across the room. A silent agreement not to mention the Mark of Cain passed between them. “Two days ago, and today, I was followed and attacked by some guys in gray tracksuits.”
“Humans?”
“We’re not sure.”
“And you have no idea what they want with you?”
“They definitely want me dead,” said Simon. “Beyond that, I don’t really know, no.”
“We have some leads,” said Jace. “We’ll be investigating.”
Kyle shook his head. “Fine. Whatever it is you’re not telling me, I’ll find out eventually.” He got to his feet. “And now, I’m beat. I’m going to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said to Simon. “You,” he said to Jace, “well, I guess I’ll see you around. You’re the first Shadowhunter I’ve ever met.”
“That’s too bad,” said Jace, “since all the ones you meet from now on will be a terrible letdown.”
Kyle rolled his eyes and left, banging his bedroom door shut behind him.
Simon looked at Jace. “You’re not going back to the Institute,” he said, “are you?”
Jace shook his head. “You need protecting. Who knows when someone might try to kill you again?”
“This avoiding Clary thing of yours has truly taken an epic turn,” Simon said, standing up. “Are you ever going home?”
Jace looked at him. “Are you?”
Simon stalked into the kitchen, retrieved a broom, and swept up the broken glass from the smashed bottle. It had been his last. He dumped the shards into the trash and walked past Jace into his own small bedroom, where he stripped off his jacket and shoes and flung himself down onto the mattress.
A moment later Jace came into the room. He looked around, his light eyebrows raised, his expression a mask of amusement. “Quite a space you’ve got here. Minimalist. I like it.”
Simon rolled onto his side and stared at Jace in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re not actually planning on staying in my room.”
Jace perched on the windowsill and looked down at him. “You really don’t get this bodyguard thing, do you?”
“I didn’t even think you liked me all that much,” said Simon. “Is this one of those keep-your-friends-close-and-your-enemies-closer things?”
“I thought it was keep your friends close so you have someone to drive the car when you sneak over to your enemy’s house at night and throw up in his mailbox.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not it. And this protecting me thing is less touching than creepy, just so you know. I’m fine. You’ve seen what happens if someone tries to hurt me.”
“Yes, I have,” said Jace. “But eventually the person who’s trying to kill you is going to figure out about the Mark of Cain. And then they’re either going to give up or find some other way to come at you.” He leaned against the window frame. “And that’s why I’m here.”
Despite his exasperation Simon could find no holes in this argument, or at least not one big enough to bother with. He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his arms. Within minutes he was asleep.
He was walking through the desert, over burning sands, past bones whitening in the sun. He had never been so thirsty. When he swallowed, his mouth felt as if it were coated with sand, his throat lined with knives.
The sharp buzzing of his cell phone woke Simon. He rolled over and clawed tiredly at his jacket. By the time he’d pried the cell phone loose from the pocket, it had stopped ringing.
He turned it over and looked to see who had called. It was Luke.
Crap. I bet my mom called Clary’s house looking for me, he thought, sitting up. His brain was still fuzzy from sleep, and it took a moment for him to remember that when he had fallen asleep in this room, he hadn’t been alone.
He looked quickly toward the window. Jace was still there, but he was clearly asleep—sitting up, his head leaning against the window glass. Pale blue dawn light filtered past him. He looked very young like that, Simon thought. No mockery in his expression, no defensiveness or sarcasm. It was almost possible to imagine what Clary saw in him.
It was pretty clear he wasn’t taking his bodyguard duties all that seriously, but that had been obvious from the beginning. Simon wondered, not for the first time, what the hell was going on between Clary and Jace.
The phone started buzzing again. Propelling himself to his feet, Simon padded out into the living room, pressing the talk button just before the call went to voice mail again. “Luke?”
“Sorry to wake you up, Simon.” Luke was, as always, unfailingly polite.
“I was awake anyway,” Simon lied.
“I need you to meet me in Washington Square Park in half an hour,” said Luke. “At the fountain.”
Now Simon was seriously alarmed. “Is everything okay? Is Clary all right?”
“She’s fine. This isn’t about her.” There was a rumbling sound in the background. Simon guessed that Luke was starting up his truck. “Just meet me in the park. And don’t bring anyone with you.”
He clicked off.
