Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  “Ours is stronger than that,” Clary whispered, remembering how she had brought him back. And this time, when his eyes darkened, she reached up and drew him down to her mouth.

  They kissed for a long time, until most of the light had bled out of the room and they were just shadows. Jace didn’t move his hands or try to touch her, though, and she sensed he was waiting for permission.

  She realized she would have to be the one to take it further, if she wanted to—and she did want to. He’d admitted something was wrong and that it had nothing to do with her. This was progress: positive progress. He ought to be rewarded, right? A little grin crooked the edge of her mouth. Who was she kidding; she wanted more on her own behalf. Because he was Jace, because she loved him, because he was so gorgeous that sometimes she felt the need to poke him in the arm just to make sure he was real.

  She did just that.

  “Ow,” he said. “What was that for?”

  “Take your shirt off,” she whispered. She reached for the hem of it but he was already there, lifting it over his head and tossing it casually to the floor. He shook his hair out, and she almost expected the bright gold strands to scatter sparks in the darkness of the room.

  “Sit up,” she said softly. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t usually take the lead in these sort of situations, but he didn’t seem to mind. He sat up slowly, pulling her up with him, until they were both sitting among the welter of blankets. She crawled into his lap, straddling his hips. Now they were face-to-face. She heard him suck his breath in and he raised his hands, reaching for her shirt, but she pushed them back down again, gently, to his sides, and put her own hands on him instead. She watched her fingers slide over his chest and arms, the swell of his biceps where the black Marks twined, the star-shaped mark on his shoulder. She traced her index finger down the line between his pectoral muscles, across his flat washboard stomach. They were both breathing hard when she reached the buckle on his jeans, but he didn’t move, just looked at her with an expression that said: Whatever you want.

  Her heart thudding, she dropped her hands to the hem of her own shirt and pulled it off over her head. She wished she’d worn a more exciting bra—this one was plain white cotton—but when she looked up again at Jace’s expression, the thought evaporated. His lips were parted, his eyes nearly black; she could see herself reflected in them and knew he didn’t care if her bra was white or black or neon green. All he was seeing was her.

  She reached for his hands, then, freeing them, and put them on her waist, as if to say, You can touch me now. He tilted his head up, her mouth came down over his, and they were kissing again, but it was fierce instead of languorous, a hot and fast-burning fire. His hands were feverish: in her hair, on her body, pulling her down so that she lay under him, and as their bare skin slid together she was acutely conscious that there really was nothing between them but his jeans and her bra and panties. She tangled her hands in his silky, disheveled hair, holding his head as he kissed down her throat. How far are we going? What are we doing? a small part of her brain was asking, but the rest of her mind was screaming at that small part to shut up. She wanted to keep touching him, kissing him; she wanted him to hold her and to know that he was real, here with her, and that he would never leave again.

  His fingers found the clasp of her bra. She tensed. His eyes were large and luminous in the darkness, his smile slow. “Is this all right?”

  She nodded. Her breath was coming fast. No one in her entire life had ever seen her topless—no boy, anyway. As if sensing her nervousness, he cupped her face gently with one hand, his lips teasing hers, brushing gently across them until her whole body felt as if it were shattering with tension. His long-fingered, callused right hand stroked along her cheek, then her shoulder, soothing her. She was still on edge, though, waiting for his other hand to move back to her bra clasp, to touch her again, but he seemed to be reaching for something behind him—What was he doing?

  Clary thought suddenly of what Isabelle had said about being careful. Oh, she thought. She stiffened a little and drew back. “Jace, I’m not sure I—”

  There was a flash of silver in the darkness, and something cold and sharp lanced across the side of her arm. All she felt for a moment was surprise—then pain. She drew her hands back, blinking, and saw a line of dark blood beading on her skin where a shallow cut ran from her elbow to her wrist. “Ouch,” she said, more in annoyance and surprise than hurt. “What—”

  Jace launched himself off her, off the bed, in a single motion. Suddenly he was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless, his face as white as bone.

  Hand clasped across her injured arm, Clary started to sit up. “Jace, what—”

  She broke off. In his left hand he was clutching a knife—the silver-handled knife she had seen in the box that had belonged to his father. There was a thin smear of blood across the blade.

  She looked down at her hand, and then up again, at him. “I don’t understand. . . .”

  He opened his hand, and the knife clattered to the floor. For a moment he looked as if he might run again, the way he had outside the bar. Then he sank to the ground and put his head in his hands.

  “I like her,” said Camille as the doors shut behind Isabelle. “She rather reminds me of me.”

  Simon turned to look at her. It was very dim in the Sanctuary, but he could see her clearly, her back against the pillar, her hands bound behind her. There was a Shadowhunter guard stationed near the doors to the Institute, but either he hadn’t heard Camille or he wasn’t interested.

  Simon moved a bit closer to Camille. The bonds that constrained her held an odd fascination for him. Blessed metal. The chain seemed to gleam softly against her pale skin, and he thought he could see a few threads of blood seeping around the manacles at her wrists. “She isn’t at all like you.”

