City of Bones mi-1

by Cassandra Clare

  Clary glanced back and saw a cluster of vampires standing on the roof of the hotel, surrounded by wolves. She looked away—if she never saw that hotel again, it'd be too soon.

  Jace was yelling, loud whooping shrieks of delight and relief. Clary leaned forward, her arms tight around him. "My mother always told me if I rode a motorcycle with a boy, she'd kill me," she called over the noise of the wind whipping past her ears and the deafening rumble of the engine.

  She couldn't hear him laugh, but she felt his body shake. "She wouldn't say that if she knew me," he called back to her confidently. "I'm an excellent driver."

  Belatedly, Clary recollected something. "I thought you guys said only some of the vampire bikes could fly?"

  Deftly, Jace steered them around a stoplight in the process of turning from red to green. Below, Clary could hear cars honking, ambulance sirens wailing, and buses puffing to their stops, but she didn't dare look down. "Only some of them can!"

  "How did you know this was one of them?"

  "I didn't!" he shouted gleefully, and did something that made the bike rise almost vertically into the air. Clary shrieked and grabbed for his belt again.

  "You should look down!" Jace shouted. "It's awesome!"

  Sheer curiosity forced its way past terror and vertigo. Swallowing hard, Clary opened her eyes.

  They were higher than she had realized, and for a moment the earth swung dizzily beneath her, a blurring landscape of shadow and light. They were flying east, away from the park, toward the highway that snaked along the right bank of the city.

  There was a numbness in Clary's hands, a hard pressure in her chest. It was lovely, she could see that: the city rising up beside her like a towering forest of silver and glass, the dull gray shimmer of the East River, slicing between Manhattan and the boroughs like a scar. The wind was cool in her hair, on her skin, delicious after so many days of heat and stickiness. Still, she'd never flown, not even in an airplane, and the vast empty space between them and the ground terrified her. She couldn't keep from squinching her eyes almost shut as they shot out over the river. Just below the Queensboro Bridge, Jace turned the bike south and headed to the foot of the island. The sky had begun to lighten, and in the distance Clary could see the glittering arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, and beyond that, a smudge on the horizon, the Statue of Liberty.

  "Are you all right?" Jace shouted.

  Clary said nothing, just clutched him more tightly. He banked the cycle, and then they were sailing toward the bridge, and Clary could see stars through the suspension cables. An early morning train was rattling over it—the Q, carrying a load of sleepy dawn commuters. She thought how often she'd been on that train. A wave of vertigo swamped her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, gasping with nausea.

  "Clary?" Jace called. "Clary, are you all right?"

  She shook her head, eyes still shut, alone in the dark and the tearing wind with just the pounding of her heart. Something sharp scratched against her chest. She ignored it until it came again, more insistent. Barely opening an eye, she saw that it was Simon, his head poking out of her pocket, tugging her jacket with an urgent paw. "It's all right, Simon," she said with an effort, not looking down. "It was just the bridge—"

  He scratched her again, then pointed an urgent paw toward the waterfront of Brooklyn, rising up on their left. Dizzy and sick, she looked and saw, beyond the outlines of the warehouses and factories, a sliver of golden sunrise just visible, like the edge of a pale gilt coin. "Yes, very pretty," Clary said, closing her eyes again. "Nice sunrise."

  Jace went rigid all over, as if he'd been shot. "Sunrise?" he yelled, then jerked the cycle savagely to the right. Clary's eyes flew open as they plunged toward the water, which had begun to shimmer with the blue of oncoming dawn.

  Clary leaned as close to Jace as she could get without squashing Simon between them. "What's so bad about sunrise?"

