City of Bones

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City of Bones
Book One of the Mortal Instruments
Cassandra Clare
For my grandfather
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my writing group, the Massachusetts All-Stars: Ellen Kushner, Delia Sherman, Kelly
Link, Gavin Grant, Holly Black, and Sarah Smith. Also, Tom Holt and Peg Kerr for encouraging me before
there ever was a book, and Justine Larbalestier and Eve Sinaiko for giving me their thoughts on it once it was.
My mother and father for their dedication, affection, and unswerving belief that I would eventually produce
something publishable. Jim Hill and Kate Connor for their encouragement and support. Eric for vampire
motorbikes that run on demon energies and Elka for looking better in black than the widows of her enemies.
Theo and Val for creating beautiful images to go with my prose. My glamorous agent, Barry Goldblatt, and
my talented editor, Karen Wojtyla. Holly for living through this book with me, and Josh for making it all
worthwhile.
I have not slept.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
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Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:
The Genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.
-William Shakespeare,Julius Caesar
Part One
Dark Descent
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to
reascend... -John Milton,Paradise Lost
1 Pandemonium
"You've got to be kidding me," the bouncer said, folding his
arms across his massive chest. He stared down at the boy in the red zip-up jacket and shook his shaved head.
"You can't bring that thing in here."
The fifty or so teenagers in line outside the Pandemonium Club leaned forward to eavesdrop. It was a long
wait to get into the all-ages club, especially on a Sunday, and not much generally happened in line. The
bouncers were fierce and would come down instantly on anyone who looked like they were going to start
trouble. Fifteen-year-old Clary Fray, standing in line with her best friend, Simon, leaned forward along with
everyone else, hoping for some excitement.
"Aw, come on." The kid hoisted the thing up over his head. It looked like a wooden beam, pointed at
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one end. "It's part of my costume."
The bouncer raised an eyebrow. "Which is what?"
The boy grinned. He was normal-enough-looking, Clary thought, for Pandemonium. He had electric blue
dyed hair that stuck up around his head like the tendrils of a startled octopus, but no elaborate facial tattoos or
big metal bars through his ears or lips. "I'm a vampire hunter." He pushed down on the wooden thing. It bent

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as easily as a blade of grass bending sideways. "It's fake. Foam rubber. See?"
The boy's wide eyes were way too bright a green, Clary noticed: the color of antifreeze, spring grass. Colored
contact lenses, probably. The bouncer shrugged, abruptly bored. "Whatever. Go on in."
The boy slid past him, quick as an eel. Clary liked the lilt to his shoulders, the way he tossed his hair as he
went. There was a word for him that her mother would have used-insouciant.
"You thought he was cute," said Simon, sounding resigned. "Didn't you?"
Clary dug her elbow into his ribs, but didn't answer.
Inside, the club was full of dry-ice smoke. Colored lights played over the dance floor, turning it into a
multicolored fairyland of blues and acid greens, hot pinks and golds.
The boy in the red jacket stroked the long razor-sharp blade in his hands, an idle smile playing over his lips. It
had been so easy-a little bit of a glamour on the blade, to make it look harmless. Another glamour on his eyes,
and the moment the bouncer had looked straight at him, he was in. Of course, he could probably have gotten
by without all that trouble, but it was part of the fun-fooling the mundies, doing it all out in the open right in
front of them, getting off on the blank looks on their sheeplike faces.
Not that the humans didn't have their uses. The boy's green eyes scanned the dance floor, where slender limbs
clad in scraps of silk and black leather appeared and disappeared inside the revolving columns of smoke as the
mundies danced. Girls tossed their long hair, boys swung their leather-clad hips, and bare skin glittered with
sweat. Vitality justpoured off them, waves of energy that filled him with a drunken dizziness. His lip curled.
They didn't know how lucky they were. They didn't know what it was like to eke out life in a dead world,
where the sun hung limp in the sky like a burned cinder. Their lives burned as brightly as candle flames-and
were as easy to snuff out.
His hand tightened on the blade he carried, and he had begun to step out onto the dance floor when a girl
broke away from the mass of dancers and began walking toward him. He stared at her. She was beautiful, for a
human-long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, charcoaled eyes. Floor-length white gown, the kind
women used to wear when this world was younger. Lace sleeves belled out around her slim arms. Around her
neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red pendant the size of a baby's fist. He only had to
narrow his eyes to know that it was real-real and precious. His mouth started to water as she neared him. Vital
energy pulsed from her like blood from an open wound. She smiled, passing him, beckoning with her eyes. He
turned to follow her, tasting the phantom sizzle of her death on his lips.
It was always easy. He could already feel the power of her evaporating life coursing through his veins like
fire. Humans were so stupid. They had something so precious, and they barely safeguarded it at all.
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They threw away their lives for money, for packets of powder, for a stranger's charming smile. The girl
was a pale ghost retreating through the colored smoke. She reached the wall and turned, bunching her
skirt up in her hands, lifting it as she grinned at him. Under the skirt, she was wearing thigh-high boots.
He sauntered up to her, his skin prickling with her nearness. Up close she wasn't so perfect: He could
see the mascara smudged under her eyes, the sweat sticking her hair to her neck. He could smell her
mortality, the sweet rot of corruption.Got you, he thought.
A cool smile curled her lips. She moved to the side, and he could see that she was leaning against a
closed door, no admittance-storage was scrawled across it in red paint. She reached behind her for the
knob, turned it, slid inside. He caught a glimpse of stacked boxes, tangled wiring. A storage room. He
glanced behind him-no one was looking. So much the better if she wanted privacy.
He slipped into the room after her, unaware that he was being followed.
"So," Simon said, "pretty good music, eh?"
Clary didn't reply. They were dancing, or what passed for it- a lot of swaying back and forth with
occasional lunges toward the floor as if one of them had dropped a contact lens-in a space between a

