She sat up gingerly. The skin over her left elbow was split and bleeding. She must have landed on it when she fell. There was blood on her shirt. She looked around, disoriented, and saw Jace looking at her, unmoving but very tense around the mouth.
Magnus Bane. The words meant something, but what? Before she could ask the question aloud, Brother Jeremiah interrupted her.
The block inside your mind is stronger than we had anticipated, he said. It can be safely undone only by the one who put it there. For us to remove it would be to kill you.
She scrambled to her feet, cradling her injured arm. “But I don’t know who put it there. If I knew that, I wouldn’t have come here.”
The answer to that is woven into the thread of your thoughts, said Brother Jeremiah. In your waking dream you saw it written.
“Magnus Bane? But—that’s not even a name!”
It is enough. Brother Jeremiah got to his feet. As if this were a signal, the rest of the Brothers rose alongside him. They inclined their heads toward Jace, a gesture of silent acknowledgment, before they filed away among the pillars and were gone. Only Brother Jeremiah remained. He watched impassively as Jace hurried over to Clary.
“Is your arm all right? Let me see,” he demanded, seizing her wrist.
“Ouch! It’s fine. Don’t do that, you’re making it worse,” Clary said, trying to pull away.
“You bled on the Speaking Stars,” he said. Clary looked and saw that he was right: There was a smear of her blood on the white and silver marble. “I bet there’s a law somewhere about that.” He turned her arm over, more gently than she would have thought he was capable of. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and whistled; she glanced down and saw that a glove of blood covered her lower arm from the elbow to the wrist. The arm was throbbing, stiff, and painful.
“Is this when you start tearing strips off your T-shirt to bind up my wound?” she joked. She hated the sight of blood, especially her own.
“If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked.” He dug into his pocket and brought out his stele. “It would have been a lot less painful.”
Remembering the stinging sensation when the stele had touched her wrist, she braced herself, but all she felt as the glowing instrument glided lightly over her injury was a faint warmth. “There,” he said, straightening up. Clary flexed her arm in wonder—though the blood was still there, the wound was gone, as were the pain and stiffness. “And next time you’re planning to injure yourself to get my attention, just remember that a little sweet talk works wonders.”
Clary felt her mouth twitch into a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, and as he turned away, she added, “And thanks.”
He slid the stele into his back pocket without turning to look at her, but she thought she saw a certain gratification in the set of his shoulders. “Brother Jeremiah,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “you’ve been very quiet all this time. Surely you have some thoughts you’d like to share?”
I am charged with leading you from the Silent City, and that is all, said the archivist. Clary wondered if she were imagining it, or if there was actually a faintly affronted tone to his “voice.”
“We could always show ourselves out,” Jace suggested hopefully. “I’m sure I remember the way—”
The marvels of the Silent City are not for the eyes of the uninitiated, said Jeremiah, and he turned his back on them with a soundless swish of robes. This way.
When they emerged into the open, Clary took deep breaths of the thick morning air, relishing the city stench of smog, dirt, and humanity. Jace looked around thoughtfully. “It’s going to rain,” he said.
He was right, Clary thought, looking up at the iron-gray sky. “Are we taking a carriage back to the Institute?”
Jace looked from Brother Jeremiah, still as a statue, to the carriage, looming like a black shadow in the archway that led to the street. Then he broke into a grin.
“No way,” he said. “I hate those things. Let’s hail a cab.”
11
MAGNUS BANE
Jace leaned forward and banged his hand against the partition separating them from the cab driver. “Turn left! Left! I said to take Broadway, you brain-dead moron!”
The taxi driver responded by jerking the wheel so hard to the left that Clary was thrown against Jace. She let out a yelp of resentment. “Why are we taking Broadway, anyway?”
“I’m starving,” Jace said. “And there’s nothing at home except leftover Chinese.” He took his phone out of his pocket and started dialing. “Alec! Wake up!” he shouted. Clary could hear an irritated buzzing on the other end. “Meet us at Taki’s. Breakfast. Yeah, you heard me. Breakfast. What? It’s only a few blocks away. Get going.”
