Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  The redbrick warehouse Magnus lived in rose above them. Jocelyn pushed open the glass doors to the entryway, and they crowded inside, Clary trying to breathe through her mouth as her mother pushed the buzzer for Magnus one, two, and three times. At last the door opened and they hurried up the stairs. The door to Magnus’s apartment was open, and the warlock was leaning against the architrave, waiting for them. He was wearing canary-yellow pajamas, and on his feet were green slippers with alien faces, complete with sproingy antennae. His hair was a tangled, curly, spiky mass of black, and his gold-green eyes blinked tiredly at them.

  “Saint Magnus’s Home for Wayward Shadowhunters,” he said in a deep voice. “Welcome.” He threw an arm wide. “Spare bedrooms are that way. Wipe your boots on the mat.” He stepped back into the apartment, letting them pass through in front of him before shutting the door. Today the place was done up in a sort of faux-Victorian decor, with high-backed sofas and large gilt mirrors everywhere. The pillars were strung with lights in the shape of flowers.

  There were three spare rooms down a short corridor off the main living room; at random Clary chose one on the right. It was painted orange, like her old bedroom in Park Slope, and had a sofa bed and a small window that looked out on the darkened windows of a closed diner. Chairman Meow was curled up on the bed, nose tucked under his tail. She sat down beside him and petted his ears, feeling the purring that vibrated through his small furry body. As she stroked him, she caught sight of the sleeve of her sweater. It was stained dark and crusted with blood. Luke’s blood.

  She stood up and yanked the sweater off violently. From her backpack she took a clean pair of jeans and a black V-necked thermal shirt and changed into them. She glanced at herself briefly in the window, which showed her a pale reflection, her hair hanging limply, damp with snow, her freckles standing out like paint splotches. Not that it mattered what she looked like. She thought of Jace kissing her—it felt like days ago instead of hours—and her stomach hurt as if she’d swallowed tiny knives.

  She held on to the edge of the bed for a long moment until the pain subsided. Then she took a deep breath and went back out into the living room.

  Her mother was seated on one of the gilt-backed chairs, her long artist’s fingers wrapped around a mug of hot water with lemon. Magnus was slumped on a hot-pink sofa, his green slippers up on the coffee table. “The pack stabilized him,” Jocelyn was saying in an exhausted voice. “They don’t know for how long, though. They thought there might have been silver powder on the blade, but it appears to be something else. The tip of the knife—” She glanced up, saw Clary, and fell silent.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’m old enough to hear what’s wrong with Luke.”

  “Well, they don’t know exactly what it is,” Jocelyn said softly. “The tip of the blade Sebastian used broke off against one of his ribs and lodged in the bone. But they can’t retrieve it. It . . . moves.”

  “It moves?” Magnus looked puzzled.

  “When they tried to dig it out, it burrowed into the bone and nearly snapped it,” Jocelyn said. “He’s a werewolf, he heals fast, but it’s in there gashing up his internal organs, keeping the wound from closing.”

  “Demon metal,” said Magnus. “Not silver.”

  Jocelyn leaned forward. “Do you think you can help him? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay—”

  Magnus stood up. His alien slippers and rumpled bed-head seemed extremely incongruous given the gravity of the situation. “I don’t know.”

  “But you healed Alec,” said Clary. “When the Greater Demon wounded him . . .”

  Magnus had begun to pace. “I knew what was wrong with him. I don’t know what kind of demon metal this is. I could experiment, try different healing spells, but it won’t be the fastest way to help him.”

  “What’s the fastest way?” Jocelyn said.

  “The Praetor,” said Magnus. “The Wolf Guard. I knew the man who founded it—Woolsey Scott. Because of certain . . . incidents, he was fascinated with minutiae about the way demon metals and demon drugs act on lycanthropes, the same way the Silent Brothers keep records of the ways Nephilim can be healed. Over the years the Praetor have become very closed-off and secretive, unfortunately. But a member of the Praetor could access their information.”