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group of teenage boys in metallic corsets, and a young Asian couple who were making out passionately,
their colored hair extensions tangled together like vines. A boy with a lip piercing and a teddy bear
backpack was handing out free tablets of herbal ecstasy, his parachute pants flapping in the breeze from
the wind machine. Clary wasn't paying much attention to their immediate surroundings-her eyes were on
the blue-haired boy who'd talked his way into the club. He was prowling through the crowd as if he were
looking for something. There was something about the way he moved that reminded her of something...
"I, for one," Simon went on, "am enjoying myself immensely."
This seemed unlikely. Simon, as always, stuck out at the club like a sore thumb, in jeans and an old
T-shirt that said made in Brooklyn across the front. His freshly scrubbed hair was dark brown instead of
green or pink, and his glasses perched crookedly on the end of his nose. He looked less as if he were
contemplating the powers of darkness and more as if he were on his way to chess club.
"Mmm-hmm." Clary knew perfectly well that he came to Pandemonium with her only because she liked
it, that he thought it was boring. She wasn't even sure why it was that she liked it- the clothes, the music
made it like a dream, someone else's life, not her boring real life at all. But she was always too shy to talk
to anyone but Simon.
The blue-haired boy was making his way off the dance floor. He looked a little lost, as if he hadn't found
whom he was looking for. Clary wondered what would happen if she went up and introduced herself,
offered to show him around. Maybe he'd just stare at her. Or maybe he was shy too. Maybe he'd be
grateful and pleased, and try not to show it, the way boys did- but she'd know. MaybeÂThe
blue-haired boy straightened up suddenly, snapping to attention, like a hunting dog on point. Clary
followed the line of his gaze, and saw the girl in the white dress.
Oh, well,
Clary thought, trying not to feel like a deflated party balloon.I guess that's that. The girl was gorgeous,
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the kind of girl Clary would have liked to draw-tall and ribbon-slim, with a long spill of black hair. Even at
this distance Clary could see the red pendant around her throat. It pulsed under the lights of the dance floor
like a separate, disembodied heart.
"I feel," Simon went on, "that this evening DJ Bat is doing a singularly exceptional job. Don't you agree?"
Clary rolled her eyes and didn't answer; Simon hated trance music. Her attention was on the girl in the white
dress. Through the darkness, smoke, and artificial fog, her pale dress shone out like a beacon. No wonder the
blue-haired boy was following her as if he were under a spell, too distracted to notice anything else around
him-even the two dark shapes hard on his heels, weaving after him through the crowd.
Clary slowed her dancing and stared. She could just make out that the shapes were boys, tall and wearing
black clothes. She couldn't have said how she knew that they were following the other boy, but she did. She
could see it in the way they paced him, their careful watchfulness, the slinking grace of their movements. A
small flower of apprehension began to open inside her chest.
"Meanwhile," Simon added, "I wanted to tell you that lately I've been cross-dressing. Also, I'm sleeping with
your mom. I thought you should know."
The girl had reached the wall, and was opening a door marked no admittance. She beckoned the blue-haired
boy after her, and they slipped through the door. It wasn't anything Clary hadn't seen before, a couple sneaking
off to the dark corners of the club to make out-but that made it even weirder that they were being followed.
She raised herself up on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd. The two guys had stopped at the door and
seemed to be conferring with each other. One of them was blond, the other dark-haired. The blond one reached
into his jacket and drew out something long and sharp that flashed under the strobing lights. A knife. "Simon!"
Clary shouted, and seized his arm.

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"What?" Simon looked alarmed. "I'm not really sleeping with your mom, you know. I was just trying to get
your attention. Not that your mom isn't a very attractive woman, for her age."
"Do you see those guys?" She pointed wildly, almost hitting a curvy black girl who was dancing nearby. The
girl shot her an evil look. "Sorry-sorry!" Clary turned back to Simon. "Do you see those two guys over there?
By that door?"
Simon squinted, then shrugged. "I don't see anything."
"There are two of them. They were following the guy with the blue hair-"
"The one you thought was cute?"
"Yes, but that's not the point. The blond one pulled a knife."
"Are yousure?" Simon stared harder, shaking his head. "I still don't see anyone."
"I'm sure."
Suddenly all business, Simon squared his shoulders. "I'll get one of the security guards. You stay here." He
strode away, pushing through the crowd.
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Clary turned just in time to see the blond boy slip through the no admittance door, his friend right on his heels.
She looked around; Simon was still trying to shove his way across the dance floor, but he wasn't making much
progress. Even if she yelled now, no one would hear her, and by the time Simon got back, something terrible
mightalready have happened. Biting hard on her lower lip, Clary started to wriggle through the crowd.
"What's your name?"
She turned and smiled. What faint light there was in the storage room spilled down through high barred
windows smeared with dirt. Piles of electrical cables, along with broken bits of mirrored disco balls and
discarded paint cans littered the floor.
"Isabelle."
"That's a nice name." He walked toward her, stepping carefully among the wires in case any of them were
live. In the faint light she looked half-transparent, bleached of color, wrapped in white like an angel. It would
be a pleasure to make her fall..."I haven't seen you here before."
"You're asking me if I come here often?" She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. There was some
sort of bracelet around her wrist, just under the cuff of her dress-then, as he neared her, he saw that it wasn't a
bracelet at all but a pattern inked into her skin, a matrix of swirling lines.
He froze. "You-"
He didn't finish. She moved with lightning swiftness, striking out at him with her open hand, a blow to his
chest that would have sent him down gasping if he'd been a human being. He staggered back, and now there
was something in her hand, a coiling whip that glinted gold as she brought it down, curling around his ankles,
jerking him off his feet. He hit the ground, writhing, the hated metal biting deep into his skin. She laughed,
standing over him, and dizzily he thought that he should haveknown. No human girl would wear a dress like
the one Isabelle wore. She'd worn it to cover her skin-all of her skin.
Isabelle yanked hard on the whip, securing it. Her smile glittered like poisonous water. "He's all yours, boys."
A low laugh sounded behind him, and now there were hands on him, hauling him upright, throwing him
against one of the concrete pillars. He could feel the damp stone under his back. His hands were pulled behind
him, his wrists bound with wire. As he struggled, someone walked around the side of the pillar into his view: a
boy, as young as Isabelle and just as pretty. His tawny eyes glittered like chips of amber. "So," the boy said.
"Are there any more with you?"
The blue-haired boy could feel blood welling up under the too-tight metal, making his wrists slippery. "Any
other what?"
"Come on now." The tawny-eyed boy held up his hands, and his dark sleeves slipped down, showing the
runes inked all over his wrists, the backs of his hands, his palms. "You know what I am."
Far back inside his skull, the shackled boy's second set of teeth began to grind.
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"Shadowhunter,"
he hissed.
The other boy grinned all over his face. "Got you," he said.