The sound of Luke’s truck pulling out of the driveway woke Clary out of uneasy dreams. She sat up, and winced. The chain around her neck had gotten caught in her hair while she slept, and she drew it off over her head, carefully pulling it free of the tangles.
She dropped the ring into her palm, the chain pooling around it. The little silver circlet, stamped with its pattern of stars, seemed to wink up at her mockingly. She remembered when Jace had given it to her, wrapped in the note he’d left behind when he’d gone off to hunt down Jonathan. Despite everything, I can’t bear the thought of this ring being lost forever, any more than I can bear the thought of leaving you forever.
That had been almost two months ago. She had been sure that he loved her, so sure that the Queen of the Seelie Court had not been able to tempt her. How could there be anything else she wanted, when she had Jace?
But maybe you never really had someone, she thought now. Maybe, no matter how much you loved them, they could slip through your fingers like water, and there was nothing you could do about it. She understood why people talked about hearts “breaking”; she felt as if hers were made of cracked glass, and the shards were like tiny knives inside her chest when she breathed. Imagine your life without him, the Seelie Queen had said—
The phone rang, and for a moment Clary felt only relieved that something, anything, had cut through her misery. Her second thought was, Jace. Maybe he couldn’t reach her on her cell phone and was calling her house. She dropped the ring on her bedside table and reached to lift the receiver out of its cradle. She was about to voice a greeting when she realized that the phone had already been picked up, by her mother.
“Hello?” Her mother sounded anxious, and surprisingly awake for so early in the morning.
The voice that answered was unfamiliar, faintly accented. “This is Catarina from Beth Israel hospital. I’m looking for Jocelyn.”
Clary froze. The hospital? Had something happened, maybe to Luke? He had pulled out of the driveway awfully fast—
“This is Jocelyn.” Her mother didn’t sound frightened, but rather as if she’d expected the call. “Thank you for calling me back so soon.”
“Of course. I was glad to hear from you. You don’t often see people recover from a curse like the one you were suffering from.” Right, Clary thought. Her mother had been in Beth Israel, comatose from the effects of the potion she’d taken to prevent Valentine from interrogating her. “And any friend of Magnus Bane’s is a friend of mine.”
Jocelyn sounded strained. “Did my message make sense? You know what I was calling about?”
“You wanted to know about the child,” said the woman on the other end of the line. Clary knew she ought to hang up, but she couldn’t. What child? What was going on? “The one who was abandoned.”
There was a catch in Jocelyn’s voice. “Y-yes. I thought—”
“I’m sorry to say
this, but he’s dead. He died last night.”
For a moment Jocelyn was silent. Clary could feel her mother’s shock through the phone line. “Died? How?”
“I’m not sure I understand it myself. The priest came last night to baptize the child, and—”
“Oh, my God.” Jocelyn’s voice shook. “Can I—Could I please come down and look at the body?”
There was a long silence. Finally the nurse said, “I’m not sure about that. The body’s in the morgue now, awaiting transfer to the medical examiner’s office.”
“Catarina, I think I know what happened to the boy.” Jocelyn sounded breathless. “And if I could confirm it, maybe I could prevent it from happening again.”
“Jocelyn—”
“I’m coming down,” Clary’s mother said, and hung up the phone. Clary gazed blankly at the receiver for a moment before hanging up herself. She scrambled to her feet, ran a brush through her hair, tossed on jeans and a sweater, and was out her bedroom door just in time to catch her mother in the living room, scribbling a note on the pad of paper by the telephone. She looked up as Clary came in, and gave a guilty start.
“I was just running out,” she said. “A few last-minute wedding things have come up, and—”
“Don’t bother lying to me,” Clary said without preamble. “I was listening on the phone, and I know exactly where you’re going.”
Jocelyn paled. Slowly she set her pen down. “Clary—”
“You have to stop trying to protect me,” Clary said. “I bet you didn’t say anything to Luke, either, about calling the hospital.”
Jocelyn pushed her hair back nervously. “It seems unfair on him. With the wedding coming up and everything—”
“Right. The wedding. You’re having a wedding. And why is that? Because you’re getting married. Don’t you think it’s time you started trusting Luke? And trusting me?”
“I do trust you,” Jocelyn said softly.
“In that case you won’t mind me coming with you to the hospital.”
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 139
