Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  Jace sat down next to her, shoving his discarded T-shirt out of the way. “It’s a coffee cup.”

  She could hear the irritation in her own voice. “I know it’s a coffee cup.”

  “I can’t wait till you draw something really complicated, like the Brooklyn Bridge or a lobster. You’ll probably send me a singing telegram.”

  She ignored him. “Look. This is what I wanted you to see.” She passed her hand over the drawing; then, with a quick darting motion, reached into the paper. When she drew her hand back a moment later, there was the coffee cup, dangling from her fingers.

  She had imagined Jace leaping from the bed in astonishment and gasping something like “Egad!” This didn’t happen—largely, she suspected, because Jace had seen much stranger things in his life, and also because nobody used the word “Egad!” anymore. His eyes widened, though. “You did that?”

  She nodded.

  “When?”

  “Just now, in my bedroom, after—after Simon left.”

  His glance sharpened, but he didn’t pursue it. “You used runes? Which ones?”

  She shook her head, fingering the now blank page. “I don’t know. They came into my head and I drew them exactly how I saw them.”

  “Ones you saw earlier in the Gray Book?”

  “I don’t know.” She was still shaking her head. “I couldn’t tell you.”

  “And no one ever showed you how to do this? Your mother, for instance?”

  “No. I told you before, my mother always told me there was no such thing as magic—”

  “I bet she did teach you,” he interrupted. “And made you forget it afterward. Magnus did say your memories would come back slowly.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Of course.” Jace got to his feet and started to pace. “It’s probably against the Law to use runes like that unless you’ve been licensed. But that doesn’t matter right now. You think your mother put the Cup into a painting? Like you just did with that mug?”

  Clary nodded. “But not one of the paintings in the apartment.”

  “Where else? A gallery? It could be anywhere—”

  “Not a painting at all,” Clary said. “In a card.”

  Jace paused, turning toward her. “A card?”

  “You remember that tarot deck of Madame Dorothea’s? The one my mother painted for her?”

  He nodded.

  “And remember when I drew the Ace of Cups? Later when I saw the statue of the Angel, the Cup looked familiar to me. It was because I’d seen it before, on the Ace. My mother painted the Mortal Cup into Madame Dorothea’s tarot deck.”

  Jace was a step behind her. “Because she knew that it would be safe with a Control, and it was a way she could give it to Dorothea without actually telling her what it was or why she had to keep it hidden.”

  “Or even that she had to keep it hidden at all. Dorothea never goes out, she’d never give it away—”

  “And your mother was ideally placed to keep an eye on both it and her.” Jace sounded almost impressed. “Not a bad move.”

  “I guess so.” Clary fought to control the waver in her voice. “I wish she hadn’t been so good at hiding it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if they’d found it, maybe they would have left her alone. If all they wanted was the Cup—”

  “They would have killed her, Clary,” Jace said. She knew he was telling the truth. “These are the same men who killed my father. The only reason she may still be alive now is that they can’t find the Cup. Be glad she hid it so well.”

  “I don’t really see what any of this has to do with us,” Alec said, looking blearily through his hair. Jace had woken the rest of the Institute’s residents at the crack of dawn and dragged them to the library to, as he said, “devise battle strategies.” Alec was still in his pajamas, Isabelle in a pink peignoir set. Hodge, in his usual sharp tweed suit, was drinking coffee out of a chipped blue ceramic mug. Only Jace, bright-eyed despite fading bruises, looked really awake. “I thought the search for the Cup was in the hands of the Clave now.”

  “It’s just better if we do this ourselves,” said Jace impatiently. “Hodge and I already discussed it and that’s what we decided.”

  “Well.” Isabelle tucked a pink-ribboned braid behind her ear. “I’m game.”

  “I’m not,” Alec said. “There are operatives of the Clave in this city right now looking for the Cup. Pass the information on to them and let them get it.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Jace.

  “It is simple.” Alec sat forward, frowning. “This has nothing to do with us and everything to do with your—your addiction to danger.”

  Jace shook his head, clearly exasperated. “I don’t understand why you’re fighting me on this.”

  Because he doesn’t want you to get hurt, Clary thought, and wondered at his total inability to see what was really going on with Alec. Then again, she’d missed the same thing in Simon. Who was she to talk? “Look, Dorothea—the owner of the Sanctuary—doesn’t trust the Clave. Hates them, in fact. She does trust us.”

  “She trusts me,” said Clary. “I don’t know about you. I’m not sure she likes you at all.”

  Jace ignored her. “Come on, Alec. It’ll be fun. And think of the glory if we bring the Mortal Cup back to Idris! Our names will never be forgotten.”

  “I don’t care about glory,” said Alec, his eyes never leaving Jace’s face. “I care about not doing anything stupid.”

  “In this case, however, Jace is right,” said Hodge. “If the Clave were to come to the Sanctuary, it would be a disaster. Dorothea would flee with the Cup and would probably never be found. No, Jocelyn clearly wanted only one person to be able to find the Cup, and that is Clary, and Clary alone.”

  “Then let her go alone,” said Alec.