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Clary pushed the door to the storage room open, and stepped inside. For a moment she thought it was
deserted. The only windows were high up and barred; faint street noise came through them, the sound of
honking cars and squealing brakes. The room smelled like old paint, and a heavy layer of dust covered the
floor, marked by smeared shoe prints.
There's no one in here,
she realized, looking around in bewilderment. It was cold in the room, despite the August heat outside. Her
back was icy with sweat. She took a step forward, tangling her feet in electrical wires. She bent down to free
her sneaker from the cables-and heard voices. A girl's laugh, a boy answering sharply. When she straightened
up, she saw them.
It was as if they had sprung into existence between one blink of her eyes and the next. There was the girl in
her long white dress, her black hair hanging down her back like damp seaweed. The two boys were with
her-the tall one with black hair like hers, and the smaller, fair one, whose hair gleamed like brass in the dim
light coming through the windows high above. The fair boy was standing with his hands in his pockets, facing
the punk kid, who was tied to a pillar with what looked like piano wire, his hands stretched behind him, his
legs bound at the ankles. His face was pulled tight with pain and fear.
Heart hammering in her chest, Clary ducked behind the nearest concrete pillar and peered around it. She
watched as the fair-haired boy paced back and forth, his arms now crossed over his chest. "So," he said. "You
still haven't told me if there are any other of your kind with you."
Your kind?
Clary wondered what he was talking about. Maybe she'd stumbled into some kind of gang war.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The blue-haired boy's tone was pained but surly.
"He means other demons," said the dark-haired boy, speaking for the first time. "You do know what a demon
is, don't you?"
The boy tied to the pillar turned his face away, his mouth working.
"Demons," drawled the blond boy, tracing the word on the air with his finger. "Religiously defined as hell's
denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purposes of the Clave, to be any malevolent spirit
whose origin is outside our own home dimension-"
"That's enough, Jace," said the girl.
"Isabelle's right," agreed the taller boy. "Nobody here needs a lesson in semantics-or demonology."
They're crazy,
Clary thought.Actually crazy.
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Jace raised his head and smiled. There was something fierce about the gesture, something that reminded Clary
of documentaries she'd watched about lions on the Discovery Channel, the way the big cats would raise their
heads and sniff the air for prey. "Isabelle and Alec think I talk too much," he said, confidingly. "Doyou think I
talk too much?"
The blue-haired boy didn't reply. His mouth was still working. "I could give you information," he said. "I
know where Valentine is."
Jace glanced back at Alec, who shrugged. "Valentine's in the ground," Jace said. "The thing's just toying with
us."
Isabelle tossed her hair. "Kill it, Jace," she said. "It's not going to tell us anything."
Jace raised his hand, and Clary saw dim light spark off the knife he was holding. It was oddly translucent, the
blade clear as crystal, sharp as a shard of glass, the hilt set with red stones.
The bound boy gasped. "Valentine is back!" he protested, dragging at the bonds that held his hands behind his
back. "All the Infernal Worlds know it-I know it-I can tell you where he is-"
Rage flared suddenly in Jace's icy eyes. "By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim
you know where Valentine is. Well, we know where he is too. He's in hell. And you-" Jace turned the knife in
his grasp, the edge sparking like a line of fire. "You canjoin him there."
Clary could take no more. She stepped out from behind the pillar. "Stop!" she cried. "You can't do this."
Jace whirled, so startled that the knife flew from his hand and clattered against the concrete floor. Isabelle and

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Alec turned along with him, wearing identical expressions of astonishment. The blue-haired boy hung in his
bonds, stunned and gaping.
It was Alec who spoke first. "What's this?" he demanded, looking from Clary to his companions, as if they
might know what she was doing there.
"It's a girl," Jace said, recovering his composure. "Surely you've seen girls before, Alec. Your sister Isabelle is
one." He took a step closer to Clary, squinting as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "A mundie
girl," he said, half to himself. "And she can see us."
"Of course I can see you," Clary said. "I'm not blind, you know."
"Oh, but you are," said Jace, bending to pick up his knife. "You just don't know it." He straightened up.
"You'd better get out of here, if you know what's good for you."
"I'm not going anywhere," Clary said. "If I do, you'll kill him." She pointed at the boy with the blue hair.
"That's true," admitted Jace, twirling the knife between his fingers. "What do you care if I kill him or not?"
"Be-because-," Clary spluttered. "You can't just go around killing people."
"You're right," said Jace. "You can't go around killing people." He pointed at the boy with blue hair, whose
eyes were slitted. Clary wondered if he'd fainted. "That's not a person, little girl. It may look like a
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person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it's a monster."
"Jace,"
said Isabelle warningly. "That's enough."
"You're crazy," Clary said, backing away from him. "I've called the police, you know. They'll be here any
second."
"She's lying," said Alec, but there was doubt on his face. "Jace, do you-"
He never got to finish his sentence. At that moment the blue-haired boy, with a high, yowling cry, tore free of
the restraints binding him to the pillar, and flung himself on Jace.
They fell to the ground and rolled together, the blue-haired boy tearing at Jace with hands that glittered as if
tipped with metal. Clary backed up, wanting to run, but her feet caught on a loop of wiring and she went
down, knocking the breath out of her chest. She could hear Isabelle shrieking. Rolling over, Clary saw the
blue-haired boy sitting on Jace's chest. Blood gleamed at the tips of his razorlike claws.
Isabelle and Alec were running toward them, Isabelle brandishing a whip in her hand. The blue-haired boy
slashed at Jace with claws extended. Jace threw an arm up to protect himself, and the claws raked it,
splattering blood. The blue-haired boy lunged again-and Isabelle's whip came down across his back. He
shrieked and fell to the side.
Swift as a flick of Isabelle's whip, Jace rolled over. There was a blade gleaming in his hand. He sank the knife
into the blue-haired boy's chest. Blackish liquid exploded around the hilt. The boy arched off the floor,
gurgling and twisting. With a grimace Jace stood up. His black shirt was blacker now in some places, wet with
blood. He looked down at the twitching form at his feet, reached down, and yanked out the knife. The hilt was
slick with black fluid.
The blue-haired boy's eyes flickered open. His eyes, fixed on Jace, seemed to burn. Between his teeth, he
hissed,"So be it. The Forsaken will take you all."
Jace seemed to snarl. The boy's eyes rolled back. His body began to jerk and twitch as he crumpled, folding in
on himself, growing smaller and smaller until he vanished entirely.
Clary scrambled to her feet, kicking free of the electrical wiring. She began to back away. None of them was
paying attention to her. Alec had reached Jace and was holding his arm, pulling at the sleeve, probably trying
to get a good look at the wound. Clary turned to run-and found her way blocked by Isabelle, whip in hand. The
gold length of it was stained with dark fluid. She flicked it toward Clary, and the end wrapped itself around
her wrist and jerked tight. Clary gasped with pain and surprise.
"Stupid little mundie," Isabelle said between her teeth. "You could have gotten Jace killed."
"He's crazy," Clary said, trying to pull her wrist back. The whip bit deeper into her skin. "You're all crazy.
What do you think you are, vigilante killers? The police-"
"The police aren't usually interested unless you can produce a body," said Jace. Cradling his arm, he picked
his way across the cable-strewn floor toward Clary. Alec followed behind him, face screwed into a scowl.