He clicked off and shoved the phone into one of his many pockets as they pulled up to a curb. Handing the driver a wad of bills, Jace elbowed Clary out of the car. When he landed on the pavement behind her, he stretched like a cat and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the greatest restaurant in New York.”
It didn’t look like much—a low brick building that sagged in the middle like a collapsed soufflé. A battered neon sign proclaiming the restaurant’s name hung sideways and was sputtering. Two men in long coats and tipped-forward felt hats slouched in front of the narrow doorway. There were no windows.
“It looks like a prison,” said Clary.
He pointed at her. “But in prison could you order a spaghetti fra diavolo that makes you want to kiss your fingers? I don’t think so.”
“I don’t want spaghetti. I want to know what a Magnus Bane is.”
“It’s not a what. It’s a who,” said Jace. “It’s a name.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“He’s a warlock,” said Jace in his most reasonable voice. “Only a warlock could have put a block in your mind like that. Or maybe one of the Silent Brothers, but clearly it wasn’t them.”
“Is he a warlock you’ve heard of?” demanded Clary, who was rapidly tiring of Jace’s reasonable voice.
“The name does sound familiar—”
“Hey!” It was Alec, looking like he’d rolled out of bed and pulled jeans on over his pajamas. His hair, unbrushed, stuck out wildly around his head. He loped toward them, eyes on Jace, ignoring Clary as usual. “Izzy’s on her way,” he said. “She’s bringing the mundane.”
“Simon? Where did he come from?” Jace asked.
“He showed up first thing this morning. Couldn’t stay away from Izzy, I guess. Pathetic.” Alec sounded amused. Clary wanted to kick him. “Anyway, are we going in or what? I’m starving.”
“Me too,” said Jace. “I could really go for some fried mouse tails.”
“Some what?” asked Clary, sure that she’d heard wrong.
Jace grinned at her. “Relax,” he said. “It’s just a diner.”
They were stopped at the front door by one of the slouching men. As he straightened, Clary caught a glimpse of his face under the hat. His skin was dark red, his squared-off hands ending in blue-black nails. Clary felt herself stiffen, but Jace and Alec seemed unconcerned. They said something to the man, who nodded and stepped back, allowing them to pass.
“Jace,” Clary hissed as the door shut behind them. “Who was that?”
“You mean Clancy?” Jace asked, glancing around the brightly lit restaurant. It was pleasant inside, despite the lack of windows. Cozy wooden booths nestled up against each other, each one lined with brightly colored cushions. Endearingly mismatched crockery lined the counter, behind which stood a blond girl in a waitress’s pink-and-white apron, nimbly counting out change to a stocky man in a flannel shirt. She saw Jace, waved, and gestured that they should sit wherever they wanted. “Clancy keeps out undesirables,” said Jace, herding her to one of the booths.
“He’s a demon,” she hissed. Several customers turned to look at her—a boy with spiky blue dreads was sitting next to a beautiful Indian girl with long black hair and gauzelike golden wings sp
routing from her back. The boy frowned darkly. Clary was glad the restaurant was almost empty.
“No, he isn’t,” said Jace, sliding into a booth. Clary moved to sit beside him, but Alec was already there. She settled gingerly onto the booth seat opposite them, her arm still stiff despite Jace’s ministrations. She felt hollow inside, as if the Silent Brothers had reached into her and scooped out her insides, leaving her light and dizzy. “He’s an ifrit,” Jace explained. “They’re warlocks with no magic. Half demons who can’t cast spells for whatever reason.”
“Poor bastards,” said Alec, picking up his menu. Clary picked hers up too, and stared. Locusts and honey were featured as a special, as were plates of raw meat, whole raw fish, and something called a toasted bat sandwich. A page of the beverage section was devoted to the different types of blood they had on tap—to Clary’s relief, they were different kinds of animal blood, rather than type A, type O, or type B-negative. “Who eats whole raw fish?” she inquired aloud.
