Simon held up his hand. “Oh, I’ve got questions. Several.”
Clary exhaled warily. “Okay, shoot.”
He pointed at Jace. “Now, he’s a—what do you call people like him again?”
“He’s a Shadowhunter,” Clary said.
“A demon hunter,” Jace clarified. “I kill demons. It’s not that complicated, really.”
Simon looked at Clary again. “For real?” His eyes were narrowed, as if he half-expected her to tell him that none of it was true and Jace was actually a dangerous escaped lunatic she’d decided to befriend on humanitarian grounds.
“For real.”
There was an intent look on Simon’s face. “And there are vampires, too? Werewolves, warlocks, all that stuff?”
Clary gnawed her lower lip. “So I hear.”
“And you kill them, too?” Simon asked, directing the question to Jace, who had put the stele back in his pocket and was examining his flawless nails for defects.
“Only when they’ve been naughty.”
For a moment Simon merely sat and stared down at his feet. Clary wondered if burdening him with this kind of information had been the wrong thing to do. He had a stronger practical streak than almost anyone else she knew; he might hate knowing something like this, something for which there was no logical explanation. She leaned forward anxiously, just as Simon lifted his head. “That is so awesome,” he said.
Jace looked as startled as Clary felt. “Awesome?”
Simon nodded enthusiastically enough to make the dark curls bounce on his forehead. “Totally. It’s like Dungeons and Dragons, but real.”
Jace was looking at Simon as if he were some bizarre species of insect. “It’s like what?”
“It’s a game,” Clary explained. She felt vaguely embarrassed. “People pretend to be wizards and elves, and they kill monsters and stuff.”
Jace looked stupefied.
Simon grinned. “You’ve never heard of Dungeons and Dragons?”
“I’ve heard of dungeons,” Jace said. “Also dragons. Although they’re mostly extinct.”
Simon looked disappointed. “You’ve never killed a dragon?”
“He’s probably never met a six-foot-tall hot elf-woman in a fur bikini, either,” Clary said irritably. “Lay off, Simon.”
“Real elves are about eight inches tall,” Jace pointed out. “Also, they bite.”
“But vampires are hot, right?” Simon said. “I mean, some of the vampires are babes, aren’t they?”
Clary worried for a moment that Jace might lunge across the porch and throttle Simon senseless. Instead, he considered the question. “Some of them, maybe.”
“Awesome,” Simon repeated. Clary decided she had preferred it when they were fighting.
Jace slid off the porch railing. “So are we going to search the house, or not?”
Simon scrambled to his feet. “I’m game. What are we looking for?”
“We?” said Jace, with a sinister delicacy. “I don’t remember inviting you along.”
“Jace,” Clary said angrily.
The left corner of his mouth curled up. “Just joking.” He stepped aside to leave her a clear path to the door. “Shall we?”
Clary fumbled for the doorknob in the dark. It opened, triggering the porch light, which illuminated the entryway. The door that led into the bookstore was closed; Clary jiggled the knob. “It’s locked.”
“Allow me, mundanes,” said Jace, setting her gently aside. He took his stele out of his pocket and put it to the door. Simon watched him with some resentment. No amount of vampire babes, Clary suspected, was ever going to make him like Jace.
“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?” Simon muttered. “How do you stand him?”
“He saved my life.”
Simon glanced at her quickly. “How—”
With a click the door swung open. “Here we go,” said Jace, sliding his stele back into his pocket. Clary saw the Mark on the door—just over his head—fade as they passed through it. The back door opened onto a small storage room, the bare walls peeling paint. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, their contents identified with marker scrawls: “Fiction,” “Poetry,” “Cooking,” “Local Interest,” “Romance.”
“The apartment’s through there.” Clary headed toward the door she’d indicated, at the far end of the room.
Jace caught her arm. “Wait.”
She looked at him nervously. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know.” He edged between two narrow stacks of boxes, and whistled. “Clary, you might want to come over here and see this.”
