“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—What did you say?”
Jocelyn smiled patiently. “Clary told me you’ve added a new member to your band?”
Simon knew she was just being polite. Well, polite in that way parents were when they pretended to take your hobbies seriously. Still, she’d come to several of his gigs before, just to help fill up the room. She did care about him; she always had. In the very dark, tucked-away places of his mind, Simon suspected she had always known how he felt about Clary, and he wondered if she wouldn’t have wanted her daughter to make a different choice, had it been something she could control. He knew she didn’t entirely like Jace. It was clear even in the way she said his name.
“Yeah,” he said. “Kyle. He’s kind of a weird guy, but supernice.” Invited, by Luke, to expand on the topic of Kyle’s weirdness, Simon told them about Kyle’s apartment—careful to leave out the detail that it was now his apartment too—his bike messenger job, and his ancient, beat-up pickup truck. “And he grows these weird plants on the balcony,” he added. “Not pot—I checked. They have sort of silvery leaves—”
Luke frowned, but before he could say anything, the waitress arrived, carrying a big silver coffee pitcher. She was young, with bleached pale hair tied into two braids. As she bent to fill Simon’s coffee cup, one of them brushed his arm. He could smell sweat on her, and under that, blood. Human blood, the sweetest smell of all. He felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. Coldness spread through him. He was hungry, and all he had back at Kyle’s place was room-temperature blood that was already beginning to separate—a sickening prospect, even for a vampire.
You have never fed on a human, have you? You will. And when you do, you will not forget it.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the waitress was gone and Clary was staring at him curiously across the table. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” He closed his hand around his coffee cup. It was shaking. Above them the TV was still blaring the nightly news.
“Ugh,” Clary said, looking up at the screen. “Are you listening to this?”
Simon followed her gaze. The news anchor was wearing that expression news anchors tended to wear when they were reporting on something especially grim. “No one has come forward to identify an infant boy found abandoned in an alley behind Beth Israel hospital several days ago,” he was saying. “The infant is white, weighs six pounds and eight ounces, and is otherwise healthy. He was discovered strapped to an infant car seat behind a Dumpster in the alley,” the anchor went on. “Most disturbing, a handwritten note tucked into the child’s blanket begged hospital authorities to euthanize the child because ‘I don’t have the strength to do it myself.’ Police say it is likely that the child’s mother was mentally ill, and claim they have ‘promising leads.’ Anyone with information about this child should call Crime Stoppers at—”
“That’s so horrible,” Clary said, turning away from the TV with a shudder. “I can’t understand how people just dump their babies off like they’re trash—”
“Jocelyn,” Luke said, his voice sharp with concern. Simon looked toward Clary’s mother. She was as white as a sheet and looked as if she were about to throw up. She pushed her plate away abruptly, stood up from the table, and hurried toward the bathroom. After a moment Luke dropped his napkin and went after her.
“Oh, crap.” Clary put her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that. I’m so stupid.”
Simon was thoroughly perplexed. “What’s going on?”
Clary slunk down in her seat. “She was thinking about Sebastian,” she said. “I mean Jonathan. My brother. I assume you remember him.”
She was being sarcastic. None of them was likely to forget Sebastian, whose real name was Jonathan and who had murdered Hodge and Max and had nearly succeeded in helping Valentine win a war that would have seen the destruction of all Shadowhunters. Jonathan, who had had burning black eyes and a smile like a razor blade. Jonathan, whose blood had tasted like battery acid when Simon had bitten him once. Not that he regretted it.
“But your mom didn’t abandon him,” Simon said. “She stuck with raising him even though she knew there was something horribly wrong with him.”
“She hated him, though,” Clary said. “I don’t think she’s ever gotten over that. Imagine hating your own baby. She used to take out a box that had his baby things in it and cry over it every year on his birthday. I think she was crying over the son she would have had—you know, if Valentine hadn’t done what he had.”
“And you would have had a brother,” said Simon. “Like, an actual one. Not a murdering psychopath.”
Looking close to tears, Clary pushed her plate away. “I feel sick now,” she said. “You know that feeling like you’re hungry but you can’t bring yourself to eat?”
Simon looked over at the bleached-haired waitress, who was leaning against the diner counter. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Luke returned to the table eventually, but only to tell Clary and Simon that he was taking Jocelyn home. He left some money, which they used to pay the bill before wandering out of the diner and over to Galaxy Comics on Seventh Avenue. Neither of them could concentrate enough to enjoy themselves, though, so they split up, with a promise to see each other the next day.
Simon rode into the city with his hood pulled up and his iPod on, blasting music into his ears. Music had always been his way of blocking everything out. By the time he got out at Second Avenue and headed down Houston, a light rain had started to fall, and his stomach was in knots.
He cut over to First Street, which was mostly deserted, a strip of darkness between the bright lights of First Avenue and Avenue A. Because he had his iPod on, he didn’t hear them coming up behind him until they were nearly on him. The first intimation he had that something was wrong was a long shadow that fell across the sidewalk, overlapping his own. Another shadow joined it, this one on his other side. He turned—
And saw two men behind him. Both were dressed exactly like the mugger who had attacked him the other night—gray tracksuits, gray hoods pulled up to hide their faces. They were close enough to touch him.