“Kelpies,” said Alec. “Selkies. Maybe the occasional nixie.”
“Don’t order any of the faerie food,” said Jace, looking at her over the top of his menu. “It tends to make humans a little crazy. One minute you’re munching a faerie plum, the next minute you’re running naked down Madison Avenue with antlers on your head. Not,” he added hastily, “that this has ever happened to me.”
Alec laughed. “Do you remember—,” he began, and launched into a story that contained so many mysterious names and proper nouns that Clary didn’t even bother trying to follow it. She was looking at Alec instead, watching him as he talked to Jace. There was a kinetic, almost feverish energy to him that hadn’t been there before. Something about Jace sharpened him, brought him into focus. If she were going to draw them together, she thought, she would make Jace a little blurry, while Alec stood out, all sharp, clear planes and angles.
Jace was looking down as Alec spoke, smiling a little and tapping his water glass with a fingernail. She sensed he was thinking of other things. She felt a sudden flash of sympathy for Alec. Jace couldn’t be an easy person to care about. I was laughing at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited.
Jace looked up as the waitress passed. “Are we ever going to get any coffee?” he said aloud, interrupting Alec midsentence.
Alec subsided, his energy fading. “I . . .”
Clary spoke up hastily. “What’s all the raw meat for?” she asked, indicating the third page of her menu.
“Werewolves,” said Jace. “Though I don’t mind a bloody steak myself every once in a while.” He reached across the table and flipped Clary’s menu over. “Human food is on the back.”
She perused the perfectly ordinary menu selections with a feeling of stupefaction. It was all too much. “They have smoothies here?”
“There’s this apricot-plum smoothie with wildflower honey that’s simply divine,” said Isabelle, who had appeared with Simon at her side. “Shove over,” she said to Clary, who scooted so close to the wall that she could feel the cold bricks pressing into her arm. Simon, sliding in next to Isabelle, offered her a half-embarrassed smile that she didn’t return. “You should have one.”
Clary wasn’t sure if Isabelle was talking to her or to Simon, so she said nothing. Isabelle’s hair tickled her face, smelling of some kind of vanilla perfume. Clary fought the urge to sneeze. She hated vanilla perfume. She’d never understood why some girls felt the need to smell like dessert.
“So how did it go at the Bone City?” Isabelle asked, flipping her menu open. “Did you find out what’s in Clary’s head?”
“We got a name,” said Jace. “Magnus—”
“Shut up,” Alec hissed, thwacking Jace with his closed menu.
Jace looked injured. “Jesus.” He rubbed his arm. “What’s your problem?”
“This place is full of Downworlders. You know that. I think you should try to keep the details of our investigation secret.”
“Investigation?” Isabelle laughed. “Now we’re detectives? Maybe we should all have code names.”
“Good idea,” said Jace. “I shall be Hotschaft Von Hugenstein.”
Alec spit his water back into his glass. At that moment the waitress arrived to take their order. Up close she was still a pretty blond girl, but her eyes were unnerving—entirely blue, with no white or pupil at all. She smiled with sharp little teeth. “Know what you’re having?”
Jace grinned. “The usual,” he said, and got a smile from the waitress in return.
“Me too,” Alec chimed in, though he didn’t get the smile. Isabelle fastidiously ordered a fruit smoothie, Simon asked for coffee, and Clary, after a moment’s hesitation, chose a large coffee and coconut pancakes. The waitress winked a blue eye at her and flounced off.
“Is she an ifrit too?” Clary asked, watching her go.
“Kaelie? No. Part-fey, I think,” said Jace.
“She’s got nixie eyes,” said Isabelle thoughtfully.
“You really don’t know what she is?” asked Simon.
Jace shook his head. “I respect her privacy.” He nudged Alec. “Hey, let me out for a second.”
Scowling, Alec moved aside. Clary watched Jace as he strode over to Kaelie, who was leaning against the bar, talking to the cook through the pass-through to the kitchen. All Clary could see of the cook was a bent head in a white chef’s hat. Tall furry ears poked through holes cut into either side of the hat.
