“If you know so much,” said Jocelyn, as Isabelle’s hand crept to the ruby at her neck, “then do you know why we are here? Why we have come to you?”
Sister Cleophas’s eyelids lowered and she smiled slowly. “Unlike our speechless brethren, we cannot read minds here in the Fortress. Therefore we rely upon a network of information, most of it very reliable. I assume this visit has something to do with the situation involving Jace Lightwood—as his sister is here—and your son, Jonathan Morgenstern.”
“We have a conundrum,” said Jocelyn. “Jonathan Morgenstern plots against the Clave, like his father. The Clave has issued a death warrant against him. But Jace—Jonathan Lightwood—is very much loved by his family, who have done no wrong, and by my daughter. The conundrum is that Jace and Jonathan are bound, by very ancient blood magic.”
“Blood magic? What sort of blood magic?”
Jocelyn took Magnus’s folded notes from the pocket of her gear and handed them over. Cleophas studied them with her intent fiery gaze. Isabelle saw with a start that the fingers of her hands were very long—not elegantly long but grotesquely so, as if the bones had been stretched so that each hand resembled an albino spider. Her nails were filed to points, each tipped with electrum.
She shook her head. “The Sisters have little to do with blood magic.” The flame color of her eyes seemed to leap and then dim, and a moment later another shadow appeared behind the frosted-glass surface of the adamas wall. This time Isabelle watched more closely as a second Iron Sister stepped through. It was like watching someone emerge from a haze of white smoke.
“Sister Dolores,” said Cleophas, handing Magnus’s notes to the new arrival. She looked much like Cleophas—the same tall narrow form, the same white dress, the same long hair, though in this case her hair was gray, and bound at the ends of her two braids with gold wire. Despite her gray hair, her face was lineless, her fire-colored eyes bright. “Can you make sense of this?”
Dolores glanced over the pages briefly. “A twinning spell,” she said. “Much like our own parabatai ceremony, but its alliance is demonic.”
“What makes it demonic?” Isabelle demanded. “If the parabatai spell is harmless—”
“Is it?” said Cleophas, but Dolores shot her a quelling look.
“The parabatai ritual binds two individuals but leaves their wills free,” Dolores explained. “This binds two but makes one subordinate to the other. What the primary of the two believes, the other will believe; what the first one wants, the second will want. It essentially removes the free will of the secondary partner in the spell, and that is why it is demonic. For free will is what makes us Heaven’s creatures.”
“It also seems to mean that when one is wounded, the other is wounded,” said Jocelyn. “Might we presume the same about death?”
“Yes. Neither will survive the death of the other. This again is not part of our parabatai ritual, for it is too cruel.”
“Our question to you is this,” said Jocelyn. “Is there any weapon forged, or that you might create, that could harm one but not the other? Or that might cut them apart?
Sister Dolores looked down at the notes, then handed them to Jocelyn. Her hands, like those of her colleague, were long and thin and as white as floss. “No weapon we have forged or could ever forge might do that.”
Isabelle’s hand tightened at her side, her nails cutting into her palm. “You mean there’s nothing?”
“Nothing in this world,” said Dolores. “A blade of Heaven or Hell might do it. The sword of the Archangel Michael, that Joshua fought with at Jericho, for it is infused with heavenly fire. And there are blades forged in the blackness of the Pit that might aid you, though how one might be obtained, I do not know.”
“And we would be prevented from telling you by the Law if we did know,” said Cleophas with asperity. “You understand, of course, that we will also have to tell the Clave about this visit of yours—”
“What about Joshua’s sword?” interrupted Isabelle. “Can you get that? Or can we?”
“Only an angel can gift you that sword,” said Dolores. “And to summon an angel is to be blasted with heavenly fire.”
“But Raziel—,” Isabelle began.
Cleophas’s lips thinned into a straight line. “Raziel left us the Mortal Instruments that he might be called upon in a time of direst need. That one chance was wasted when Valentine summoned him. We shall never be able to compel his might again. It was a crime to use the Instruments in that manner. The only reason that Clarissa Morgenstern escapes culpability is that it was her father who summoned him, not herself.”
