“We can talk there,” Jace said. He started toward the door, then paused and looked back at her. Standing between two of the burning candelabras, their light casting a pale gold overlay onto his hair and skin, he looked like a painting of an angel. Her heart constricted. “Are you coming, or not?” he snapped, not sounding angelic in the least.
“Oh. Right. I’m coming.” She hurried to catch up with him.
As they walked to Taki’s, Clary tried to keep the conversation away from topics related to her, Jace, or her and Jace. Instead, she asked him how Isabelle, Max, and Alec were doing.
Jace hesitated. They were crossing First and a cool breeze was blowing up the avenue. The sky was a cloudless blue, a perfect New York autumn day.
“I’m sorry.” Clary winced at her own stupidity. “They must be pretty miserable. All these people they knew are dead.”
“It’s different for Shadowhunters,” Jace said. “We’re warriors. We expect death in a way you—”
Clary couldn’t help a sigh. “‘You mundanes don’t.’ That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
“I was,” he admitted. “Sometimes it’s hard even for me to know what you really are.”
They had stopped in front of Taki’s, with its sagging roof and windowless facade. The ifrit who guarded the front door gazed down at them with suspicious red eyes.
“I’m Clary,” she said.
Jace looked down at her. The wind was blowing her hair across her face. He reached out and pushed it back, almost absently. “I know.”
Inside, they found a corner booth and slid into it. The diner was nearly empty: Kaelie, the pixie waitress, lounged against the counter, lazily fluttering her blue-white wings. She and Jace had dated once. A pair of werewolves occupied another booth. They were eating raw shanks of lamb and arguing about who would win in a fight: Dumbledore from the Harry Potter books or Magnus Bane.
“Dumbledore would totally win,” said the first one. “He has the badass Killing Curse.”
The second lycanthrope made a trenchant point. “But Dumbledore isn’t real.”
“I don’t think Magnus Bane is real either,” scoffed the first. “Have you ever met him?”
“This is so weird,” said Clary, slinking down in her seat. “Are you listening to them?”
“No. It’s rude to eavesdrop.” Jace was studying the menu, which gave Clary the opportunity to covertly study him. I never look at you, she’d told him. It was true too, or at least she never looked at him the way she wanted to, with an artist’s eye. She would always get lost, distracted by a detail: the curve of his cheekbone, the angle of his eyelashes, the shape of his mouth.
“You’re staring at me,” he said, without looking up from the menu. “Why are you staring at me? Is something wrong?”
Kaelie’s arrival at their table saved Clary from having to answer. Her pen, Clary noticed, was a silvery birch twig. She regarded Clary curiously out of all-blue eyes. “Do you know what you want?”
Unprepared, Clary ordered a few random items off the menu. Jace asked for a plate of sweet potato fries and a number of dishes to be boxed up and brought home to the Lightwoods. Kaelie departed, leaving behind the faint smell of flowers.
“Tell Alec and Isabelle I’m sorry about everything that happened,” Clary said when Kaelie was out of earshot. “And tell Max that I’ll take him to Forbidden Planet anytime.”
“Only mundanes say they’re sorry when what they mean is ‘I share your grief,’” Jace observed. “None of it was your fault, Clary.” His eyes were suddenly bright with hate. “It was Valentine’s.”
“I take it there’s been no . . .”
“No sign of him? No. I’d guess he’s holed up somewhere until he can finish what he started with the Sword. After that . . .” Jace shrugged.
“After that, what?”
“I don’t know. He’s a lunatic. It’s hard to guess what a lunatic will do next.” But he avoided her eyes, and Clary knew what he was thinking: War. That was what Valentine wanted. War with the Shadowhunters. And he would get it too. It was only a matter of where he would strike first. “Anyway, I doubt that’s what you came to talk to me about, is it?”
“No.” Now that the moment had come, Clary was having a hard time finding words. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the silvery side of the napkin holder. White cardigan, white face, hectic flush in her cheeks. She looked like she had a fever. She felt a little like it too. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for the past few days—”
“You could have fooled me.” His voice was unnaturally sharp. “Every time I called you, Luke said you were sick. I figured you were avoiding me. Again.”
“I wasn’t.” It seemed to her that there were vast amounts of empty space between them, though the booth wasn’t that big and they weren’t sitting that far apart. “I did want to talk to you. I’ve been thinking about you all the time.”
He made a noise of surprise and held his hand out across the table. She took it, a wave of relief breaking over her. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
His grip was warm on hers, comforting, and she remembered how she’d taken the bloody shard of the Portal out of his hand at Renwick’s—the only thing that was left of his old life—and how he had pulled her into his arms. “I really was sick,” she said. “I swear. I almost died back there on the ship, you know.”
He let her hand go, but he was staring at her, almost as if he meant to memorize her face. “I know,” he said. “Every time you almost die, I almost die myself.”
His words made her heart rattle in her chest as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of caffeine. “Jace. I came to tell you that—”
“Wait. Let me talk first.” He held his hands up as if to ward off her next words. “Before you say anything, I wanted to apologize to you.”
“Apologize? For what?”