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Clary glanced at the spot where the boy had disappeared from, and said nothing. There wasn't even a
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smear of blood there-nothing to show that the boy had ever existed.
"They return to their home dimensions when they die," said Jace. "In case you were wondering."
"Jace," Alec hissed. "Be careful."
Jace drew his arm away. A ghoulish freckling of blood marked his face. He still reminded her of a lion, with
his wide-spaced, light-colored eyes, and that tawny gold hair. "She can see us, Alec," he said. "She already
knows too much."
"So what do you want me to do with her?" Isabelle demanded.
"Let her go," Jace said quietly. Isabelle shot him a surprised, almost angry look, but didn't argue. The whip
slithered away, freeing Clary's arm. She rubbed her sore wrist and wondered how the hell she was going to get
out of there.
"Maybe we should bring her back with us," Alec said. "I bet Hodge would like to talk to her."
"No way are we bringing her to the Institute," said Isabelle. "She's amundie."
"Or is she?" said Jace softly. His quiet tone was worse than Isabelle's snapping or Alec's anger. "Have you
had dealings with demons, little girl? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you-"
"My name is not 'little girl,'" Clary interrupted. "And I have no idea what you're talking about."Don't you?
said a voice in the back of her head. Yousaw that boy vanish into thin air. Jace isn't crazy -you just wish he
was."I don't believe in-in demons, or whatever you-"
"Clary?" It was Simon's voice. She whirled around. He was standing by the storage room door. One of the
burly bouncers who'd been stamping hands at the front door was next to him. "Are you okay?" He peered at
her through the gloom. "Why are you in here by yourself? What happened to the guys-you know, the ones
with the knives?"
Clary stared at him, then looked behind her, where Jace, Isabelle, and Alec stood, Jace still in his bloody shirt
with the knife in his hand. He grinned at her and dropped a half-apologetic, half-mocking shrug. Clearly he
wasn't surprised that neither Simon nor the bouncer could see them.
Somehow neither was Clary. Slowly she turned back to Simon, knowing how she must look to him, standing
alone in a damp storage room, her feet tangled in bright plastic wiring cables. "I thought they went in here,"
she said lamely. "But I guess they didn't. I'm sorry." She glanced from Simon, whose expression was changing
from worried to embarrassed, to the bouncer, who just looked annoyed. "It was a mistake."
Behind her, Isabelle giggled.
"I don't believe it," Simon said stubbornly as Clary, standing at the curb, tried desperately to hail a cab. Street
cleaners had come down Orchard while they were inside the club, and the street was glossed black with oily
water.
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"I know," she agreed. "You'd think there'd besome cabs. Where is everyone going at midnight on a Sunday?"
She turned back to him, shrugging. "You think we'd have better luck on Houston?"
"Not the cabs," Simon said. "You-I don't believe you. I don't believe those guys with the knives just
disappeared."
Clary sighed. "Maybe there weren't any guys with knives, Simon. Maybe I just imagined the whole thing."
"No way." Simon raised his hand over his head, but the oncoming taxis whizzed by him, spraying dirty water.
"I saw your face when I came into that storage room. You looked seriously freaked out, like you'd seen a
ghost."
Clary thought of Jace with his lion-cat eyes. She glanced down at her wrist, braceleted by a thin red line
where Isabelle's whip had curled.No, not a ghost, she thought.Something even weirder than that.
"It was just a mistake," she said wearily. She wondered why she wasn't telling him the truth. Except, of
course, that he'd think she was crazy. And there was something about what had happened-something about the
black blood bubbling up around Jace's knife, something about his voice when he'd saidHave you talked with
the Night Children? that she wanted to keep to herself.
"Well, it was a hell of an embarrassing mistake," Simon said. He glanced back at the club, where a thin line
still snaked out the door and halfway down the block. "I doubt they'll ever let us back into Pandemonium."

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"What do you care? You hate Pandemonium." Clary raised her hand again as a yellow shape sped toward
them through the fog. This time, though, the taxi screeched to a halt at their corner, the driver laying into his
horn as if he needed to get their attention.
"Finally we get lucky." Simon yanked the taxi door open and slid onto the plastic-covered backseat. Clary
followed, inhaling the familiar New York cab smell of old cigarette smoke, leather, and hair spray. "We're
going to Brooklyn," Simon said to the cabbie, and then he turned to Clary. "Look, you know you can tell me
anything, right?"
Clary hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Sure, Simon," she said. "I know I can."
She slammed the cab door shut behind her, and the taxi took off into the night.
2
Secrets and Lies
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The dark prince sat astride his black steed, his sable cape
flowing behind him. A golden circlet bound his blond locks, his handsome face was cold with the rage of
battle, and...
"And his arm looked like an eggplant," Clary muttered to herself in exasperation. The drawing just wasn't
working. With a sigh she tore yet another sheet from her sketchpad, crumpled it up, and tossed it against the
orange wall of her bedroom. Already the floor was littered with discarded balls of paper, a sure sign that her
creative juices weren't flowing the way she'd hoped. She wished for the thousandth time that she could be a bit
more like her mother. Everything Jocelyn Fray drew, painted, or sketched was beautiful, and seemingly
effortless.
Clary pulled her headphones out-cutting off Stepping Razor in midsong-and rubbed her aching temples. It
was only then that she became aware that the loud, piercing sound of a ringing telephone was echoing through
the apartment. Tossing the sketchpad onto the bed, she jumped to her feet and ran into the living room, where
the retro-red phone sat on a table near the front door.
"Is this Clarissa Fray?" The voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar, though not immediately
identifiable.
Clary twirled the phone cord nervously around her finger. "Yeees?"
"Hi, I'm one of the knife-carrying hooligans you met last night in Pandemonium? I'm afraid I made a bad
impression and was hoping you'd give me a chance to make it up to-"
"SIMON!" Clary held the phone away from her ear as he cracked up laughing. "That is so not funny!"
"Sure it is. You just don't see the humor."
"Jerk." Clary sighed, leaning up against the wall. "You wouldn't be laughing if you'd been here when I got
home last night."
"Why not?"
"My mom. She wasn't happy that we were late. She freaked out. It was messy."
"What? It's not our fault there was traffic!" Simon protested. He was the youngest of three children and had a
finely honed sense of familial injustice.
"Yeah, well, she doesn't see it that way. I disappointed her, I let her down, I made her worry, blah blah blah. I
am thebane of herexistence," Clary said, mimicking her mother's precise phrasing with only a slight twinge of
guilt.
"So, are you grounded?" Simon asked, a little too loudly. Clary could hear a low rumble of voices behind
him; people talking over each other.
"I don't know yet," she said. "My mom went out this morning with Luke, and they're not back yet. Where are
you, anyway? Eric's?"
"Yeah. We just finished up practice." A cymbal clashed behind Simon. Clary winced. "Eric's doing a poetry
reading over at Java Jones tonight," Simon went on, naming a coffee shop around the corner from Clary's that