“My husband also summoned another angel,” said Jocelyn. Her voice was quiet. “The angel Ithuriel. He kept him imprisoned for many years.”
Both Sisters hesitated before Dolores spoke. “It is the bleakest of crimes to entrap an angel,” she said. “The Clave could never approve it. Even if you could summon one, you could never force it to do your bidding. There is no spell for that. You could never get an angel to give you the archangel’s sword; you can take by force from an angel, but there is no greater crime. Better that your Jonathan die than that an angel be so besmirched.”
At that, Isabelle, whose temper had been rising, exploded. “That’s the problem with you—all of you, the Iron Sisters and the Silent Brothers. Whatever they do to change you from Shadowhunters to what you are, it takes all the feelings out of you. We might be part angel, but we’re part human, too. You don’t understand love, or the things people do for love, or family—”
The flame leaped in Dolores’s orange eyes. “I had a family,” she said. “A husband and children, all murdered by demons. There was nothing left to me. I had always had a skill with shaping things with my hands, so I became an Iron Sister. The peace it has brought me is peace I think I would never have found elsewhere. It is for that reason I chose the name Dolores, “sorrow.” So do not presume to tell us what we do or do not know about pain, or humanity.”
“You don’t know anything,” Isabelle snapped. “You’re as hard as demon-stone. No wonder you surround yourselves with it.”
“Fire tempers gold, Isabelle Lightwood,” said Cleophas.
“Oh, shut up,” Isabelle said. “You’ve been very unhelpful, both of you.”
She turned on the heel of her boot, spun away, and stalked back across the bridge, barely taking note of where the knives turned the path into a death trap, letting her body’s training guide her. She reached the other side and strode through the gates; only when she was outside them did she break down. Kneeling among the moss and volcanic rocks, under the great gray sky, she let herself shake silently, though no tears came.
It seemed ages before she heard a soft step beside her, and Jocelyn knelt and put her arms around her. Oddly, Isabelle found that she didn’t mind. Though she had never much liked Jocelyn, there was something so universally motherly in her touch that Isabelle leaned into it, almost against her own will.
“Do you want to know what they said, after you left?” Jocelyn asked, after Isabelle’s trembling had slowed.
“I’m sure something about how I’m a disgrace to Shadowhunters everywhere, et cetera.”
“Actually, Cleophas said you’d make an excellent Iron Sister, and if you were ever interested to let them know.” Jocelyn’s hand stroked her hair lightly.
Despite everything, Isabelle choked back a laugh. She looked up at Jocelyn. “Tell me,” she said.
Jocelyn’s hand stop moving. “Tell you what?”
“Who it was. That my father had the affair with. You don’t understand. Every time I see a woman my mother’s age, I wonder if it was her. Luke’s sister. The Consul. You—”
Jocelyn sighed. “It was Annamarie Highsmith. She died in Valentine’s attack on Alicante. I doubt you ever knew her.”
Isabelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I’ve never even heard her name before.”
“Good.” Jocelyn tucked a lock of Isabelle’s hair back. “Do you feel any be
tter, now that you know?”
“Sure,” Isabelle lied, staring down at the ground. “I feel a lot better.”
After lunch Clary had returned to the downstairs bedroom with the excuse that she was exhausted. With the door firmly closed she had tried contacting Simon again, though she realized, given the time difference between where she was now—Italy—and New York, there was every chance he was asleep. At least she prayed he was asleep. It was far preferable to hope for that than to consider the possibility that the rings might not work.
She had been in the bedroom for only about half an hour when a knock sounded at the door. She called, “Come in,” moving to lean back on her hands, her fingers curled in as if she could hide the ring.
The door swung open slowly, and Jace looked down at her from the doorway. She remembered another night, summer heat, a knock on her door. Jace. Clean, in jeans and a gray shirt, his washed hair a halo of damp gold. The bruises on his face were already fading from purple to faint gray, and his hands were behind his back.