  "I told you! The bike runs on demon energies!" He pulled back so that they were level with the river, just skimming along the surface with the wheels kicking up spray. River water splashed into Clary's face. "As soon as the sun comes up—"

  The bike began to sputter. Jace swore colorfully, slamming his fist into the accelerator. The bike lunged forward once, then choked, jerking under them like a bucking horse. Jace was still swearing as the sun peeked over the crumbling wharves of Brooklyn, lighting the world with devastating clarity. Clary could see every rock, every pebble under them as they cleared the river and hurtled over the narrow bank. Below them was the highway, already streaming with early traffic. They only just cleared it, the wheels grazing the roof of a passing truck. Beyond was the trash-strewn parking lot of an enormous supermarket. "Hang on to me!" Jace was shouting, as the bike jerked and sputtered underneath them. "Hang on to me, Clary, and do not let—"

  The bike tilted and struck the asphalt of the parking lot, front wheel first. It shot forward, wobbling violently, and went into a long skid, bouncing and slamming over the uneven ground, whipping Clary's head back and forth with neck-cracking force. The air stank of burned rubber. But the bike was slowing, skidding to a halt—and then it struck a concrete parking barrier with such force that she was lifted into the air and hurled sideways, her hand tearing free of Jace's belt. She barely had time to curl herself into a protective ball, holding her arms as rigid as possible and praying Simon wouldn't be crushed, when they struck the ground.

  She hit hard, agony screaming up her arm. Something splashed up in her face, and she was coughing as she flipped over, rolling onto her back. She grabbed for her pocket. It was empty. She tried to say Simon's name, but the breath had been knocked out of her. She wheezed as she gasped in air. Her face was wet and dampness was running down into her collar.

  Is that blood? She opened her eyes hazily. Her face felt like one big bruise, her arms, aching and stinging, like raw meat. She had rolled onto her side and was lying half-in and half-out of a puddle of filthy water. Dawn had truly come—she could see the remains of the bike, subsiding into a heap of unrecognizable ash as the sun's rays struck it.

  And there was Jace, getting painfully to his feet. He started to hurry toward her, then slowed as he approached. The sleeve of his shirt had been torn away and there was a long bloody graze along his left arm. His face, under the cap of dark gold curls matted with sweat, dust, and blood, was white as a sheet. She wondered why he looked like that. Was her torn-off leg lying across the parking lot somewhere in a pool of blood?

  She started to struggle up and felt a hand on her shoulder. "Clary?"

  "Simon!"

  He was kneeling next to her, blinking as if he couldn't quite believe it either. His clothes were crumpled and grimy, and he had lost his glasses somewhere, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Without the glasses he looked younger, defenseless, and a little dazed. He reached to touch her face, but she flinched back. "Ow!"

  "Are you okay? You look great," he said, with a catch in his voice. "The best thing I've ever seen—"

  "That's because you don't have your glasses on," she said weakly, but if she'd expected a smart-aleck response, she didn't get one. Instead he threw his arms around her, holding her tightly to him. His clothes smelled of blood and sweat and dirt, and his heart was beating a mile a minute and he was pressing on her bruises, but it was a relief nevertheless to be held by him and to know, really know, that he was all right. "Clary," he said roughly. "I thought—I thought you—"

  "Wouldn't come back for you? But of course I did," she said. "Of course I did."

  She put her arms around him. Everything about him was familiar, from the overwashed fabric of his T-shirt to the sharp angle of the collarbone that rested just under her chin. He said her name, and she stroked his back reassuringly. When she glanced back just for a moment, she saw Jace turning away as if the brightness of the rising sun hurt his eyes.

  16

  Falling Angels

  Hodge was enraged. He had been standing in the foyer, Isabelle and Alec lurking behind him, when Clary
and the boys limped in, filthy and covered in blood, and had immediately launched into a lecture that would have done Clary's mother proud. He didn't forget to include the part about lying to him about where they were going—which Jace, apparently, had— or the part about never trusting Jace again, and even added extra embellishments, like some bits about breaking the Law, getting tossed out of the Clave, and bringing shame on the proud and ancient name of Wayland. Winding down, he fixed Jace with a glare. "You've endangered other people with your willfulness. This is one incident I will not allow you to shrug off!"

  "I wasn't planning to," Jace said. "I can't shrug anything off. My shoulder's dislocated."

  "If only I thought physical pain was actually a deterrent for you," said Hodge with grim fury. "But you'll just spend the next few days in the infirmary with Alec and Isabelle fussing around you. You'll probably even enjoy it."