  Even Isabelle gave a little gasp at that. Jace, who had been leaning forward with his hands flat on the desk, stood up straight and looked at Alec coolly. Only Jace, Clary thought, could look cool in pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt, but he pulled it off, probably through sheer force of will. “If you’re afraid of a few Forsaken, by all means stay home,” he said softly.

  Alec went white. “I’m not afraid,” he said.

  “Good,” said Jace. “Then there’s no problem, is there?” He looked around the room. “We’re all in this together.”

  Alec mumbled an affirmative, while Isabelle shook her head in a vigorous nod. “Sure,” she said. “It sounds fun.”

  “I don’t know about fun,” said Clary. “But I’m in, of course.”

  “But Clary,” Hodge said quickly. “If you are concerned about the danger, you don’t need to go. We can notify the Clave—”

  “No,” Clary said, surprising herself. “My mom wanted me to find it. Not Valentine, and not them, either.” It wasn’t the monsters she was hiding from, Magnus had said. “If she really spent her whole life trying to keep Valentine away from this thing, this is the least I can do.”

  Hodge smiled at her. “I think she knew you would say that,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, anyway,” Isabelle said. “You’ll be fine. We can handle a couple of Forsaken. They’re crazy, but they’re not very smart.”

  “And a lot easier to deal with than demons,” said Jace. “Not so tricksy. Oh, and we’re going to need a car,” he added. “Preferably a big one.”

  “Why?” said Isabelle. “We’ve never needed a car before.”

  “We’ve never had to worry about having an immeasurably precious object with us before. I don’t want to haul it on the L train,” Jace explained.

  “There’s taxis,” said Isabelle. “And rental vans.”

  Jace shook his head. “I want an environment we control. I don’t want to deal with taxi drivers or mundane rental companies when we’re doing something this important.”

  “Don’t you have a driver’s license or a car?” Alec asked Clary, looking at her with veiled loathing. “I thought all mundanes
had those.”

  “Not when they’re fifteen,” Clary said crossly. “I was supposed to get one this year, but not yet.”

  “Fat lot of use you are.”

  “At least my friends can drive,” she shot back. “Simon’s got a license.”

  She instantly regretted saying it.

  “Does he?” said Jace, in an aggravatingly thoughtful tone.

  “But he hasn’t got a car,” she added quickly.

  “So does he drive his parents’ car?” Jace asked.

  Clary sighed, settling back against the desk. “No. Usually he drives Eric’s van. Like, to gigs and stuff. Sometimes Eric lets him borrow it for other stuff. Like if he has a date.”

  Jace snorted. “He picks up his dates in a van? No wonder he’s such a hit with the ladies.”

  “It’s a car,” Clary said. “You’re just mad Simon has something you haven’t got.”

  “He has many things I haven’t got,” said Jace. “Like nearsightedness, bad posture, and an appalling lack of coordination.”

  “You know,” Clary said, “most psychologists agree that hostility is really just sublimated sexual attraction.”

  “Ah,” said Jace blithely, “that might explain why I so often run into people who seem to dislike me.”

  “I don’t dislike you,” said Alec quickly.

  “That is because we share a brotherly affection,” said Jace, striding over to the desk. He took the black telephone and held it out to Clary. “Call him.”

  “Call who?” Clary said, stalling for time. “Eric? He’d never lend me his car.”

  “Simon,” said Jace. “Call Simon and ask him if he’ll drive us to your house.”

  Clary made a last effort. “Don’t you know any Shadowhunters who have cars?”

  “In New York?” Jace’s grin faded. “Look, everyone’s in Idris for the Accords, and anyway, they’d insist on coming with us. It’s this or nothing.”

  She met his eyes for a moment. There was a challenge in them, and something more, as if he were daring her to explain her reluctance. With a scowl she stalked over to the desk and snatched the telephone out of his hand.

  She didn’t have to think before dialing. Simon’s number was as familiar to her as her own. She braced herself to deal with his mother or one of his sisters, but he picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Simon?”

  Silence.

  Jace was looking at her. Clary squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. “It’s me,” she said. “Clary.”

  “I know who it is.” He sounded irritated. “I was asleep, you know.”

  “I know. It’s early. I’m sorry.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. “I need to ask you for a favor.”

  There was another silence before he laughed bleakly. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding,” she said. “We know where the Mortal Cup is, and we’re prepared to go get it. The only thing is, we need a car.”

  He laughed again. “Sorry, are you telling me that your demon-slaying buddies need to be driven to their next assignation with the forces of darkness by my mom?”

  “Actually, I thought you could ask Eric if you could borrow the van.”

  “Clary, if you think that I—”

  “If we get the Mortal Cup, I’ll have a way to get my mom back. It’s the only reason Valentine hasn’t killed her or let her go.”

  Simon let out a long, whistling breath. “You think it’s going to be that easy to make a trade? Clary, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either. I just know it’s a chance.”

  “This thing is powerful, right? In D&D it’s usually better not to mess with powerful objects until you know what they do.”

  “I’m not going to mess with it. I’m just going to use it to get my mom back.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense, Clary.”