“Hey,” he said. His hands were in plain sight now, and he was wearing a soft-looking sweater the color of bronze that brought out the gold in his eyes. There were no bruises on his face, and the shadows she had almost grown used to seeing under his eyes were gone.
Is he happy like this? Really happy? And if he is, what are you saving him from?
Clary pushed away the tiny voice in her head and forced a smile. “What’s up?”
He grinned. It was a wicked grin, the kind that made the blood in Clary’s veins run a little faster. “You want to go on a date?”
Caught off guard, she stammered. “A wh-what?”
“A date,” Jace repeated. “Often ‘a boring thing you have to memorize in history class,’ but in this case, ‘an offer of an evening of blisteringly white-hot romance with yours truly.’”
“Really?” Clary was not sure what to make of this. “Blisteringly white-hot?”
“It’s me,” said Jace. “Watching me play Scrabble is enough to make most women swoon. Imagine if I actually put in some effort.”
Clary sat up and looked down at herself. Jeans, silky green top. She thought about the cosmetics in that odd shrine-like bedroom. She couldn’t help it; she was wishing for a little lip gloss.
Jace held his hand out. “You look gorgeous,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “I don’t know . . .”
“Come on.” His voice had that self-mocking, seductive tone she remembered from when they had first been getting to know each other, when he’d brought her up to the greenhouse to show her the flower that bloomed at midnight. “We’re in Italy. Venice. One of the most beautiful cities in the world. Shame not to see it, don’t you think?”
Jace pulled her forward, so she fell against his chest. The material of his shirt was soft under her fingers, and he smelled like his familiar soap and shampoo. Her heart took a sweeping dive inside her chest. “Or we could stay in,” he said, sounding a little breathless.
“So I can swoon watching you make a triple-word score?” With an effort she pulled back from him. “And spare me the jokes about scoring.”
“Dammit, woman, you read my mind,” he said. “Is there no filthy wordplay you can’t foresee?”
“It’s my special magical power. I can read your mind when you’re thinking dirty thoughts.”
“So, ninety-five percent of the time.”
She craned her head back to look up at him. “Ninety-five percent? What’s the other five percent?”
“Oh, you know, the usual—demons I might kill, runes I need to learn, people who’ve annoyed me recently, people who’ve annoyed me not so recently, ducks.”
“Ducks?”
He waved her question away. “All right. Now watch this.” He took her shoulders and turned her gently, so they were both facing the same way. A moment later—she wasn’t sure how—the walls of the room seemed to melt away around them, and she found herself stepping out onto cobblestones. She gasped, turning to look behind her, and saw only a blank wall, windows high up in an old stone building. Rows of similar houses lined the canal they stood beside. If she craned her head to the left, she could see in the distance that the canal opened out into a much larger waterway, lined with grand buildings. Everywhere was the smell of water and stone.
“Cool, huh?” Jace said proudly.
She turned and looked at him. “Ducks?” she said again.
A smile tugged the edge of his mouth. “I hate ducks. Don’t know why. I just always have.”
It was early morning when Maia and Jordan arrived at Praetor House, the headquarters of the Praetor Lupus. The truck clanked and bumped over the long white drive that swept through manicured lawns to the massive house that rose like the prow of a ship in the distance. Behind it Maia could see strips of trees, and behind that, the blue water of the Sound some distance away.
“This is where you did your training?” she demanded. “This place is gorgeous.”
“Don’t be fooled,” Jordan said with a smile. “This place is boot camp, emphasis on the ‘boot.’”
She looked sideways at him. He was still smiling. He had been, pretty much nonstop, since she’d kissed him down by the beach at dawn. Part of Maia felt as if a hand had lifted her up and dropped her back into her past, when she’d loved Jordan beyond anything she’d ever imagined, and part of her felt totally adrift, as if she’d woken up in a completely foreign landscape, far from the familiarity of her everyday life and the warmth of the pack.
It was very peculiar. Not bad, she thought. Just . . . peculiar.