  “Luke’s not a member,” Jocelyn said. “And their roster is secret—”

  “But Jordan,” said Clary. “Jordan’s a member. He can find out. I’ll call him—”

  “I’ll call him,” said Magnus. “I can’t get into Praetor headquarters, but I can pass on a message that ought to hold some extra weight. I’ll be back.” He padded off to the kitchen, the antennae on his slippers waving gently like seaweed in a current.

  Clary turned back to her mother, who was staring down at her mug of hot water. It was one of her favorite restoratives, though Clary could never figure out why anyone would want to drink warm sour water. The snow had soaked her mother’s hair, and now that it was drying, it was beginning to curl, like Clary’s did in humid weather.

  “Mom,” Clary said, and her mother looked up. “That knife you threw—back at Luke’s—was it at Jace?”

  “It was at Jonathan.” She would never call him Sebastian, Clary knew.

  “It’s just . . .” Clary took a deep breath. “It’s almost the same thing. You saw. When you stabbed Sebastian, Jace started to bleed. It’s like they’re—mirrored in some way. Cut Sebastian, Jace bleeds. Kill him, and Jace dies.”

  “Clary.” Her mother rubbed her tired eyes. “Can we not discuss this now?”

  “But you said you think he’ll come back for me. Jace, I mean. I need to know that you won’t hurt him—”

  “Well, you can’t know that. Because I won’t promise it, Clary. I can’t.” Her mother looked at her with unflinching eyes. “I saw the two of you come out of your bedroom.”

  Clary flushed. “I don’t want to—”

  “To what? Talk about it? Well, too bad. You brought it up. You’re lucky I’m not in the Clave anymore, you know. How long have you known where Jace was?”

  “I don’t know where he is. Tonight is the first time I’ve talked to him since he disappeared. I saw him in the Institute with Seb—with Jonathan, yesterday. I told Alec and Isabelle and Simon. But I couldn’t tell anyone else. If the Clave got hold of him—I can’t let that happen.”

  Jocelyn raised her green eyes. “And why not?”

  “Because he’s Jace. Because I love him.”

  “He’s not Jace. That’s just it, Clary. He’s not who he was. Can’t you see that—”

  “Of course I can see it. I’m not stupid. But I have faith. I saw him possessed before, and I saw him break free of it. I think Jace is still inside there somewhere. I think there’s a way to save him.”

  “What if there isn’t?”

  “Prove it.”

  “You can’t prove a negative, Clarissa. I understand that you love him. You always have loved him, too much. You think I didn’t love your father? You think I didn’t give him every chance? And look what came of that. Jonathan. If I hadn’t stayed with your father, he wouldn’t exist—”

  “Neither would I,” said Clary. “In case you forgot, I came after my brother, not before.” She looked at her mother, hard. “Are you saying it would be worth it never to have had me, if you could get rid of Jonathan?”

  “No, I—”

  There was the grating sound of keys in a lock, and the apartment door swung open. It was Alec. He wore a long leather duster open over a blue sweater, and there were white flakes of snow in his black hair. His cheeks were candy-apple red from the cold, but his face was otherwise pale.

  “Where’s Magnus?” he said. As he looked toward the kitchen, Clary saw a bruise on his jaw, below his ear, about the size of a thumbprint.

  “Alec!” Magnus came skidding into the living room and blew a kiss to his boyfriend across the room. Having discarded his slippers, he was barefoot now. His cat’s eyes shone as he looked at Alec.

  Cl
ary knew that look. That was herself looking at Jace. Alec didn’t return the gaze, though. He was shucking off his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall. He was visibly upset. His hands were trembling, his broad shoulders tightly set.

  “You got my text?” Magnus asked.

  “Yeah. I was only a few blocks away anyway.” Alec looked at Clary, and then at her mother, anxiety and uncertainty warring in his expression. Though Alec had been invited to Jocelyn’s reception party, and had met her several times besides that, they did not by any measure know each other well. “It’s true, what Magnus said? You saw Jace again?”

  “And Sebastian,” said Clary.

  “But Jace,” Alec said. “How was—I mean, how did he seem?”