“For not listening to you.” He raked his hair back with both hands and she noticed a little scar, a tiny silver line, on the side of his throat. It hadn’t been there before. “You kept telling me that I couldn’t have what I wanted from you, and I kept pushing at you and pushing at you and not listening to you at all. I just wanted you and I didn’t care what anybody else had to say about it. Not even you.”
Her mouth went suddenly dry, but before she could say anything, Kaelie was back, with Jace’s fries and a number of plates for Clary. Clary stared down at what she’d ordered. A green milk shake, what looked like raw hamburger steak, and a plate of chocolate-dipped crickets. Not that it mattered; her stomach was knotted up too much to even consider eating. “Jace,” she said, as soon as the waitress was gone. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You—”
“No. Let me finish.” He was staring down at his fries as if they held the secrets of the universe. “Clary, I have to say it now or—or I won’t say it.” His words tumbled out in a rush: “I thought I’d lost my family. And I don’t mean Valentine. I mean the Lightwoods. I thought they’d finished with me. I thought there was nothing left in my world but you. I—I was crazy with loss and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. You were right.”
“No. I was stupid. I was cruel to you—”
“You had every right to be.” He raised his eyes to look at her and she was suddenly and strangely reminded of being four years old at the beach, crying when the wind came up and blew away the castle she had made. Her mother had told her she could make another one if she liked, but it hadn’t stopped her crying because what she had thought was permanent was not permanent after all, but only made out of sand that vanished at the touch of wind or water. “What you said was true. We don’t live or love in a vacuum. There are people around us who care about us who would be hurt, maybe destroyed, if we let ourselves feel what we might want to feel. To be that selfish, it would mean—it would mean being like Valentine.”
He spoke his father’s name with such finality that Clary felt it like a door slamming in her face.
“I’ll just be your brother from n
ow on,” he said, looking at her with a hopeful expectation that she would be pleased, which made her want to scream that he was smashing her heart into pieces and he had to stop. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
It took her a long time to answer, and when she did, her own voice sounded like an echo, coming from very far away. “Yes,” she said, and she heard the rush of waves in her ears, and her eyes stung as if from sand or salt spray. “That’s what I wanted.”
Clary walked numbly up the wide steps that led up to Beth Israel’s big glass front doors. In a way, she was glad she was here rather than anywhere else. What she wanted more than anything was to throw herself into her mother’s arms and cry, even if she could never explain to her mother what she was crying about. Since she couldn’t do that, sitting next to her mother’s bed and crying seemed like the next best option.
She’d held it together pretty well at Taki’s, even hugging Jace good-bye when she left. She hadn’t started bawling till she’d gotten on the subway, and then she’d found herself crying about everything she hadn’t cried about yet, Jace and Simon and Luke and her mother and even Valentine. She’d cried loudly enough that the man sitting across from her had offered her a tissue, and she’d screamed, What do you think you’re looking at, jerk? at him, because that was what you did in New York. After that she felt a little better.
As she neared the top of the stairs, she realized there was a woman standing there. She was wearing a long dark cloak over a dress, not the sort of thing you usually saw on a Manhattan street. The cloak was made of a dark velvety material and had a wide hood, which was up, hiding her face. Glancing around, Clary saw that no one else on the hospital steps or standing by its doors seemed to notice the apparition. A glamour, then.
She reached the top step and paused, looking up at the woman. She still couldn’t see her face. She said, “Look, if you’re here to see me, just tell me what you want. I’m not really in the mood for all this glamour and secrecy stuff right now.”
She noticed people around her stopping to stare at the crazy girl who was talking to no one. She fought the urge to stick out her tongue at them.
“All right.” The voice was gentle, oddly familiar. The woman reached up and pushed back her hood. Silver hair spilled out over her shoulders in a flood. It was the woman Clary had seen staring at her in the courtyard of the Marble Cemetery, the same woman who’d saved them from Malik’s knife at the Institute. Up close, Clary could see that she had the sort of face that was all angles, too sharp to be pretty, though her eyes were an intense and lovely hazel. “My name is Madeleine. Madeleine Bellefleur.”
“And . . . ?” Clary said. “What do you want from me?”
The woman—Madeleine—hesitated. “I knew your mother, Jocelyn,” she said. “We were friends in Idris.”
“You can’t see her,” Clary said. “No visitors but family until she gets better.”
“But she won’t get better.”
Clary felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Madeleine said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I know what’s wrong with Jocelyn, and there’s nothing a mundane hospital can do for her now. What happened to her—she did it to herself, Clarissa.”
“No. You don’t understand. Valentine—”
“She did it before Valentine got to her. So he couldn’t get any information out of her. She planned it that way. It was a secret, a secret she shared with only one other person, and she told only one other person how the spell could be reversed. That person was me.”
“You mean—”
“Yes,” Madeleine said. “I mean I can show you how to wake your mother up.”
