Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series

by Cassandra Clare

  She moved toward Luke’s house and slowly mounted the stairs. This was her home. If Jace was going to come back for her, as he had mouthed to her that he would, this is where he would come. She sat down on the top step, pulled her backpack onto her lap, and waited.

  Simon stood in front of the refrigerator in his apartment and took a last swallow of cold blood as the memory of Clary’s silent voice faded out of his mind. He had just gotten home, and the apartment was dark, the hum of the refrigerator loud, and the place smelled oddly of—tequila? Maybe Jordan had been drinking. His bedroom door was closed, anyway, not that Simon blamed him for being asleep; it was after four in the morning.

  He shoved the bottle back into the fridge and headed for his room. It would be the first night he’d slept at home in a week. He’d grown used to having someone to share a bed with, a body to roll against in the middle of the night. He liked the way Clary fit against him, curled asleep with her head on her hand; and, if he had to admit it to himself, he liked that she couldn’t sleep unless he was with her. It made him feel indispensable and needed—even if the fact that Jocelyn didn’t appear to care whether he slept in her daughter’s bed or not did underscore that Clary’s mother apparently regarded him as about as sexually threatening as a goldfish.

  Of course, he and Clary had shared beds often, from the time they were five until they were about twelve. That might have had something to do with it, he mused, pushing his bedroom door open. Most of those nights they’d spent engaged in torrid activities, like having contests to see who could take the longest to eat a single Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Or they’d sneaked in a portable DVD player and—

  He blinked. His room looked the same—bare walls, stacked plastic shelves with his clothes on them, his guitar hanging on the wall, and a mattress on the floor. But on the bed was a single piece of paper—a white square against the frayed black blanket. The scrawled, looping hand was familiar. Isabelle’s.

  He picked it up and read:

  Simon, I’ve been trying to call you, but it seems like your phone is turned off. I don’t know where you are right now. I don’t know if Clary’s already told you what happened tonight. But I have to go to Magnus’s and I’d really like you to be there.

  I’m never scared, but I’m scared for Jace. I’m scared for my brother. I never ask you for anything, Simon, but I’m asking you now. Please come.

  Isabelle.

  Simon let the letter fall from his hand. He was out of the apartment and on his way down the steps before it had even hit the floor.

  When Simon came into Magnus’s apartment, it was quiet. There was a fire flickering in the grate, and Magnus sat in front of it on an overstuffed sofa, his feet up on the coffee table. Alec was asleep, his head in Magnus’s lap, and Magnus was twirling strands of Alec’s black hair between his fingers. The warlock’s gaze, on the flames, was remote and distant, as if he were looking back into the past. Simon couldn’t help but remember what Magnus had said to him once, about living forever:

  Someday you and I will be the only two left.

  Simon shuddered, and Magnus looked up. “Isabelle called you over, I know.” he said, speaking in a low voice so as not to wake Alec. “She’s down the hall that way—the first bedroom on the left.”

  Simon nodded and, with a salute in Magnus’s direction, headed off down the hall. He felt unusually nervous, as if he were prepping for a first date. Isabelle, to his recollection, had never demanded his help or his presence before, had never acknowledged that she needed him in any way.

  He pushed open the door to the first bedroom on the left and stepped inside. It was dark, the lights off; if Simon hadn’t had vampire sight, he probably would have seen only blackness. As it was, he saw the outlines of a wardrobe, chairs with clothes thrown over them, and a bed, covers thrown back. Isabelle was asleep on her side, her black hair fanning out across the pillow.

  Simon stared. He’d never seen Isabelle sleeping before. She looked younger than she usually did, her face relaxed, her long eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheekbones. Her mouth was slightly open, her feet curled up under her. She was wearing only a T-shirt—his T-shirt, a worn blue tee that said THE LOCH NESS MONSTER ADVENTURE CLUB: FINDING ANSWERS, IGNORING FACTS across the front.

  Simon closed the door behind him, feeling more disappointed than he had expected. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d already be asleep. He’d been wanting to talk to her, to hear her voice. He kicked his shoes off and lay down beside her. She certainly took up more real estate on the bed than Clary did. Isabelle was tall, almost his height, although when he put his hand on her shoulder, her bones felt delicate under his touch. He ran his hand down her arm. “Iz?” he said. “Isabelle?”

  She murmured and turned her face into the pillow. He leaned closer—she smelled like alcohol and rose perfume. Well, that answered that. He had been thinking about pulling her into his arms and kissing her gently, but “Simon Lewis, Molester of Passed-Out Women” wasn’t really the epitaph by which he wanted to be remembered.

  He lay down flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Cracked plaster, marked by water stains. Magnus really ought to get someone in here to do something about that. As if sensing his presence, Isabelle rolled sideways against him, her soft cheek against his shoulder. “Simon?” she said groggily.

  “Yeah.” He touched her face lightly.

  “You came.” She stretched her arm across his chest, moving so that her head fit against his shoulder. “I didn’t think you would.”

  His fingers traced patterns on her arm. “Of course I came.”

  Her next words were muffled against his neck. “Sorry I’m asleep.”