  Clary knew exactly what he was asking; for once she and Alec understood each other better than anyone else in the room. “He’s not playing a trick on Sebastian,” she replied softly. “He really has changed. He isn’t like himself at all.”

  “How?” Alec demanded, with an odd blend of anger and vulnerability. “How is he different?”

  There was a hole in the knee of Clary’s jeans; she picked at it, scraping the skin underneath. “The way he talks—he believes in Sebastian. Believes in what he’s doing, whatever that is. I reminded him that Sebastian killed Max, and he didn’t even seem to care.” Her voice cracked. “He said Sebastian was just as much his brother as Max was.”

  Alec whitened, the red spots on his cheeks standing out like bloodstains. “Did he say anything about me? Or Izzy? Did he ask about us?”

  Clary shook her head, hardly able to stand the look on Alec’s face. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Magnus watching Alec too, his face almost blank with sadness. She wondered if he was jealous of Jace still, or just hurt on Alec’s behalf.

  “Why did he come to your house?” Alec shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “He wanted me to come with him. To join him and Sebastian. I guess he wants their evil little duo to be an evil little trio.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s lonely. Sebastian can’t be the greatest company.”

  “We don’t know that. He could be absolutely fantastic at Scrabble,” said Magnus.

  “He’s a murdering psychopath,” said Alec flatly. “And Jace knows it.”

  “But Jace isn’t Jace right now—,” Magnus began, and broke off as the phone rang. “I’ll get that. Who knows who else might be on the run from the Clave and need a place to stay? It’s not like there are hotels in this city.” He padded off toward the kitchen.

  Alec flung himself down on the sofa. “He’s working too hard,” he said, looking worriedly after his boyfriend. “He’s been up all night every night trying to decipher those runes.”

  “Is the Clave employing him?” Jocelyn wanted to know.

  “No,” Alec said slowly. “He’s doing it for me. Because of what Jace means to me.” He raised his sleeve, showing Jocelyn the parabatai rune on his inner forearm.

  “You knew Jace wasn’t dead,” Clary said, her mind beginning to tick over thoughts. “Because you’re parabatai, because of that tie between you. But you said you felt something wrong.”

  “Because he’s possessed,” Jocelyn said. “It’s changed him. Valentine said that when Luke became a Downworlder, he felt it. That sense of wrongness.”

  Alec shook his head. “But when Jace was possessed by Lilith, I didn’t feel it,” he said. “Now I can feel something . . . wrong. Something off.” He looked down at his shoes. “You can feel it when your parabatai dies—like there was a cord tying you to something and it has snapped, and now you’re falling.” He looked at Clary. “I felt it, once, in Idris, during the battle. But it was so brief—and when I returned to Alicante, Jace was alive. I convinced myself I had imagined it.”

  Clary shook her head, thinking of Jace and the blood-soaked sand by Lake Lyn. You didn’t.

  “What I feel now is different,” he went on. “I feel like he’s absent from the world but not dead. Not imprisoned . . . Just not here.”

  “That’s just it,” Clary said. “Both times I’ve seen him and Sebastian, they’ve vanished into thin air. No Portal, just one minute they were here and the next they were gone.”

  “When you talk about there or here,” said Magnus, coming back into the room with a yawn, “and this world and that world, what you’re talking about are dimensions. There are only a few warlocks who can do dimensional magic. My old friend Ragnor could. Dimensions don’t lie side by side—they’re folded together, like paper. Where they intersect, dimensional pockets can be created that prevent magic from being able to find you. After all, you’re not here—you’re there.”

  “Maybe that’s why we can’t track him? Why Alec can’t feel him?” said Clary.

  “Could be.” Magnus sounded almost impressed. “It would mean there’s literally no way to find them if they don’t want to be found. And no way to get a message back to us if you did find them. That’s complicated, expensive magic. Sebastian must have some connections—” The door buzzer sounded, and they all jumped. Magnus rolled his eyes. “Everyone calm down,” he said, and vanished into the entryway. He was back a moment later with a man wrapped in a long parchment-colored robe, the back and sides inked with patterns of runes in dark red-brown. Though his hood was up, shadowing his face, he looked completely dry, as if not a flake of snow had fallen on him. When he pushed the hood back, Clary was not at all surprised to see the face of Brother Zachariah.