  “So you think.” Camille tilted her head to the side; her blond hair seemed artfully arranged around her face, though he knew she couldn’t have touched it. “You love them so,” she said, “your Shadowhunter friends. As the falcon loves the master who binds and blinds it.”

  “Things aren’t like that,” Simon said. “Shadowhunters and Downworlders aren’t enemies.”

  “You can’t even go with them into their home,” she said. “You are shut out. Yet so eager to serve them. You would stand on their side against your own kind.”

  “I have no kind,” Simon said. “I’m not one of them. But I’m not one of you, either. And I’d rather be like them than like you.”

  “You are one of us.” She moved impatiently, rattling her chains, and gave a little gasp of pain. “There is something I didn’t say to you, back at the bank. But it is true.” She smiled tightly through the pain. “I can smell human blood on you. You fed recently. On a mundane.”

  Simon felt something inside him jump. “I . . .”

  “It was wonderful, wasn’t it?” Her red lips curved. “The first time since you’ve been a vampire that you haven’t been hungry.”

  “No,” Simon said.

  “You’re lying.” There was conviction in her voice. “They try to make us fight against our natures, the Nephilim. They will accept us only if we pretend to be other than we are—not hunters, not predators. Your friends will never accept what you are, only what you pretend to be. What you do for them, they would never do for you.”

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering with this,” said Simon. “What’s done is done. I’m not going to let you go. I made my choice. I don’t want what you offered me.”

  “Maybe not now,” Camille said softly. “But you will. You will.”

  The Shadowhunter guard stepped back as the door opened, and Maryse came into the room. She was followed by two figures immediately familiar to Simon: Isabelle’s brother Alec, and his boyfriend, the warlock Magnus Bane.

  Alec was dressed in a sober black suit; Magnus, to Simon’s surprise, was similarly dressed, with the addition of a long white silk scarf with tasseled ends and a pair of
white gloves. His hair stood up like it always did, but for a change he was devoid of glitter. Camille, upon seeing him, went very still.

  Magnus didn’t seem to see her yet; he was listening to Maryse, who was saying, rather awkwardly, that it was good of them to come so quickly. “We really didn’t expect you until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

  Alec made a muffled noise of annoyance and gazed off into space. He seemed as if he wasn’t happy to be there at all. Beyond that, Simon thought, he looked much the same as he always had—same black hair, same steady blue eyes—although there was something more relaxed about him than there had been before, as if he had grown into himself somehow.

  “Fortunately there’s a Portal located near the Vienna Opera House,” Magnus said, flinging his scarf back over his shoulder with a grand gesture. “The moment we got your message, we hurried to be here.”

  “I still really don’t see what any of this has to do with us,” Alec said. “So you caught a vampire who was up to something nasty. Aren’t they always?”

  Simon felt his stomach turn. He looked toward Camille to see if she was laughing at him, but her gaze was fixed on Magnus.

  Alec, looking at Simon for the first time, flushed. It was always very noticeable on him because his skin was so pale. “Sorry, Simon. I didn’t mean you. You’re different.”

  Would you think that if you had seen me last night, feeding on a fourteen-year-old girl? Simon thought. He didn’t say that, though, just dropped Alec a nod.

  “She is of interest in our current investigation into the deaths of three Shadowhunters,” said Maryse. “We need information from her, and she will only talk to Magnus Bane.”

  “Really?” Alec looked at Camille with puzzled interest. “Only to Magnus?”

  Magnus followed his gaze, and for the first time—or so it seemed to Simon—looked at Camille directly. Something crackled between them, a sort of energy. Magnus’s mouth quirked up at the corners into a wistful smile.

  “Yes,” Maryse said, a look of puzzlement passing over her face as she caught the look between the warlock and the vampire. “That is, if Magnus is willing.”

  “I am,” Magnus said, drawing off his gloves. “I’ll talk to Camille for you.”

  “Camille?” Alec looked at Magnus with his eyebrows raised. “You know her, then? Or—she knows you?”

  “We know each other.” Magnus shrugged, very slightly, as if to say, What can you do? “Once upon a time she was my girlfriend.”

  13

  GIRL FOUND DEAD

  “Your girlfriend?” Alec looked astonished. So did Maryse. Simon couldn’t say he was unastonished himself. “You dated a vampire? A girl vampire?”

  “It was a hundred and thirty years ago,” said Magnus. “I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Alec demanded.

  Magnus sighed. “Alexander, I’ve been alive for hundreds of years. I’ve been with men, been with women—with faeries and warlocks and vampires, and even a djinn or two.” He looked sideways at Maryse, who looked mildly horrified. “Too much information?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, though she sounded a little wan. “I have to discuss something with Kadir for a moment. I’ll be back.” She stepped aside, joining Kadir; they disappeared through the doorway. Simon took a few steps back as well, pretending to study one of the stained-glass windows intently, but his vampire hearing was good enough that he could hear everything Magnus and Alec were saying to each other, whether he wanted to or not. Camille, he knew, could hear it too. She had her head cocked to the side as she listened, her eyes heavy-lidded and thoughtful.

  “How many other people?” Alec asked. “Roughly.”

  Magnus shook his head. “I can’t count, and it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how I feel about you.”