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part One: Sparks Fly Upward
Chapter 1: The Portal
Chapter 2: The Demon Towers of Alicante
Chapter 3: Amatis
Chapter 4: Daylighter
Chapter 5: A Problem of Memory
Chapter 6: Bad Blood
Chapter 7: Where Angels Fear to Tread
Chapter 8: One of the Living
Chapter 9: This Guilty Blood
Part Two: Stars Shine Darkly
Chapter 10: Fire and Sword
Chapter 11: All the Host of Hell
Chapter 12: De Profundis
Chapter 13: Where there is Sorrow
Chapter 14: In the Dark Forest
Chapter 15: Things Fall Apart
Part Three: The Way to Heaven
Chapter 16: Articles of Faith
Chapter 17: The Shadowhunter’s Tale
Chapter 18: Hail and Farewell
Chapter 19: Peniel
Chapter 20: Weighed in the Balance
Epilogue Across the Sky in Stars
For my mother.
“I only count the hours that shine.”
Acknowledgments
When you look back on writing a book, you can’t help but realize what a group effort it all is, and how quickly the whole thing would sink like the Titanic if you didn’t have the help of your friends. With that in mind: Thanks to the NB Team and the Massachusetts All-Stars; thanks to Elka, Emily, and Clio for hours of plotting help, and to Holly Black for hours of patiently reading the same scenes over and over. To Libba Bray for providing bagels and a couch to write on, Robin Wasserman for distracting me with clips from Gossip Girl, Maureen Johnson for staring at me in a frightening way while I was trying to work, and Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld for forcing me to get off the couch and go somewhere to write. Thanks also to Ioana for helping me with my (nonexistent) Romanian. Thanks as always to my agent, Barry Goldblatt; my editor, Karen Wojtyla; the teams at Simon & Schuster and Walker Books for getting behind this series; and Sarah Payne for making changes long past deadline. And of course to my family—my mother, my father, Jim and Kate, the Esons clan, and of course Josh, who still thinks Simon is based on him (and he may be right).
Long is the way
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
Part One
Sparks Fly Upward
Man is born to trouble
as the sparks fly upward.
—Job 5:7
1
THE PORTAL
The cold snap of the previous week was over; the sun was shining brightly as Clary hurried across Luke’s dusty front yard, the hood of her jacket up to keep her hair from blowing across her face. The weather might have warmed up, but the wind off the East River could still be brutal. It carried with it a faint chemical smell, mixed with the Brooklyn smell of asphalt, gasoline, and burned sugar from the abandoned factory down the street.
Simon was waiting for her on the front porch, sprawled in a broken-springed armchair. He had his DS balanced on his blue-jeaned knees and was poking away at it industriously with the stylus. “Score,” he said as she came up the steps. “I’m kicking butt at Mario Kart.”
Clary pushed her hood back, shaking hair out of her eyes, and rummaged in her pocket for her keys. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning.”
Simon got to his feet, shoving the blinking rectangle into his messenger bag. “I was at Eric’s. Band practice.”
Clary stopped jiggling the key in the lock—it always stuck—long enough to frown at him. “Band practice? You mean you’re still—”
“In the band? Why wouldn’t I be?” He reached around her. “Here, let me do it.”
Clary stood still while Simon expertly twisted the key with just the right amount of pressure, making the stubborn old lock spring open. His hand brushed hers; his skin was cool, the temperature of the air outside. She shivered a little. They’d only called off their attempt at a romantic relationship last week, and she still felt confused whenever she saw him.
“Thanks.” She took the key back without looking at him.
It was hot in the living room. Clary hung her jacket up on the peg inside the front hall
and headed to the spare bedroom, Simon trailing in her wake. She frowned. Her suitcase was open like a clamshell on the bed, her clothes and sketchbooks strewn everywhere.
“I thought you were just going to be in Idris a couple of days,” Simon said, taking in the mess with a look of faint dismay.
“I am, but I can’t figure out what to pack. I hardly own any dresses or skirts, but what if I can’t wear pants there?”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to wear pants there? It’s another country, not another century.”
“But the Shadowhunters are so old-fashioned, and Isabelle always wears dresses—” Clary broke off and sighed. “It’s nothing. I’m just projecting all my anxiety about my mom onto my wardrobe. Let’s talk about something else. How was practice? Still no band name?”
“It was fine.” Simon hopped onto the desk, legs dangling over the side. “We’re considering a new motto. Something ironic, like ‘We’ve seen a million faces and rocked about eighty percent of them.’”
“Have you told Eric and the rest of them that—”
“That I’m a vampire? No. It isn’t the sort of thing you just drop into casual conversation.”
“Maybe not, but they’re your friends. They should know. And besides, they’ll just think it makes you more of a rock god, like that vampire Lester.”
“Lestat,” Simon said. “That would be the vampire Lestat. And he’s fictional. Anyway, I don’t see you running to tell all your friends that you’re a Shadowhunter.”
“What friends? You’re my friend.” She threw herself down onto the bed and looked up at Simon. “And I told you, didn’t I?”
“Because you had no choice.” Simon put his head to the side, studying her; the bedside light reflected off his eyes, turning them silver. “I’ll miss you while you’re gone.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” Clary said, although her skin was prickling all over with a nervous anticipation that made it hard to concentrate. I’m going to Idris! her mind sang. I’ll see the Shadow-hunter home country, the City of Glass. I’ll save my mother.
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