  He smiled to himself, a little, in the dark. “It’s okay. Even if all you wanted was for me to come here and hold you while you sleep, I would have done it.”

  He felt her stiffen, and then relax. “Simon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you tell me a story?”

  He blinked. “What kind of story?”

  “Something where the good guys win and the bad guys lose. And stay dead.”

  “So, like a fairy tale?” he said. He racked his brain. He knew only the Disney versions of fairy tales, and the first image that came to mind was Ariel in her seashell bra. He’d had a crush on her when he was eight. Not that this seemed like the time to mention it.

  “No.” The word was an exhaled breath. “We study fairy tales in school. A lot of that magic is real—but, anyway. No, I want something I haven’t heard yet.”

  “Okay. I’ve got a good one.” Simon stroked Isabelle’s hair, feeling her lashes flutter against his neck as she closed her eyes. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .”

  Clary didn’t know how long she’d been sitting on Luke’s front steps when the sun began to come up. It rose behind his house, the sky turning a dark pinkish-rose, the river a strip of steely blue. She was shivering, had been shivering so long that her whole body seemed to have contracted into a single hard shudder of cold. She had used two warming runes, but they hadn’t helped; she had a feeling the shivering was psychological as much as anything else.

  Would he come? If he was still as much Jace inside as she thought he was, he would; when he had mouthed that he would come back for her, she had known that he had meant as soon as possible. Jace was not patient. And he didn’t play games.

  But there was only so long she could wait. Eventually the sun would rise. The next day would begin, and her mother would be watching her again. She would have to give up on Jace, for at least another day, if not longer.

  She shut her eyes against the brightness of the sunrise, resting her elbows on the step above and behind her. For just a moment she let herself float in the fantasy that everything was as it had been, that nothing had changed, that she would meet Jace this afternoon for practice, or tonight for dinner, and he would hold her and make her laugh the way he always did.

  Warm tendrils of sunlight touched her face. Reluctantly her
eyes fluttered open.

  And he was there, walking toward her up the steps, as soundless as a cat, as always. He wore a dark blue sweater that made his hair look like sunlight. She sat up straight, her heart pounding. The brilliant sunshine seemed to outline him in light. She thought of that night in Idris, how the fireworks had streaked across the sky and she had thought of angels, falling in fire.

  He reached her and held his hands out; she took them, and let him pull her to her feet. His pale gold eyes searched her face. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

  “Since when have you not been sure of me?”

  “You were pretty angry before.” He cupped the side of her face in his hand. There was a rough scar across his palm; she could feel it against her skin.

  “So if I hadn’t been here, what would you have done?”

  He drew her close. He was shivering too, and the wind was blowing his curling hair, messy and bright. “How is Luke?”

  At the sound of Luke’s name, another shudder went through her. Jace, thinking she was cold, pulled her more tightly against him. “He’ll be all right,” she said guardedly. It’s your fault, your fault, your fault.

  “I never meant for him to get hurt.” Jace’s arms were around her, his fingers tracing a slow line up and down her spine. “Do you believe me?”

  “Jace . . . ,” Clary said. “Why are you here?”

  “To ask you again. To come with me.”

  She closed her eyes. “And you won’t tell me where that is?”

  “Faith,” he said softly. “You have to have faith. But you also have to know—once you come with me, there’s no going back. Not for a long time.”

  She thought of the moment when she’d stepped outside of Java Jones and seen him waiting for her there. Her life had changed in that moment in a way that could never be undone.

  “There never has been any going back,” she said. “Not with you.” She opened her eyes. “We should go.”

  He smiled, as brilliant as the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and she felt his body relax. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her. Reaching up to hold him, she tasted something bitter on his lips; then darkness came down like a curtain signaling the end of the act of a play.

  Part Two

  Certain Dark Things

  I love you as one loves certain dark things

  —Pablo Neruda, “Sonnet XVII”

  8

  FIRE TESTS GOLD

  Maia had never been to Long Island, but when she thought of it at all, she’d always thought of it as being a lot like New Jersey—mostly suburban, a place where people who worked in New York or Philly actually lived.

  She had dropped her bag into the back of Jordan’s truck—startlingly unfamiliar. He’d driven a beaten-up red Toyota when they’d been dating, and it had always been littered with old, crumpled coffee cups and fast-food bags, the ashtray full of cigarettes smoked down to the filter. The cab of this truck was comparatively clean, the only detritus a stack of papers on the passenger seat. He moved them aside with no comment as she climbed in.

  They hadn’t spoken through Manhattan and onto the Long Island Expressway, and eventually Maia had dozed, her cheek against the cool glass of the window. She’d finally woken when they’d gone over a bump in the road, jolting her forward. She’d blinked, rubbing at her eyes.

  “Sorry,” Jordan had said ruefully. “I was going to let you sleep until we got there.”

  She’d sat up, looking around. They’d been driving down a two-lane blacktop road, the sky around them just beginning to lighten. There were fields on either side of the road, the occasional farmhouse or silo, clapboard houses set far back with picket fences around them.

  “It’s pretty,” she’d said in surprise.