  “More than a hundred?” Alec asked. Magnus looked blank. “Two hundred?”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now,” Magnus said, to no one in particular. Simon was inclined to agree, and wished they weren’t having it in front of him.

  “Why so many?” Alec’s blue eyes were very bright in the dimness. Simon couldn’t tell if he was angry. He didn’t sound angry, just very intense, but Alec was a shut-down person, and perhaps this was as angry as he ever got. “Do you get bored with people fast?”

  “I live forever,” Magnus said quietly. “But not everyone does.”

  Alec looked as if someone had hit him. “So you just stay with them as long as they live, and then you find someone else?”

  Magnus didn’t say anything. He looked at Alec, his eyes shining like a cat’s. “Would you rather I spent all of eternity alone?”

  Alec’s mouth twitched. “I’m going to find Isabelle,” he said, and without another word he turned and walked back into the Institute.

  Magnus watched him go with sad eyes. Not a human sort of sad, Simon thought. His eyes seemed to contain the sadness of great ages, as if the sharp edges of human sadness had been worn down to something softer by the passing of years, the way sea water wore away the sharp edges of glass.

  As if he could tell Simon was thinking about him, Magnus looked at him sideways. “Eavesdropping, vampire?”

  “I really don’t love it when people call me that,” Simon said. “I have a name.”

  “I suppose I’d better remember it. After all, in a hundred, two hundred, years, it’ll be just you and me.” Magnus regarded Simon thoughtfully. “We’ll be all that’s left.”

  The thought made Simon feel as if he were in an elevator that had suddenly broken free of its moorings and started plunging toward the ground, a thousand stories down. The thought had passed through his mind before, of course, but he had always pushed it away. The thought that he would stay sixteen while Clary got older, Jace got older, everyone he knew got older, grew up, had children, and nothing ever changed for him was too enormous and horrible to contemplate.

  Being sixteen forever sounded good until you really thought about it. Then it didn’t seem like such a great prospect anymore.

  Magnus’s cat eyes were a clear gold-green. “Staring eternity in the face,” he said. “Not so much fun, is it?”

  Before Simon could reply, Maryse had returned. “Where’s Alec?” she asked, looking around in puzzlement.

  “He went to see Isabelle,” said Simon, before Magnus had to say anything.

  “Very well.” Maryse smoothed the front of her jacket down, though it wasn’t wrinkled. “If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “I’ll talk to Camille,” said Magnus. “But I want to do it alone. If you’d like to wait for me in the Institute, I’ll join you there when I’m finished.”

  Maryse hesitated. “You know what to ask her?”

  Magnus’s gaze was unwavering. “I know how to talk to her, yes. If she is willing to say anything, she’ll say it to me.”

  Both of them seemed to have forgotten that Simon was there. “Should I go too?” he asked, interrupting their staring contest.

  Maryse looked at him, half-distracted. “Oh, yes. Thank you for your help, Simon, but you’re no longer needed. Go home if you like.”

  Magnus said nothing at all. With a shrug Simon turned and went toward the door that led to the vestry and the exit that would take him outside. At the door he paused and looked back. Maryse and Magnus were still talking, though the guard was already holding open the Institute door, ready to leave. Only Camille seemed to remember that Simon was there at all. She was smiling at him from her pillar, her lips curved up at the corners, her eyes shining like a promise.

  Simon went out, and closed the door behind him.

  “It happens every night.” Jace was sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up, his hands dangling between his knees. He had put the knife on the bed next to Clary; she kept one hand on it while he talked—more to reassure him than because she needed it to defend herself. All the energy seemed to have drained out of Jace; even his voice sounded empty and far away while he t
alked, as if he were speaking to her from a great distance. “I dream that you come into my room and we . . . start doing what we were just doing. And then I hurt you. I cut you or strangle or stab you, and you die, looking up at me with those green eyes of yours while your life bleeds away between my hands.”

  “They’re only dreams,” Clary said gently.

  “You just saw that they aren’t,” said Jace. “I was wide awake when I picked up that knife.”

  Clary knew he was right. “Are you worried that you’re going crazy?”

  He shook his head slowly. Hair fell into his eyes; he pushed it back. His hair had gotten a little too long; he hadn’t cut it in a while, and Clary wondered if it was because he couldn’t be bothered. How could she not have paid more attention to the shadows under his eyes, the bitten nails, the drawn exhausted look of him? She had been so concerned about whether he still loved her that she had not thought about anything else. “I’m not so worried about that, really,” he said. “I’m worried about hurting you. I’m worried that whatever poison it is that’s eating its way into my dreams will bleed through into my waking life and I’ll . . .” His throat seemed to close up.

  “You would never hurt me.”

  “I had that knife in my hand, Clary.” He looked up at her, and then away. “If I hurt you . . .” His voice trailed off. “Shadowhunters die young, a lot of the time,” he said. “We all know that. And you wanted to be a Shadowhunter, and I would never stop you because it isn’t my job to tell you what to do with your life. Especially when I’m taking the same kind of risks. What kind of person would I be if I told you it was all right for me to risk my life, but not for you? So I’ve thought about what it would be like for me if you died. I bet you’ve thought about the same thing.”