  Jocelyn set her mug down suddenly on the coffee table. She was looking at the Silent Brother. With his hood pushed back, you could see his dark hair, but his face was shadowed so that Clary could not see his eyes, only his high, rune-scarred cheekbones. “You,” Jocelyn said, her voice trailing off. “But Magnus told me that you would never—”

  Unexpected events call for unexpected measures. Brother Zachariah’s voice floated out, touching the inside of Clary’s head; she knew from the expressions on the faces of the others that they could hear him too. I will say nothing to the Clave or Council of anything that transpires tonight. If the chance comes before me to save the last of the Herondale bloodline, I consider that of higher importance than the fealty I render the Clave.

  “So that’s settled,” Magnus said. He made a strange pair with the Silent Brother beside him, one of them pale and blanched in robes, the other in bright yellow pajamas. “Any new insight into Lilith’s runes?”

  I have studied the runes carefully and listened to all the testimony given in the Council, said Brother Zachariah. I believe that her ritual was twofold. First she used the Daylighter’s bite to revive Jonathan Morgenstern’s consciousness. His body was still weak, but his mind and will were alive. I believe that when Jace Herondale was left alone on the roof with him, Jonathan drew on the power of Lilith’s runes and forced Jace to enter the enspelled circle that surrounded him. At that point Jace’s will would have been subject to his. I believe he would have drawn on Jace’s blood for the strength to rise and escape the roof, taking Jace with him.

  “And somehow all that created a connection between them?” Clary said. “Because when my mother stabbed Sebastian, Jace started to bleed.”

  Yes. What Lilith did was a sort of twinning ritual, not unlike our own parabatai ceremony but much more powerful and dangerous. The two are now bound inextricably. Should one die, the other will follow. No weapon in this world can wound only one of them.

  “When you say they’re bound inextricably,” Alec said, leaning forward, “does that mean—I mean, Jace hates Sebastian. Sebastian murdered our brother.”

  “And I don’t see how Sebastian can be all that fond of Jace, either. He was horribly jealous of him all his life. He thought Jace was Valentine’s favorite,” added Clary.

  “Not to mention,” Magnus noted, “that Jace killed him. That would put anyone off.”

  “It’s like Jace doesn’t remember that any of these things happened,” Clary said in frustration. “No, not like he doesn’t remember them—like he doesn’t be
lieve them.”

  He remembers them. But the power of the binding is such that Jace’s thoughts will pass over and around those facts, like water passing around rocks in a riverbed. It was like the spell that Magnus cast upon your mind, Clarissa. When you saw pieces of the Invisible World, your mind would reject them, turn away from them. There is no point reasoning with Jace about Jonathan. The truth cannot break their connection.

  Clary thought of what had happened when she had reminded Jace that Sebastian had killed Max, how his face had temporarily furrowed in thought, then smoothed out as if he had forgotten what she had said as quickly as she’d said it.

  Take some small comfort in the fact that Jonathan Morgenstern is as bound as your Jace is. He cannot harm or hurt Jace, nor would he want to, Zachariah added.

  Alec threw his hands up. “So they love each other now? They’re best friends?” The hurt and jealousy was plain in his tone.

  No. They are each other now. They see as the other sees. They know the other is somehow indispensable to them. Sebastian is the leader, the primary of the two. What he believes, Jace will believe. What he wants, Jace will do.

  “So he’s possessed,” Alec said flatly.

  In a possession there is often some part of the person’s original consciousness left intact. Those who have been possessed speak of watching their own actions from the outside, crying out but unable to be heard. But Jace is fully inhabiting his body and mind. He believes himself sane. He believes that this is what he wants.

  “So what did he want from me?” Clary demanded in a shaking voice. “Why did he come to my room tonight?” She hoped her cheeks didn’t burn. She tried to push back the memory of kissing him, the pressure of his body against hers in the bed.

  He still loves you, said Brother Zachariah, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. You are the central point about which his world spins. That has not changed.