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sometimes had live music at night. "The whole band's going to go to show their support.
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Want to come?"
"Yeah, all right." Clary paused, tugging on the phone cord anxiously. "Wait, no."
"Shut up, guys, will you?" Simon yelled, the faintness of his voice making Clary suspect that he was holding
the phone away from his mouth. He was back a second later, sounding troubled. "Was that a yes or a no?"
"I don't know." Clary bit her lip. "My mom's still mad at me about last night. I'm not sure I want to piss her
off by asking for any favors. If I'm going to get in trouble, I don't want it to be on account of Eric's lousy
poetry."
"Come on, it's not so bad," Simon said. Eric was his next-door neighbor, and the two had known each other
most of their lives. They weren't close the way Simon and Clary were, but they had formed a rock band
together at the start of sophomore year, along with Eric's friends Matt and Kirk. They practiced together
faithfully in Eric's parents' garage every week. "Besides, it's not a favor," Simon added, "it's a poetry slam
around the block from your house. It's not like I'm inviting you to some orgy in Hoboken. Your mom can
come along if she wants."
"ORGY IN HOBOKEN!" Clary heard someone, probably Eric, yell. Another cymbal crashed. She imagined
her mother listening to Eric read his poetry, and she shuddered inwardly.
"I don't know. If all of you show up here, I think she'll freak."
"Then I'll come alone. I'll pick you up and we can walk over there together, meet the rest of them there. Your
mom won't mind. She loves me."
Clary had to laugh. "Sign of her questionable taste, if you ask me."
"Nobody did." Simon clicked off, amid shouts from his bandmates.
Clary hung up the phone and glanced around the living room. Evidence of her mother's artistic tendencies was
everywhere, from the handmade velvet throw pillows piled on the dark red sofa to the walls hung with
Jocelyn's paintings, carefully framed-landscapes, mostly: the winding streets of downtown Manhattan lit with
golden light; scenes of Prospect Park in winter, the gray ponds edged with lacelike films of white ice.
On the mantel over the fireplace was a framed photo of Clary's father. A thoughtful-looking fair man in
military dress, his eyes bore the telltale traces of laugh lines at the corners. He'd been a decorated soldier
serving overseas. Jocelyn had some of his medals in a small box by her bed. Not that the medals had done
anyone any good when Jonathan Clark had crashed his car into a tree just outside Albany and died before his
daughter was even born.
Jocelyn had gone back to using her maiden name after he died. She never talked about Clary's father, but she
kept the box engraved with his initials, J. C, next to her bed. Along with the medals were one or two photos, a
wedding ring, and a single lock of blond hair. Sometimes Jocelyn took the box out and opened it and held the
lock of hair very gently in her hands before putting it back and carefully locking the box up again.
The sound of the key turning in the front door roused Clary out of her reverie. Hastily she threw herself down
on the couch and tried to look as if she were immersed in one of the paperbacks her mother had
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left stacked on the end table. Jocelyn recognized reading as a sacred pastime and usually wouldn't interrupt
Clary in the middle of a book, even to yell at her.
The door opened with a thump. It was Luke, his arms full of what looked like big square pieces of pasteboard.
When he set them down, Clary saw that they were cardboard boxes, folded flat. He straightened up and turned
to her with a smile.
"Hey, Un-hey, Luke," she said. He'd asked her to stop calling him Uncle Luke about a year ago, claiming that
it made him feel old, and anyway reminded him of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Besides, he'd reminded her gently, he
wasn't really her uncle, just a close friend of her mother's who'd known her all her life. "Where's Mom?"
"Parking the truck," he said, straightening his lanky frame with a groan. He was dressed in his usual uniform:
old jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bent pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that sat askew on the bridge of his nose.
"Remind me again why this building has no service elevator?"
"Because it's old, and hascharacter," Clary said immediately. Luke grinned. "What are the boxes for?" she
asked.

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His grin vanished. "Your mother wanted to pack up some things," he said, avoiding her gaze.
"What things?" Clary asked.
He gave an airy wave. "Extra stuff lying around the house. Getting in the way. You know she never throws
anything out. So what are you up to? Studying?" He plucked the book out of her hand and read out loud:"The
world still teems with those motley beings whom a more sober philosophy has discarded. Fairies and goblins,
ghosts and demons, still hover about -" He lowered the book and looked at her over his glasses. "Is this for
school?"
"The Golden Bough?
No. School's not for a few weeks." Clary took the book back from him. "It's my mom's."
"I had a feeling."
She dropped it back on the table. "Luke?"
"Uh-huh?" The book already forgotten, he was rummaging in the tool kit next to the hearth. "Ah, here it is."
He pulled out an orange plastic tape gun and gazed at it with deep satisfaction.
"What would you do if you saw something nobody else could see?"
The tape gun fell out of Luke's hand, and hit the tiled hearth. He knelt to pick it up, not looking at her. "You
mean if I were the only witness to a crime, that sort of thing?"
"No. I mean, if there were other people around, but you were the only one who could see something. As if it
were invisible to everyone but you."
He hesitated, still kneeling, the dented tape gun gripped in his hand.
"I know it sounds crazy," Clary ventured nervously, "but..."
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He turned around. His eyes, very blue behind the glasses, rested on her with a look of firm affection. "Clary,
you're an artist, like your mother. That means you see the world in ways that other people don't. It's your gift,
to see the beauty and the horror in ordinary things. It doesn't make you crazy-just different. There's nothing
wrong with being different."
Clary pulled her legs up, and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind's eye she saw the storage room,
Isabelle's gold whip, the blue-haired boy convulsing in his death spasms, and Jace's tawny eyes.Beauty and
horror. She said, "If my dad had lived, do you think he'd have been an artist too?"
Luke looked taken aback. Before he could answer her, the door swung open and Clary's mother stalked into
the room, her boot heels clacking on the polished wooden floor. She handed Luke a set of jingling car keys
and turned to look at her daughter.
Jocelyn Fray was a slim, compact woman, her hair a few shades darker than Clary's and twice as long. At the
moment it was twisted up in a dark red knot, stuck through with a graphite pen to hold it in place. She wore
paint-spattered overalls over a lavender T-shirt, and brown hiking boots whose soles were caked with oil paint.
People always told Clary that she looked like her mother, but she couldn't see it herself. The only thing that
was similar about them was their figures: They were both slender, with small chests and narrow hips. She
knew she wasn't beautiful like her mother was. To be beautiful you had to be willowy and tall. When you were
as short as Clary was, just over five feet, you were cute. Not pretty or beautiful, but cute. Throw in carroty hair
and a face full of freckles, and she was a Raggedy Ann to her mother's Barbie doll.
Jocelyn even had a graceful way of walking that made people turn their heads to watch her go by. Clary, by
contrast, was always tripping over her feet. The only time people turned to watch her go by was when she
hurtled past them as she fell downstairs.
"Thanks for bringing the boxes up," Clary's mother said to Luke, and smiled at him. He didn't return the
smile. Clary's stomach did an uneasy flip. Clearly there was something going on. "Sorry it took me so long to
find a space. There must be a million people at the park today-"
"Mom?" Clary interrupted. "What are the boxes for?"
Jocelyn bit her lip. Luke flicked his eyes toward Clary, mutely urging Jocelyn forward. With a nervous twitch
of her wrist, Jocelyn pushed a dangling lock of hair behind her ear and went to join her daughter on the couch.
Up close Clary could see how tired her mother looked. There were dark half-moons under her eyes, and her
lids were pearly with sleeplessness.
"Is this about last night?" Clary asked.