Simon leaped back, with a force that surprised him. Because his vampire strength was so new, it still had the power to shock him. When, a moment later, he found himself perched on the stoop of a brownstone, several feet away from the muggers, he was so astonished to be there that he froze.
The muggers advanced on him. They were speaking the same guttural language as the first mugger—who, Simon was beginning to suspect, had not been a mugger at all. Muggers, as far as he knew, didn’t work in gangs, and it was unlikely that the first mugger had criminal friends who had decided to take revenge on him for their comrade’s demise. Something else was clearly going on here.
They had reached the stoop, effectively trapping him on the steps. Simon tore his iPod headphones from his ears and hastily held his hands up. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know what this is about, but you really want to leave me alone.”
The muggers just looked at him. Or at least he thought they were looking at him. Under the shadows of their hoods, it was impossible to see their faces.
“I’m getting the feeling someone sent you after me,” he said. “But it’s a suicide mission. Seriously. I don’t know what they’re paying you, but it’s not enough.”
One of the tracksuited figures laughed. The other had reached into his pocket and drawn something out. Something that shone black under the streetlights.
A gun.
“Oh, man,” Simon said. “You really, really don’t want to do that. I’m not kidding.” He took a step back, up one of the stairs. Maybe if he got enough height, he could actually jump over them, or past them. Anything but let them attack him. He didn’t think he could face what that meant. Not again.
The man with the gun raised it. There was a click as he pulled the hammer back.
Simon bit his lip. In his panic his fangs had come out. Pain shot through h
im as they sank into his skin. “Don’t—”
A dark object fell from the sky. At first Simon thought something had merely tumbled from one of the upper windows—an air conditioner ripping loose, or someone too lazy to drag their trash downstairs. But the falling thing, he saw, was a person—falling with direction, purpose, and grace. The person landed on the mugger, knocking him flat. The gun skittered out of his hand, and he screamed, a thin, high sound.
The second mugger bent and seized the gun. Before Simon could react, the guy had raised it and pulled the trigger. A spark of flame appeared at the gun’s muzzle.
And the gun blew apart. It blew apart, and the mugger blew apart along with it, too fast to even scream. He had intended a quick death for Simon, and an even quicker death was what he got in return. He shattered apart like glass, like the outward-flying colors in a kaleidoscope. There was a soft explosion—the sound of displaced air—and then nothing but a soft drizzle of salt, falling onto the pavement like solidified rain.
Simon’s vision blurred, and he sank down onto the steps. He was aware of a loud humming in his ears, and then someone grabbed him roughly by the wrists and shook him, hard. “Simon. Simon!”
He looked up. The person grabbing him and shaking him was Jace. The other boy wasn’t in gear, but was still wearing his jeans and the jacket he’d taken back from Clary. He was disheveled, his clothes and face streaked with dirt and soot. His hair was wet from the rain.
“What the hell was that?” Jace asked.
Simon looked up and down the street. It was still deserted. The asphalt shone, black and wet and empty. The second mugger was gone.
“You,” he said, a little groggily. “You jumped the muggers—”
“Those weren’t muggers. They were following you since you got off the subway. Someone sent those guys.” Jace spoke with complete surety.
“The other one,” Simon said. “What happened to him?”
“He just vanished.” Jace snapped his fingers. “He saw what happened to his friend, and he was gone, like that. I don’t know what they were, exactly. Not demons, but not exactly human, either.”
“Yeah, I figured that part out, thanks.”
Jace looked at him more closely. “That—what happened to the mugger—that was you, wasn’t it? Your Mark, here.” He pointed at his forehead. “I saw it burn white before that guy just . . . dissolved.”
Simon said nothing.
“I’ve seen a lot,” Jace said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, for a change, or any mockery. “But I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“I didn’t do it,” Simon said softly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” said Jace. His golden eyes burned in his soot-streaked face. “‘For it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
6
WAKE THE DEAD
Jace’s room was as neat as ever—bed made perfectly, the books that lined the shelves arranged in alphabetical order, notes and textbooks stacked carefully on the desk. Even his weapons were lined up along the wall in order of size, from a massive broadsword to a set of small daggers.
Clary, standing in the doorway, held back a sigh. The neatness was all very well. She was used to it. It was, she had always thought, Jace’s way of exerting control over the elements of a life that otherwise might seem overwhelmed with chaos. He had lived so long not knowing who—or even what—he really was, she could hardly begrudge him the careful alphabetization of his poetry collection.
She could, however—and did—begrudge the fact that he wasn’t there. If he hadn’t gone back home after leaving the bridal shop, where had he gone? As she looked around the room, a feeling of unreality came over her. It wasn’t possible that any of this was happening, was it? She knew how breakups went from hearing other girls complain about them. First the pulling away, the gradual refusal to return notes or phone calls. The vague messages saying nothing was wrong, that the other person just wanted a little space. Then the speech about how “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then the crying part.