Kaelie turned to smile at Jace, who put an arm around her. She snuggled in. Clary wondered if this was what Jace meant by respecting her privacy.
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “He really shouldn’t tease the wait-staff like that.”
Alec looked at her. “You don’t think he means it? That he likes her, I mean.”
Isabelle shrugged. “She’s a Downworlder,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“I don’t get it,” said Clary.
Isabelle glanced at her without interest. “Get what?”
“This whole Downworlder thing. You don’t hunt them, because they aren’t exactly demons, but they’re not exactly people, either. Vampires kill, they drink blood—”
“Only rogue vampires drink human blood from living people,” interjected Alec. “And those, we’re allowed to kill.”
“And werewolves are what? Just overgrown puppies?”
“They kill demons,” said Isabelle. “So if they don’t bother us, we don’t bother them.”
Like letting spiders live because they eat mosquitoes, Clary thought. “So they’re good enough to let live, good enough to make your food for you, good enough to flirt with—but not really good enough? I mean, not as good as people.”
Isabelle and Alec looked at her as if she were speaking Urdu. “Different from people,” said Alec finally.
“Better than mundanes?” said Simon.
“No,” Isabelle said decidedly. “You could turn a mundane into a Shadowhunter. I mean, we came from mundanes. But you could never turn a Downworlder into one of the Clave. They can’t withstand the runes.”
“So they’re weak?” asked Clary.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Jace, sliding back into his seat next to Alec. His hair was mussed and there was a lipstick mark on his cheek. “At least not with a peri, a djinn, an ifrit, and God knows what else listening in.” He grinned as Kaelie appeared and distributed their food. Clary regarded her pancakes consideringly. They looked fantastic: golden brown, drenched with honey. She took a bite as Kaelie wobbled off on her high heels.
They were delicious.
“I told you it was the greatest restaurant in Manhattan,” said Jace, eating fries with his fingers.
She glanced at Simon, who was stirring his coffee, head down.
“Mmmf,” said Alec, whose mouth was full.
“Right,” said Jace. He looked at Clary. “It’s not one-way,” he said. “We may not always like Downworlders, but they don’t always like us, either. A few hundred years of the Accords
can’t wipe out a thousand years of hostility.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t know what the Accords are, Jace,” said Isabelle around her spoon.
“I do, actually,” said Clary.
“I don’t,” said Simon.
“Yes, but nobody cares what you know.” Jace examined a fry before biting into it. “I enjoy the company of certain Downworlders at certain times and places. But we don’t really get invited to the same parties.”
“Wait.” Isabelle suddenly sat up straight. “What did you say that name was?” she demanded, turning to Jace. “The name in Clary’s head.”
“I didn’t,” said Jace. “At least, I didn’t finish it. It’s Magnus Bane.” He grinned at Alec mockingly. “Rhymes with ‘overcareful pain in the ass.’”
Alec muttered a retort into his coffee. It rhymed with something that sounded a lot more like “ducking glass mole.” Clary smiled inwardly.
“It can’t be—but I’m almost totally sure—” Isabelle dug into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of blue paper. She wiggled it between her fingers. “Look at this.”
Alec held out his hand for the paper, glanced at it with a shrug, and handed it to Jace. “It’s a party invitation. For somewhere in Brooklyn,” he said. “I hate Brooklyn.”
“Don’t be such a snob,” said Jace. Then, just as Isabelle had, he sat up straight and stared. “Where did you get this, Izzy?”
She fluttered her hand airily. “From that kelpie in Pandemonium. He said it would be awesome. He had a whole stack of them.”
“What is it?” Clary demanded impatiently. “Are you going to show the rest of us, or not?”
Jace turned it around so they could all read it. It was printed on thin paper, nearly parchment, in a thin, elegant, spidery hand. It announced a gathering at the humble home of Magnus the Magnificent Warlock, and promised attendees “a rapturous evening of delights beyond your wildest imaginings.”
Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 17