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"No," her mother said quickly, and then hesitated. "Maybe a little. You shouldn't have done what you did last
night. You know better."
"And I already apologized. What is this about? If you're grounding me, get it over with."
"I'm not," said her mother, "grounding you." Her voice was as taut as a wire. She glanced at Luke, who shook
his head.
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"Just tell her, Jocelyn," he said.
"Could you not talk about me like I'm not here?" Clary said angrily. "And what do you mean, tell me? Tell me
what?"
Jocelyn expelled a sigh. "We're going on vacation."
Luke's expression went blank, like a canvas wiped clean of paint.
Clary shook her head. "That's what this is about? You're going on vacation?" She sank back against the
cushions. "I don't get it. Why the big production?"
"I don't think you understand. I meant we're all going on vacation. The three of us-you, me, and Luke. We're
going to the farmhouse."
"Oh." Clary glanced at Luke, but he had his arms crossed over his chest and was staring out the window, his
jaw pulled tight. She wondered what was upsetting him. He loved the old farmhouse in upstate New York-he'd
bought and restored it himself ten years before, and he went there whenever he could. "For how long?"
"For the rest of the summer," said Jocelyn. "I brought the boxes in case you want to pack up any books,
painting supplies-"
"For therest of the summer?" Clary sat upright with indignation. "I can't do that, Mom. I have
plans-Simon and I were going to have a back-to-school party, and I've got a bunch of meetings with my art
group, and ten more classes at Tisch-"
"I'm sorry about Tisch. But the other things can be canceled. Simon will understand, and so will your art
group."
Clary heard the implacability in her mother's tone and realized she was serious. "But I paid for those art
classes! I saved up all year! You promised." She whirled, turning to Luke. "Tell her! Tell her it isn't fair!"
Luke didn't look away from the window, though a muscle jumped in his cheek. "She's your mother. It's
her decision to make."
"I don't get it." Clary turned back to her mother. "Why?"
"I have to get away, Clary," Jocelyn said, the corners of her mouth trembling. "I need the peace, the
quiet, to paint. And money is tight right now-"
"So sell some more of Dad's stocks," Clary said angrily. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"
Jocelyn recoiled. "That's hardly fair."
"Look, go if you want to go. I don't care. I'll stay here without you. I can work; I can get a job at
Starbucks or something. Simon said they're always hiring. I'm old enough to take care of myself-"
"No!" The sharpness in Jocelyn's voice made Clary jump. "I'll pay you back for the art classes, Clary. But you
are coming with us. It isn't optional. You're too young to stay here on your own. Something could happen."
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"Like what? What could happen?" Clary demanded.
There was a crash. She turned in surprise to find that Luke had knocked over one of the framed pictures
leaning against the wall. Looking distinctly upset, he set it back. When he straightened, his mouth was set in a
grim line. "I'm leaving."
Jocelyn bit her lip. "Wait." She hurried after him into the entryway, catching up just as he seized the
doorknob. Twisting around on the sofa, Clary could just overhear her mother's urgent whisper."... Bane,"
Jocelyn was saying. "I've been calling him and calling him for the past three weeks. His voice mail says he's in
Tanzania. What am I supposed to do?"
"Jocelyn." Luke shook his head. "You can't keep going to him forever."
"But Clary-"
"Isn't Jonathan," Luke hissed. "You've never been the same since it happened, but Claryisn't Jonathan."
What does my father have to do with this?