She glanced around. It was dim in the storage room, the only illumination the porch light shining through the window. “It’s so dark—”
Light flared up, bathing the room in a brilliant glow. Simon turned his head aside, blinking. “Ouch.”
Jace chuckled. He was standing on top of a sealed box, his hand raised. Something glowed in his palm, the light escaping through his cupped fingers. “Witchlight,” he said.
Simon muttered something under his breath. Clary was already clambering through the boxes, pushing a way to Jace. He was standing behind a teetering pile of mysteries, the witch-light casting an eerie glow over his face. “Look at that,” he said, indicating a space higher up on the wall. At first she thought he was pointing at what looked like a pair of ornamental sconces. As her eyes adjusted, she realized they were actually loops of metal attached to short chains, the ends of which were sunk into the wall. “Are those—”
“Manacles,” said Simon, picking his way through the boxes. “That’s, ah . . .”
“Don’t say ‘kinky.’” Clary shot him a warning look. “This is Luke we’re talking about.”
Jace reached up to run his hand along the inside of one of the metal loops. When he lowered it, his fingers were dusted with red-brown powder. “Blood. And look.” He pointed to the wall right around where the chains were sunk in; the plaster seemed to bulge outward. “Someone tried to yank these things out of the wall. Tried pretty hard, from the looks of it.”
Clary’s heart had begun to beat hard inside her chest. “Do you think Luke is all right?”
Jace lowered the witchlight. “I think we’d better find out.”
The door to the apartment was unlocked. It led into Luke’s living room. Despite the hundreds of books in the store itself, there were hundreds more in the apartment. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, the volumes on them “double-parked,” one row blocking another. Most were poetry and fiction, with plenty of fantasy and mystery thrown in. Clary remembered plowing through the entirety of The Chronicles of Prydain here, curled up in Luke’s window seat as the sun went down over the East River.
“I think he’s still around,” called Simon, standing in the doorway of Luke’s small kitchenette. “The percolator’s on and there’s coffee here. Still hot.”
Clary peered around the kitchen door. Dishes were stacked in the sink. Luke’s jackets were hung neatly on hooks inside the coat closet. She walked down the hallway and opened the door of his small bedroom. It looked the same as ever, the bed with its gray coverlet and flat pillows unmade, the top of the bureau covered in loose change. She turned away. Some part of her had been absolutely certain that when they walked in they’d find the place torn to pieces, and Luke tied up, injured or worse. Now she didn’t know what to think.
Numbly she crossed the hall to the little guest bedroom where she’d so often stayed when her mother was out of town on business. They’d stay up late watching old horror movies on the flickering black-and-white TV. She even kept a backpack full of extra things here so she didn’t have to lug her stuff back and forth from home.
Kneeling down, she tugged it out from under the bed by its olive green strap. It was covered with buttons, most of which Simon had given her. GAMERS DO IT BETTER. OTAKU WENCH. STILL NOT KING. Inside were some folded clothes, a few spare pairs of underwear, a hairbrush, even shampoo. Thank God, she thought, and kicke
d the bedroom door closed. Quickly she changed, stripping off Isabelle’s too-big—and now grass-stained and sweaty—clothes, and pulling on a pair of her own sandblasted cords, soft as worn paper, and a blue tank top with a design of Chinese characters across the front. She tossed Isabelle’s clothes into her backpack, yanked the cord shut, and left the bedroom, the pack bouncing familiarly between her shoulder blades. It was nice to have something of her own again.
She found Jace in Luke’s book-lined office, examining a green duffel bag that lay unzipped across the desk. It was, as Simon had said, full of weapons—sheathed knives, a coiled whip, and something that looked like a razor-edged metal disk.
“It’s a chakhram,” said Jace, looking up as Clary came into the room. “A Sikh weapon. You whirl it around your index finger before releasing it. They’re rare and hard to use. Strange that Luke would have one. They used to be Hodge’s weapon of choice, back in the day. Or so he tells me.”