  “Yeah.” Jordan had changed gears, clearing his throat. “Since you’re up anyway . . . Before we get to the Praetor House, can I show you something?”

  She’d hesitated only a moment before nodding. And now here they were, bumping down a one lane dirt road, trees on either side. Most were leafless; the road was muddy, and Maia cranked the window down to smell the air. Trees, salt water, softly decaying leaves, small animals running through the high grass. She took another deep breath just as they bumped off the road and onto a small circular turnaround space. In front of them was the beach, stretching down to dark steel-blue water. The sky was almost lilac.

  She looked over at Jordan. He was staring straight ahead. “I used to come here while I was training at the Praetor House,” he said. “Sometimes just to look at the water and clear my head. The sunrises here . . . Every one is different, but they’re all beautiful.”

  “Jordan.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry about before. About running off, you know, in the navy yard.”

  “It’s fine.” He let his breath out slowly, but she could tell by the tension in his shoulders, his hand gripping the gearshift, that it wasn’t, not really. She tried not to look at the way the tension shaped the muscles in his arm, accenting the indentation of his bicep. “It was a lot for you to take in; I get that. I just . . .”

  “I think we should take it slow. Work toward being friends.”

  “I don’t want to be friends,” he said.

  She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You don’t?”

  He moved his hands from the gearshift to the steering wheel. Warm air poured from the heater inside the car, mixing with the cooler air outside Maia’s open window. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”

  “I want to,” she said. “I want to talk about it now. I don’t want to be stressing about us when we’re in the Praetor House.”

  He slid down in his seat, chewing his lip. His tangled brown hair fell forward over his forehead. “Maia . . .”

  “If you don’t want to be friends, then what are we? Enemies again?”

  He turned his head, his cheek against the back of the car seat. Those eyes, they were just as she remembered, hazel with flecks of green and blue and gold. “I don’t want to be friends,” he said, “because I still love you. Maia, you know I haven’t even so much as kissed anyone since we broke up?”

  “Isabelle . . .”

  “Wanted to get drunk and talk about Simon.” He took his hands off the steering wheel, reached for her, then dropped them back into his lap, a defeated look on his face. “I’ve only ever loved you. Thinking about you got me through my training. The idea that I might be able to make it up to you someday. And I will, in any way that I can except for one.”

  “You won’t be my friend.”

  “I won’t be just your friend. I love you, Maia. I’m in love with you. I always have been. I always will be. Just being your friend would kill me.”

  She looked out toward the ocean. The rim of the sun was just showing above the water, its rays lighting the sea in shades of purple and gold and blue. “It’s so beautiful here.”

  “That’s why I used to come here. I couldn’t sleep, and I’d watch the sun come up.” His voice was soft.

  “Can you sleep now?” She turned back to him.

  He closed his eyes. “Maia . . . if you’re going to say no, you don’t want to be anything but friends with me, . . . just say it. Rip the Band-Aid off, okay?”

  He looked braced, as if for a blow. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. There were pale white scars on the olive skin of his throat, scars she had made. She unclipped her seat belt and scooted across the bench seat toward him. She heard his gasp of breath, but he didn’t move as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. She inhaled the scent of him. Same soap, same shampoo, but no lingering scent of cigarettes. Same boy. She kissed across his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, and finally, edging even closer, set her mouth over his.

  His lips opened under hers and he growled, low in his throat. Werewolves weren’t gentle with each other, but his hands were light on her as he lifted her and set her on his lap,
wrapping his arms around her as their kiss deepened. The feel of him, the warmth of his corduroy-covered arms around her, the beat of his heart, the taste of his mouth, the clash of lips, teeth, and tongue, stole her breath. Her hands slipped around the back of his neck, and she melted against him as she felt the soft thick curls of his hair, exactly the same as it had always been.

  When they finally drew apart, his eyes were glassy. “I’ve been waiting for that for years.”

  She traced the line of his collarbone with a finger. She could feel her own heart beating. For a few moments they hadn’t been two werewolves on a mission to a deadly secret organization—they’d been two teenagers, making out in a car on the beach. “Did it live up to your expectations?”

  “It was much better.” His mouth crooked up at the corner. “Does this mean . . .”

  “Well,” she said. “That’s not the sort of thing you do with your friends, right?”

  “Isn’t it? I’ll have to tell Simon. He’s going to be seriously disappointed.”

  “Jordan.” She hit him lightly in the shoulder, but she was smiling, and so was he, an uncharacteristically big, goofy grin spreading over his face. She bent close and put her face against the crook of his neck, breathing him in along with the morning.

  They were battling across the frozen lake, the icy city glowing like a lamp in the distance. The angel with the golden wings and the angel with the wings like black fire. Clary stood on the ice as blood and feathers fell around her. The golden feathers burned like fire where they touched her skin, but the black feathers were as cold as ice.

  Clary awoke with her heart pounding, tangled in a knot of blankets. She sat up, pushing the blankets to her waist. She was in an unfamiliar room. The walls were white plaster, and she was lying in a bed made of black wood, still wearing the clothes she’d worn the night before. She slid out of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, and looked around for her backpack.