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Clary thought, bewildered. "I can't just keep her at home, not let her go out. She won't put up with it."
"Of course she won't!" Luke sounded really angry. "She's not a pet, she's a teenager. Almost an adult."
"If we were out of the city..."
"Talk to her, Jocelyn." Luke's voice was firm. "I mean it." He reached for the doorknob.
The door flew open. Jocelyn gave a little scream.
"Jesus!" Luke exclaimed.
"Actually, it's just me," said Simon. "Although I've been told the resemblance is startling." He waved at
Clary from the doorway. "You ready?"
Jocelyn took her hand away from her mouth. "Simon, were you eavesdropping?"
Simon blinked. "No, I just got here." He looked from Jocelyn's pale face to Luke's grim one. "Is
something wrong? Should I go?"
"Don't bother," Luke said. "I think we're done here." He pushed past Simon, thudding down the stairs at a
rapid pace. Downstairs, the front door slammed shut.
Simon hovered in the doorway, looking uncertain. "I can come back later," he said. "Really. It wouldn't
be a problem."
"That might-," Jocelyn began, but Clary was already on her feet.
"Forget it, Simon. We're leaving," she said, grabbing her messenger bag from a hook near the door. She
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slung it over her shoulder, glaring at her mother. "See you later, Mom."
Jocelyn bit her lip. "Clary, don't you think we should talk about this?"
"We'll have plenty of time to talk while we're on 'vacation,'" Clary said venomously, and had the satisfaction
of seeing her mother flinch. "Don't wait up," she added, and, grabbing Simon's arm, she half-dragged him out
the front door.
He dug his heels in, looking apologetically over his shoulder at Clary's mother, who stood small and forlorn
in the entryway, her hands knitted tightly together. "Bye, Mrs. Fray!" he called. "Have a nice evening!"
"Oh, shut up, Simon," Clary snapped, and slammed the door behind them, cutting off her mother's reply.
"Jesus, woman, don't rip my arm off," Simon protested as Clary hauled him downstairs after her, her green
Skechers slapping against the wooden stairs with every angry step. She glanced up, half-expecting to see her
mother glaring down from the landing, but the apartment door stayed shut.
"Sorry," Clary muttered, letting go of his wrist. She paused at the foot of the stairs, her messenger bag
banging against her hip.
Clary's brownstone, like most in Park Slope, had once been the single residence of a wealthy family. Shades
of its former grandeur were still evident in the curving staircase, the chipped marble entryway floor, and the
wide single-paned skylight overhead. Now the house was split into separate apartments, and Clary and her
mother shared the three-floor building with a downstairs tenant, an elderly woman who ran a psychic's shop
out of her apartment. She hardly ever came out of it, though customer visits were infrequent. A gold plaque
fixed to the door proclaimed her to be madame DOROTHEA, SEERESS AND PROPHETESS.
The thick sweet scent of incense spilled from the half-open door into the foyer. Clary could hear a low
murmur of voices.
"Nice to see she's doing a booming business," Simon said. "It's hard to get steady prophet work these days."
"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" Clary snapped.
Simon blinked, clearly taken aback. "I thought you liked it when I was witty and ironic."
Clary was about to reply when the door to Madame Dorothea's swung fully open and a man stepped out. He
was tall, with maple-syrup-colored skin, gold-green eyes like a cat's, and tangled black hair. He grinned at her
blindingly, showing sharp white teeth.
A wave of dizziness came over her, the strong sensation that she was going to faint.
Simon glanced at her uneasily. "Are you all right? You look like you're going to pass out."
She blinked at him. "What? No, I'm fine."
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He didn't seem to want to let it drop. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
She shook her head. The memory of having seen something teased her, but when she tried to concentrate, it

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slid away like water. "Nothing. I thought I saw Dorothea's cat, but I guess it was just a trick of the light."
Simon stared at her. "I haven't eaten anything since yesterday," she added defensively. "I guess I'm a little out
of it."
He slid a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Come on, I'll buy you some food."
"I just can't believe she's being like this," Clary said for the fourth time, chasing a stray bit of guacamole
around her plate with the tip of a nacho. They were at a neighborhood Mexican joint, a hole in the wall called
Nacho Mama. "Like grounding me every other week wasn't bad enough. Now I'm going to be exiled for the
rest of the summer."
"Well, you know, your mom gets like this sometimes," Simon said. "Like when she breathes in or out." He
grinned at her around his veggie burrito.
"Oh, sure, act like it's funny," she said."You're not the one getting dragged off to the middle of nowhere for
God knows how long-"
"Clary."
Simon interrupted her tirade. "I'm not the one you're mad at. Besides, it isn't going to be permanent."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, because I know your mom," Simon said, after a pause. "I mean, you and I have been friends for what,
ten years now? I know she gets like this sometimes. She'll think better of it."
Clary picked a hot pepper off her plate and nibbled the edge meditatively. "Do you, though?" she said. "Know
her, I mean? I sometimes wonder if anyone does."
Simon blinked at her. "You lost me there."
Clary sucked in air to cool her burning mouth. "I mean, she never talks about herself. I don't know anything
about her early life, or her family, or much about how she met my dad. She doesn't even have wedding photos.
It's like her life started when she had me. That's what she always says when I ask her about it."
"Aw." Simon made a face at her. "That's sweet."
"No, it isn't. It's weird. It's weird that I don't know anything about my grandparents. I mean, I know my dad's
parents weren't very nice to her, but could they have beenthat bad? What kind of people don't want to even
meet their granddaughter?"
"Maybe she hates them. Maybe they were abusive or something," Simon suggested. "She does have those
scars."
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Clary stared at him. "She has what?"
He swallowed a mouthful of burrito. "Those little thin scars. All over her back and her arms. Ihave seen your
mother in a bathing suit, you know." "I never noticed any scars," Clary said decidedly. "I think you're
imagining things." He stared at her, and seemed about to say something when her cell phone, buried in her
messenger bag,
began an insistent blaring. Clary fished it out, gazed at the numbers blinking on the screen, and scowled. "It's
my mom."
"I could tell from the look on your face. You going to talk to her?"
"Not right now," Clary said, feeling the familiar bite of guilt in her stomach as the phone stopped ringing
and voice mail picked up. "I don't want to fight with her."
"You can always stay at my house," Simon said. "For as long as you want."
"Well, we'll see if she calms down first." Clary punched the voice mail button on her phone. Her mother's
voice sounded tense, but she was clearly trying for lightness: "Baby, I'm sorry if I sprang the vacation plan
on you. Come on home and we'll talk." Clary hung the phone up before the message ended, feeling even
guiltier and still angry at the same time. "She wants to talk about it." "Do you want to talk to her?" "I don't
know." Clary rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. "Are you still going to the poetry
reading?" "I promised I would." Clary stood up, pushing her chair back. "Then I'll go with you. I'll call her
when it's over." The strap of
her messenger bag slid down her arm. Simon pushed it back up absently, his fingers lingering at the bare