“Luke collects stuff. Art objects. You know,” Clary said, indicating the shelf behind the desk, which was lined with Indian statues and Russian icons. Her favorite was a statuette of the Indian goddess of destruction, Kali, brandishing a sword and a severed head as she danced with her head thrown back and her eyes slitted closed. To the side of the desk was an antique Chinese screen, carved out of glowing rosewood. “Pretty things.”
Jace moved the chakhram aside gingerly. A handful of clothes spilled out of the untied end of Luke’s duffel bag, as if they had been an afterthought. “I think this is yours, by the way.”
He drew out a rectangular object hidden among the clothes: a wooden-framed photograph with a long vertical crack along the glass. The crack threw a network of spidery lines across the smiling faces of Clary, Luke, and her mother. “That is mine,” Clary said, taking it out of his hand.
“It’s cracked,” Jace observed.
“I know. I did that—I smashed it. When I threw it at the Ravener demon.” She looked at him, seeing the dawning realization on his face. “That means Luke’s been back to the apartment since the attack. Maybe even today—”
“He must have been the last person to come through the Portal,” said Jace. “That’s why it took us here. You weren’t thinking of anything, so it sent us to the last place it had been.”
“Nice of Dorothea to tell us he was there,” said Clary.
“He probably paid her off to be quiet. Either that or she trusts him more than she trusts us. Which means he might not be—”
“Guys!” It was Simon, dashing into the office in a panic. “Someone’s coming.”
Clary dropped the photo. “Is it Luke?”
Simon peered back down the hall, then nodded. “It is. But he’s not by himself—there are two men with him.”
“Men?” Jace crossed the room in a few strides, peered through the door, and spat a curse under his breath. “Warlocks.”
Clary stared. “Warlocks? But—”
Shaking his head, Jace backed away from the door. “Is there some other way out of here? A back door?”
Clary shook her head. The sound of footsteps in the hallway was audible now, striking pangs of fear into her chest.
Jace looked around desperately. His eyes came to rest on the rosewood screen. “Get behind that,” he said, pointing. “Now.”
Clary dropped the fractured photo on the desk and slipped behind the screen, pulling Simon after her. Jace was right behind them, his stele in his hand. He had barely concealed himself when Clary heard the door swing wide open, the sound of people walking into Luke’s office—then voices. Three men speaking. She looked nervously at Simon, who was very pale, and then at Jace, who had raised the stele in his hand and was moving the tip lightly, in a sort of square shape, across the back of the screen. As Clary stared, the square went clear, like a pane of glass. She heard Simon suck in his breath—a tiny sound, barely audible—and Jace shook his head at them both, mouthing words: They can’t see us through it, but we can see them.
Biting her lip, Clary moved to the edge of the square and peered through it, conscious of Simon breathing down her neck. She could see the room beyond perfectly: the bookshelves, the desk with the duffel bag thrown across it—and Luke, ragged-looking and slightly stooped, his glasses pushed up to the top of his head, standing near the door. It was frightening even though she knew he couldn’t see her, that the window Jace had made was like the glass in a police station interrogation room: strictly one-way.
Luke turned, looking back through the doorway. “Yes, feel free to look around,” he said, his tone heavily weighted with sarcasm. “Nice of you to show such an interest.”
A low chuckle sounded from the corner of the office. With an impatient flick of the wrist, Jace tapped the frame of his “window,” and it opened out wider, showing more of the room. There were two men there with Luke, both in long reddish robes, their hoods pushed back. One was thin, with an elegant gray mustache and pointed beard. When he smiled, he showed blindingly white teeth. The other was burly, thickset as a wrestler, with close-cropped reddish hair. His skin was dark purple and looked shiny over the cheekbones, as if it had been stretched too tight.
“Those are warlocks?” Clary whispered softly.
Jace didn’t answer. He had gone rigid all over, stiff as a bar of iron. He’s afraid I’ll make a run for it, try to get to Luke, Clary thought. She wished she could reassure him that she wouldn’t. There was something about those two men, in their thick cloaks the color of arterial blood, that was terrifying.