  “This isn’t D&D, Simon!” she half-screamed. “It’s not a funny game where the worst thing that happens is you get a bad dice roll. This is my mom we’re talking about, and Valentine could be torturing her. He could kill her. I have to do anything I can to get her back—just like I did for you.”

  Pause. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know, this isn’t really my world. Look, where are we driving to, exactly? So I can tell Eric.”

  “Don’t bring him,” she said quickly.

  “I know,” he replied with exaggerated patience. “I’m not stupid.”

  “We’re driving to my house. It’s in my house.”

  There was a short silence—bewilderment this time. “In your house? I thought your house was full of zombies.”

  “Forsaken warriors. They’re not zombies. Anyway, Jace and the others can take care of them while I get the Cup.”

  “Why do you have to get the Cup?” He sounded alarmed.

  “Because I’m the only one who can,” she said. “Pick us up at the corner as soon as you can.”

  He muttered something nearly inaudible, then: “Fine.”

  She opened her eyes. The world swam before her in a blur of tears. “Thanks, Simon,” she said. “You’re a—”

  But he had hung up.

  “It occurs to me,” said Hodge, “that the dilemmas of power are always the same.”

  Clary glanced at him sideways. “What do you mean?”

  She sat on the window seat in the library, Hodge in his chair with Hugo on the armrest. The remains of breakfast—sticky jam, toast crumbs, and smears of butter—clung to a stack of plates on the low table that no one had seemed inclined to clear away. After breakfast they had scattered to prepare themselves, and Clary had been the first one back. This was hardly surprising, considering that all she had to do was pull on jeans and a shirt and run a brush through her hair, while everyone else had to arm themselves heavily. Having lost Jace’s dagger in the hotel, the only remotely supernatural object she had on her was the witchlight stone in her pocket.

  “I was thinking of your Simon,” Hodge said, “and of Alec and Jace, among others.”

  She glanced out the window. It was raining, thick fat drops spattering against the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. “What do they have to do with each other?”

  “Where there is feeling that is not requited,” said Hodge, “there is an imbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not a wise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can exist side by side.”

  “Simon doesn’t hate me.”

  “He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.” Hodge held up a hand. “I know you do not intend to, and in some cases necessity trumps nicety of feeling. But the situation has put me in mind of another. Do you still have that photograph I gave you?”

  Clary shook her head. “Not on me. It’s back in my room. I could go get it—”

  “No.” Hodge stroked Hugo’s ebony feathers. “When your mother was young, she had a best friend, just as you have Simon. They were as close as siblings. In fact, they were often mistaken for brother and sister. As they grew older, it became clear to everyone around them that he was in love with her, but she never saw it. She always called him a ‘friend.’”

  Clary stared at Hodge. “Do you mean Luke?”

  “Yes,” said Hodge. “Lucian always thought he and Jocelyn would be together. When she met and loved Valentine, he could not bear it. After they were married, he left the Circle, disappeared—and let us all think that he was dead.”

  “He never said—never even hinted at anything like that,” Clary said. “All these years, he could have asked her—”

  “He knew what the answer would be,” said Hodge, looking past her toward the rain-spattered skylight. “Lucian was never the sort of man who would have deluded himself. No, he contented himself with being near her—assuming, perhaps, that over time her feelings might change.”

  “But if he loved her, why did he tell those men he didn’t care what happened to her? Why did he refuse to let them tel
l him where she was?”

  “As I said before, where there is love, there is also hatred,” said Hodge. “She hurt him badly all those years ago. She turned her back on him. And yet he has played her faithful lapdog ever since, never remonstrating, never accusing, never confronting her with his feelings. Perhaps he saw an opportunity to turn the tables. To hurt her as he’d been hurt.”

  “Luke wouldn’t do that.” But Clary was remembering his icy tone as he told her not to ask him for favors. She saw the hard look in his eyes as he faced Valentine’s men. That wasn’t the Luke she’d known, the Luke she’d grown up with. That Luke would never have wanted to punish her mother for not loving him enough or in the right way. “But she did love him,” Clary said, speaking aloud without realizing it. “It just wasn’t the same way he loved her. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t think so.”

  “What will happen after we get the Cup?” she said. “How will we reach Valentine to let him know we have it?”

  “Hugo will find him.”

  The rain smashed against the windows. Clary shivered. “I’m going to get a jacket,” she said, slipping off the window seat.

  She found her green and pink hoodie stuffed down at the bottom of her backpack. When she pulled it out, she heard something crinkle. It was the photograph of the Circle, her mother and Valentine. She looked at it for a long moment before slipping it back into the bag.

  When she returned to the library, the others were all gathered there: Hodge sitting watchfully on the desk with Hugo on his shoulder, Jace all in black, Isabelle with her demon-stomping boots and gold whip, and Alec with a quiver of arrows strapped across his shoulder and a leather bracer sheathing his right arm from wrist to elbow. Everyone but Hodge was covered in freshly applied Marks, every inch of bare skin inked with swirling patterns. Jace had his left sleeve pulled up, chin on his shoulder, and was frowning as he scrawled an octagonal Mark on the skin of his upper arm.

  Alec looked over at him. “You’re messing it up,” he said. “Let me do that.”