Jordan came to a stop at a circular drive in front of the house, which, up close, Maia could see was built of blocks of golden stone, the tawny color of a wolf pelt. Black double doors were set at the top of a massive stone staircase. In the center of the circular drive was a massive sundial, its raised face telling her that it was seven in the morning. Around the edge of the sundial, words were carved: I ONLY MARK THE HOURS THAT SHINE.
She unlocked her door and jumped down from the cab just as the doors of the house opened and a voice rang out: “Praetor Kyle!”
Jordan and Maia both looked up. Descending the stairs was a middle-aged man in a charcoal suit, his blond hair streaked with gray. Jordan, smoothing all expression from his face, turned to him. “Praetor Scott,” he said. “This is Maia Roberts, of the Garroway pack. Maia, this is Praetor Scott. He runs the Praetor Lupus, pretty much.”
“Since the 1800s the Scotts have always run the Praetor,” said the man, glancing at Maia, who inclined her head, a sign of submission. “Jordan, I have to admit, we did not expect you back again so soon. The situation with the vampire in Manhattan, the Daylighter—”
“Is in hand,” Jordan said hastily. “That’s not why we’re here. This concerns something quite different.”
Praetor Scott raised his eyebrows. “Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“It’s a matter of some urgency,” said Maia. “Luke Garroway, our pack’s leader—”
Praetor Scott gave her a sharp look, silencing her. Though he might have been packless, he was an alpha, that much was clear from his bearing. His eyes, under his thick eyebrows, were green-gray; around his throat, under the collar of his shirt, sparkled the bronze pendant of the Praetor, with its imprint of a wolf’s paw. “The Praetor chooses what matters it will regard as urgent,” he said. “Nor are we a hotel, open to uninvited guests. Jordan took a chance in bringing you here, and he knows that. If he were not one of our most promising graduates, I might well send you both away.”
Jordan hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and looked at the ground. A moment later Praetor Scott set his hand on Jordan’s shoulder.
“But,” he said, “you are one of our most promising graduates. And you look exhausted; I can see you were up all night. Come, and we’ll discuss this in my office.”
The office turned out to be down a long and winding hallway, elegant
ly paneled in dark wood. The house was lively with the sound of voices, and a sign saying HOUSE RULES was pinned to the wall beside a staircase leading up.
HOUSE RULES
No shape-shifting in the hallways.
No howling.
No silver.
Clothes must be worn at all times. ALL TIMES.
No fighting. No biting.
Mark all your food before you put it in the communal refrigerator.
The smell of cooking breakfast wafted through the air, making Maia’s stomach grumble. Praetor Scott sounded amused. “I’ll have someone make us up a plate of snacks if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks,” Maia muttered. They had reached the end of a hallway, and Praetor Scott opened a door marked OFFICE.
The older werewolf’s eyebrows drew together. “Rufus,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Maia peered past him. The office was a large room, comfortably messy. There was a rectangular picture window that gave out onto wide lawns, on which groups of mostly young people were executing what looked like drill maneuvers, wearing black warm-up pants and tops. The walls of the room were lined with books about lycanthropy, many in Latin, but Maia recognized the word “lupus.” The desk was a slab of marble set upon the statues of two snarling wolves.
In front of it were two chairs. In one of them sat a large man—a werewolf—hunched over, his hands gripped together. “Praetor,” he said in a grating voice. “I had hoped to speak with you regarding the incident in Boston.”
“The one in which you broke your assigned charge’s leg?” the Praetor said dryly. “I will be speaking to you about it, Rufus, but not this moment. Something more pressing calls me.”
“But, Praetor—”
“That will be all, Rufus,” said Scott in the ringing tone of an alpha wolf whose orders were not to be challenged. “Remember, this is a place of rehabilitation. Part of that is learning to respect authority.”
Muttering under his breath, Rufus rose from the chair. Only when he stood up did Maia realize, and react to, his enormous size. He towered over both her and Jordan, his black T-shirt straining over his chest, the sleeves about to split around his biceps. His head was closely shaved, his face scored with deep claw marks all across one cheek, like furrows dug in soil. He gave her a sour look as he stalked past them and out into the hall.
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 180