“Consider this a friendly follow-up, Graymark,” said the man with the gray mustache. His smile showed teeth so sharp they looked as if they’d been filed to cannibal points.
“There’s nothing friendly about you, Pangborn.” Luke sat down on the edge of his desk, angling his body so it blocked the men’s view of his duffel bag and its contents. Now that he was closer, Clary could see that his face and hands were badly bruised, his fingers scraped and bloody. A long cut along his neck disappeared down into his collar. What on earth happened to him?
“Blackwell, don’t touch that—it’s valuable,” Luke said sternly.
The big redheaded man, who had picked up the statue of Kali from the top of the bookcase, ran his beefy fingers over it consideringly. “Nice,” he said.
“Ah,” said Pangborn, taking the statue from his companion. “She who was created to battle a demon who could not be killed by any god or man. ‘Oh, Kali, my mother full of bliss! Enchantress of the almighty Shiva, in thy delirious joy thou dancest, clapping thy hands together. Thou art the Mover of all that moves, and we are but thy helpless toys.’”
“Very nice,” said Luke. “I didn’t know you were a student of the Indian myths.”
“All the myths are true,” said Pangborn, and Clary felt a small shiver go up her spine. “Or have you forgotten even that?”
“I forget nothing,” said Luke. Though he looked relaxed, Clary could see tension in the lines of his shoulders and mouth. “I suppose Valentine sent you?”
“He did,” said Pangborn. “He thought you might have changed your mind.”
“There’s nothing to change my mind about. I already told you I don’t know anything. Nice cloaks, by the way.”
“Thanks,” said Blackwell with a sly grin. “Skinned them off a couple of dead warlocks.”
“Those are official Accord robes, aren’t they?” Luke asked. “Are they from the Uprising?”
Pangborn chuckled softly. “Spoils of battle.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone might mistake you for the real thing?”
“Not,” said Blackwell, “once they got up close.”
Pangborn fondled the edge of his robe. “Do you remember the Uprising, Lucian?” he said softly. “That was a great and terrible day. Do you remember how we trained together for the battle?”
Luke’s face twisted. “The past is the past. I don’t know what to tell you gentlemen. I can’t help you now. I don’t know anything.”
“‘Anything�
� is such a general word, so unspecific,” said Pangborn, sounding melancholy. “Surely someone who owns so many books must know something.”
“If you want to know where to find a jog-toed swallow in springtime, I could direct you to the correct reference title. But if you want to know where the Mortal Cup has disappeared to . . .”
“Disappeared might not be quite the correct word,” purred Pangborn. “Hidden, more like. Hidden by Jocelyn.”
“That may be,” said Luke. “So hasn’t she told you where it is yet?”
“She has not yet regained consciousness,” said Pangborn, carving the air with a long-fingered hand. “Valentine is disappointed. He was looking forward to their reunion.”
“I’m sure she didn’t reciprocate the sentiment,” muttered Luke.
Pangborn cackled. “Jealous, Graymark? Perhaps you no longer feel about her the way you used to.”
A trembling had started in Clary’s fingers, so pronounced that she knitted her hands together tightly to try to stop them from shaking. Jocelyn? Can they be talking about my mother?
“I never felt any way about her, particularly,” said Luke. “Two Shadowhunters, exiled from their own kind, you can see why we might have banded together. But I’m not going to try to interfere with Valentine’s plans for her, if that’s what he’s worried about.”
“I wouldn’t say he was worried,” said Pangborn. “More curious. We all wondered if you were still alive. Still recognizably human.”
Luke arched his eyebrows. “And?”
“You seem well enough,” said Pangborn grudgingly. He set the Kali statuette down on the shelf. “There was a child, wasn’t there? A girl.”
Luke looked taken aback. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” said Blackwell in his snarl of a voice. “We know the bitch had a daughter. They found photos of her in the apartment, a bedroom—”
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 11