  Hodge had been two-thirds right: Jace and Simon both wound up in the infirmary, but only Isabelle was fussing over either of them when Clary—who'd gone to clean herself up— came in a few hours later. Hodge had fixed the swelling bruise on her arm, and twenty minutes in the shower had gotten most of the ground-in asphalt out of her skin, but she still felt raw and aching.

  Alec, sitting on the windowsill and looking like a thundercloud, scowled as the door shut behind her. "Oh. It's you."

  She ignored him. "Hodge says he's on his way and he hopes you can both manage to cling to your flickering sparks of life until he gets here," she told Simon and Jace. "Or something like that."

  "I wish he'd hurry," Jace said crossly. He was sitting up in bed against a pair of fluffed white pillows, still wearing his filthy clothes.

  "Why? Does it hurt?" Clary asked.

  "No. I have a high pain threshold. In fact, it's less of a threshold and more of a large and tastefully decorated foyer. But I do get easily bored." He squinted at her. "Do you remember back at the hotel when you promised that if we lived, you'd get dressed up in a nurse's outfit and give me a sponge bath?"

  "Actually, I think you misheard," Clary said. "It was Simon who promised you the sponge bath."

  Jace looked involuntarily over at Simon, who smiled at him widely. "As soon as I'm back on my feet, handsome."

  "I knew we should have left you a rat," said Jace.

  Clary laughed and went over to Simon, who seemed acutely uncomfortable surrounded by dozens of pillows and with blankets heaped over his legs.

  Clary sat down on the edge of Simon's bed. "How are you feeling?"

  "Like someone massaged me with a cheese grater," Simon said, wincing as he pulled his legs up. "I broke a bone in my foot. It was so swollen, Isabelle had to cut my shoe off."

  "Glad she's taking good care of you." Clary let a small amount of acid creep into her voice.

  Simon leaned forward, not taking his eyes off Clary. "I want to talk to you."

  Clary nodded in half-reluctant agreement. "I'm going to my room. Come and see me after Hodge fixes you up, okay?"

  "Sure." To her surprise he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It was a butterfly kiss, a quick brush of lips on skin, but as she pulled away, she knew she was blushing. Probably, she thought, standing up, because of the way everyone else was staring at them.

  Out in the hallway, she touched her cheek in bemusement. A peck on the cheek didn't mean much, but it was so out of character for Simon. Maybe he was trying to make a point to Isabelle? Men, Clary thought, they were so baffling. And Jace, doing his wounded-prince routine. She'd left before he could start complaining about the thread count of the sheets.

  "Clary!"

  She turned around in surprise. Alec was loping down the hall after her, hurrying to catch up. He stopped when she did. "I need to talk to you."

  She looked at him in surprise. "What about?"

  He hesitated. With his pale skin and dark blue eyes he was as striking as his sister, but unlike Isabelle he did everything he could to downplay his looks. The frayed sweaters and the hair that looked as if he had cut it himself in the dark were only part of it. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin. "I think you should leave. Go home," he said.

  She'd known he didn't like her, but it still felt like a slap. "Alec, the last time I was home, it was infested with Forsaken. And Raveners. With fangs. Nobody wants to go home more than I do, but—"

  "You must have relatives you can stay with?" There was a tinge of desperation in his voice.

  "No. Besides, Hodge wants me to stay," she said shortly.

  "He can't possibly. I mean, not after what you've done—"

  "What I've done?"

  He swallowed hard. "You almost got Jace killed."

  "I almost—What are you talking about?"

  "Running off after your friend like that—do you know how much danger you put him in? Do you know—"

  "Him? You mean Jace?" Clary cut him off in midsentence. "For your information the whole thing was his idea. He asked Magnus where the lair was. He went to the church to get weapons. If I hadn't come with him, he would have gone anyway."

  "You don't understand," Alec said. "You don't know him. I know him. He thinks he has to save the world; he'd be glad to kill himself trying. Sometimes I think he even wants to die, but that doesn't mean you should encourage him to do it."