She’d never thought any of that would ever apply to her and Jace. What they had wasn’t ordinary, or subject to the ordinary rules of relationships and breakups. They belonged to each other totally, and always would, and that was that.
But maybe everyone felt that way? Until the moment they realized they were just like everyone else, and everything they’d thought was real shattered apart.
Something that glittered silver across the room caught her eye. It was the box Amatis had given Jace, with its delicate design of birds around the sides. She knew he had been working his way through it, reading the letters slowly, going through the notes and photos. He hadn’t said much about it to her, and she hadn’t wanted to pry. His feelings about his biological father were something he was going to have to come to terms with on his own.
She found herself drawn to the box now, though. She remembered him sitting on the front steps of the Accords Hall in Idris, holding the box in his lap. As if I could stop loving you, he’d said. She touched the lid of the box, and her fingers found the clasp, which sprung open easily. Inside were scattered papers, old photographs. She drew one out, and stared at it, fascinated. There were two people in the photograph, a young woman and a young man. She recognized the woman immediately as Luke’s sister, Amatis. She was gazing up at the young man with all the radiance of first love. He was handsome, tall and blond, though his eyes were blue, not gold, and his features less angular than Jace’s . . . and yet still, knowing who he was—Jace’s father—was enough to make her stomach tighten.
She set the photo of Stephen Herondale down hastily, and nearly cut her finger on the blade of a slim hunting dagger that lay crosswise in the box. Birds were carved along the handle. The blade of it was stained with rust, or what looked like rust. It must not have been cleaned properly. She shut the box quickly, and turned away, guilt like a weight on her shoulders.
She had thought about leaving a note, but, deciding it would be better to wait until she could talk to Jace in person, she left and went down the hall to the elevator. She had knocked on Isabelle’s door earlier, but it didn’t look like she was home either. Even the witchlight torches in the hallways seemed to be burning at a lower level than usual. Feeling utterly depressed, Clary reached for the elevator call button—only to realize it was already lit. Someone was heading up from the ground floor to the Institute.
Jace, she thought immediately, her pulse jumping. But of course it might not be him, she told herself. It could be Izzy, or Maryse, or—
“Luke?” she said in surprise as the elevator door opened. “What are you doing here?’
“I might ask you the same thing.” He stepped out of the elevator, pulling the gate shut behind him. He was wearing a fleece-lined zip-up flannel jacket that Jocelyn had been trying to get him to throw away since they’d first started dating. It was rather nice, Clary thought, that just about nothing seemed to change Luke, no matter what happened in his life. He liked what he liked, and that was that. Even if it was a ratty-looking old coat. “Except I think I can guess. So, is he here?”
“Jace? No.” Clary shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “It’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Luke hesitated. “Clary—”
“Lucian.” The cool voice that came from behind them was Maryse’s. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He turned to nod at her. “Maryse.”
Maryse Lightwood stood in the doorway, her hand lightly on the frame. She was wearing gloves, pale gray gloves that matched her tailored gray suit. Clary wondered if Maryse ever wore jeans. She had never seen Isabelle and Alec’s mother in anything but power suits or gear. “Clary,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Clary felt herself flush. Maryse didn’t seem to mind her coming and going, but then, Maryse had never really acknowledged Clary’s relationship with Jace at all. It was hard to blame her. Maryse was still coping with Max’
s death, which had been only six weeks ago, and she was doing it alone, with Robert Lightwood still in Idris. She had bigger things on her mind than Jace’s love life.
“I was just leaving,” Clary said.
“I’ll give you a ride back home when I’m done here,” Luke said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Maryse, is it a problem if Clary remains while we talk? Because I’d prefer to have her stay.”
Maryse shook her head. “No problem, I suppose.” She sighed, raking her hands through her hair. “Believe me, I wish I didn’t need to bother you at all. I know you’re getting married in a week—congratulations, by the way. I don’t know if I told you that before.”
“You didn’t,” said Luke, “but it’s appreciated. Thank you.”
“Only six weeks.” Maryse smiled faintly. “Quite a whirlwind courtship.”
Luke’s hand tightened on Clary’s shoulder, the only sign of his annoyance. “I don’t suppose you called me over here to congratulate me on my engagement, did you?”
Maryse shook her head. She looked very tired, Clary thought, and there were strands of gray in her upswept dark hair that hadn’t been there before. “No. I assume you’ve heard about the bodies we’ve been finding for the past week or so?”
“The dead Shadowhunters, yes.”
“We found another one tonight. Stuffed in a Dumpster near Columbus Park. Your pack’s territory.”
Luke’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, but the others—”
“The first body was found in Greenpoint. Warlock territory. The second floating in a pond in Central Park. The domain of the fey. Now we have werewolf territory.” She fixed her gaze on Luke. “What does that make you think?”
“That someone who isn’t very pleased about the new Accords is trying to set Downworlder against Downworlder,” Luke said. “I can assure you my pack didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t know who’s behind it, but it’s a very clumsy attempt, if you ask me. I hope the Clave can see through it.”
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