  "I don't get it," she said. "Jace is a Nephilim. This is what you do, you rescue people, you kill demons, you put yourselves in danger. How was last night any different?"

  Alec's control shattered. "Because he left me behind!" he shouted. "Normally I'd be with him, covering him, watching his back, keeping him safe. But you—you're dead weight, a mundane." He spit the word out as if it were an obscenity.

  "No," Clary said. "I'm not. I'm Nephilim—just like you."

  His lip curled up at the corner. "Maybe," he said. "But with no training, no nothing, you're still not much use, are you? Your mother brought you up in the mundane world, and that's where you belong. Not here, making Jace act like—like he isn't one of us. Making him break his oath to the Clave, making him break the Law—"

  "News flash," Clary snapped. "I don't make Jace do anything. He does what he wants. You ought to know that."

  He looked at her as if she were an especially disgusting kind of demon he'd never seen before. "You mundanes are completely selfish, aren't you? Have you no idea what he's done for you, what kind of personal risks he's taken? I'm not just talking about his safety. He could lose everything. He already lost his father and mother; do you want to make sure he loses the family he's got left as well?"

  Clary recoiled. Rage rose up in her like a black wave—rage against Alec, because he was partly right, and rage against everything and everyone else: against the icy road that had taken her father away from her before she was born, against Simon for nearly getting himself killed, against Jace for being a martyr and for not caring whether he lived or died. Against Luke for pretending he cared about her when it was all a lie. And against her mother for not being the boring, normal, haphazard mother she'd always pretended to be, but someone else entirely: someone heroic and spectacular and brave whom Clary didn't know at all. Someone who wasn't there now, when Clary needed her desperately.

  "You should talk about selfish," she hissed, so viciously that he took a step back. "You couldn't care less about anyone in this world except yourself, Alec Lightwood. No wonder you've never killed a single demon, because you're too afraid."

  Alec looked stunned. "Who told you that?"

  "Jace."

  He looked as if she'd slapped him. "He wouldn't. He wouldn't say that."

  "He did." She could see how she was hurting him, and it made her glad. Someone else ought to be in pain for a change. "You can rant all you want about honor and honesty and how mundanes don't have any of either, but if you were honest, you'd admit this tantrum is just because you're in love with him. It doesn't have anything to do with—"

  Alec moved, blindingly fast. A sharp crack resounded through her head. He had shoved her against the wall so h
ard that the back of her skull had struck the wood paneling. His face was inches from hers, eyes huge and black. "Don't you ever," he whispered, mouth a blanched line, "ever, say anything like that to him or I'll kill you. I swear on the Angel, I'll kill you."

  The pain in her arms where he gripped her was intense. Against her will she gasped. He blinked—as if he were waking up out of a dream—and let her go, jerking his hands away like her skin had burned him. Without a word he spun and hurried back toward the infirmary. He was lurching as he walked, like someone drunk or dizzy.

  Clary rubbed her sore arms, staring after him, appalled at what she'd done. Good job, Clary. Now you've really made him hate you.

  She should have fallen instantly into bed, but despite her exhaustion, sleep remained out of reach. Eventually she pulled her sketchpad out of her backpack and started drawing, propping the tablet against her knees. Idle scribbles at first—a detail from the crumbling façade of the vampire hotel: a fanged gargoyle with bulging eyes. An empty street, a single lamppost casting a yellow pool of illumination, a shadowy figure poised at the edge of the light. She drew Raphael in his bloody white shirt with the scar of the cross on his throat. And then she drew Jace standing on the roof, looking down at the ten-story drop below. Not afraid, but as if the fall challenged him—as if there were no empty space he could not fill with his belief in his own invincibility. As in her dream, she drew him with wings that curved out behind his shoulders in an arc like the wings of the angel statue in the Bone City.

  She tried to draw her mother, last. She had told Jace she didn't feel any different after reading the Gray Book, and it was mostly true. Now, though, as she tried to visualize her mother's face, she realized there was one thing that was different in her memories of Jocelyn: She could see her mother's scars, the tiny white marks that covered her back and shoulders as if she had been standing in a snowfall.