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skin of her shoulder. The air outside was spongy with moisture, the humidity frizzing Clary's hair and sticking
Simon's blue T-shirt to his back. "So, what's up with the band?" she asked. "Anything new? There was a lot of
yelling in the background when I talked to you earlier."
Simon's face lit up. "Things are great," he said. "Matt says he knows someone who could get us a gig at
the Scrap Bar. We're talking about names again too." "Oh, yeah?" Clary hid a smile. Simon's band never
actually produced any music. Mostly they sat around in Simon's living room, fighting about potential names
and band logos. She sometimes wondered if any of them could actually play an instrument. "What's on the
table?"
"We're choosing between Sea Vegetable Conspiracy and Rock Solid Panda."
Clary shook her head. "Those are both terrible."
"Eric suggested Lawn Chair Crisis."
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"Maybe Eric should stick to gaming."
"But then we'd have to find a new drummer."
"Oh, isthat what Eric does? I thought he just mooched money off you and went around telling girls at school
that he was in a band in order to impress them."
"Not at all," Simon said breezily. "Eric has turned over a new leaf. He has a girlfriend. They've been going
out for three months."
"Practically married," Clary said, stepping around a couple pushing a toddler in a stroller: a little girl with
yellow plastic clips in her hair who was clutching a pixie doll with gold-streaked sapphire wings. Out of the
corner of her eye Clary thought she saw the wings flutter. She turned her head hastily.
"Which means," Simon continued, "that I am the last member of the bandnot to have a girlfriend. Which, you
know, is the whole point of being in a band. To get girls."
"I thought it was all about the music." A man with a cane cut across her path, heading for Berkeley Street. She
glanced away, afraid that if she looked at anyone for too long they would sprout wings, extra arms, or long
forked tongues like snakes. "Who cares if you have a girlfriend, anyway?"
"I care," Simon said gloomily. "Pretty soon the only people left without a girlfriend will be me and Wendell
the school janitor. And he smells like Windex."
"At least you know he's still available."
Simon glared. "Not funny, Fray."
"There's always Sheila 'The Thong' Barbarino," Clary suggested. Clary had sat behind her in math class in
ninth grade. Every time Sheila had dropped her pencil-which had been often-Clary had been treated to the
sight of Sheila's underwear riding up above the waistband of her super-low-rise jeans.
"Thatis who Eric's been dating for the past three months," Simon said. "His advice, meanwhile, was that I
ought to just decide which girl in school had the most rockin' bod and ask her out on the first day of classes."
"Eric is a sexist pig," Clary said, suddenly not wanting to know which girl in school Simon thought had the
most rockin' bod. "Maybe you should call the band The Sexist Pigs."
"It has a ring to it." Simon seemed unfazed. Clary made a face at him, her messenger bag vibrating as her
phone blared. She fished it out of the zip pocket. "Is it your mom again?" he asked.
Clary nodded. She could see her mother in her mind's eye, small and alone in the doorway of their apartment.
Guilt unfurled in her chest.
She glanced up at Simon, who was looking at her, his eyes dark with concern. His face was so familiar she
could have traced its lines in her sleep. She thought of the lonely weeks that stretched ahead without him, and
shoved the phone back into her bag. "Come on," she said. "We're going to be late for the show."
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By the time they got to Java Jones, Eric was already onstage,
swaying back and forth in front of the microphone with his eyes squinched shut. He'd dyed the tips of his hair
pink for the occasion. Behind him, Matt, looking stoned, was beating irregularly on a djembe.
"This is going to suck so hard," Clary predicted. She grabbed Simon's sleeve and tugged him toward the
doorway. "If we make a run for it, we can still get away."
He shook his head determinedly. "I'm nothing if not a man of my word." He squared his shoulders. "I'll get
the coffee if you find us a seat. What do you want?"
"Just coffee. Black-like my soul."
Simon headed off toward the coffee bar, muttering under his breath something to the effect that it was a far,
far better thing he did now than he had ever done before. Clary went to find them a seat.
The coffee shop was crowded for a Monday; most of the threadbare-looking couches and armchairs were
taken up with teenagers enjoying a free weeknight. The smell of coffee and clove cigarettes was
overwhelming. Finally Clary found an unoccupied love seat in a darkened corner toward the back. The only
other person nearby was a blond girl in an orange tank top, absorbed in playing with her iPod. Good, Clary
thought,Eric won't be able to find us back here after the show to ask how his poetry was.
The blond girl leaned over the side of her chair and tapped Clary on the shoulder. "Excuse me." Clary looked
up in surprise. "Is that your boyfriend?" the girl asked.
Clary followed the line of the girl's gaze, already prepared to say, No,I don't know him, when she realized the
girl meant Simon. He was headed toward them, face scrunched up in concentration as he tried not to drop
either of his Styrofoam cups. "Uh, no," Clary said. "He's a friend of mine."
The girl beamed. "He'scute. Does he have a girlfriend?"
Clary hesitated a second too long before replying. "No."
The girl looked suspicious. "Is he gay?"
Clary was spared responding to this by Simon's return. The blond girl sat back hastily as be set the cups on
the table and threw himself down next to Clary. "I hate it when they run out of mugs. Those things are hot."
He blew on his fingers and scowled. Clary tried to hide a smile as she watched him. Normally she never
thought about whether Simon was good-looking or not. He had pretty dark eyes, she supposed, and he'd filled
out well over the past year or so. With the right haircut- "You're staring at me," Simon
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said. "Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?"
I should tell him,
she thought, though some part of her was strangely reluctant.I'd be a bad friend if I didn't. "Don't look now,
but that blond girl over there thinks you're cute," she whispered.
Simon's eyes flicked sideways to stare at the girl, who was industriously studying an issue ofShonen
Jump."The girl in the orange top?" Clary nodded. Simon looked dubious. "What makes you think so?"
Tell him. Go on, tell him.
Clary opened her mouth to reply, and was interrupted by a burst of feedback. She winced and covered her
ears as Eric, onstage, wrestled with his microphone.
"Sorry about that, guys!" he yelled. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first
poem is called 'Untitled.'" He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike."Come, my faux
juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slatherevery protuberance with arid zeal!"
Simon slid down in his seat. "Please don't tell anyone I know him."
Clary giggled. "Who uses the word loins'?"
"Eric," Simon said grimly. "All his poems have loins in them."
"Turgid is my torment!"
Eric wailed."Agony swells within!" "You bet it does," Clary said. She slid down in the seat next to Simon.
"Anyway, about that girl who thinks you're cute-"
"Never mind that for a second," Simon said. Clary blinked at him in surprise. "There's something I wanted to
talk to you about."
"Furious Mole is not a good name for a band," Clary said immediately.
"Not that," Simon said. "It's about what we were talking about before. About me not having a girlfriend."

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"Oh." Clary lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Oh, I don't know. Ask Jaida Jones out," she suggested, naming
one of the few girls at St. Xavier's she actually liked. "She's nice, and she likes you."
"I don't want to ask Jaida Jones out."
"Why not?" Clary found herself seized with a sudden, unspecific resentment. "You don't like smart girls? Still
seeking arockin' bod ?"
"Neither," said Simon, who seemed agitated. "I don't want to ask her out because it wouldn't really be fair to
her if I did..."
He trailed off. Clary leaned forward. From the corner of her eye she could see the blond girl leaning forward
too, plainly eavesdropping. "Why not?"
"Because I like someone else," Simon said.
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"Okay." Simon looked faintly greenish, the way he had once when he'd broken his ankle playing soccer in the
park and had had to limp home on it. She wondered what on earth about liking someone could possibly have
him wound up to such a pitch of anxiety. "You're not gay, are you?"
Simon's greenish color deepened. "If I were, I would dress better."
"So, who is it, then?" Clary asked. She was about to add that if he were in love with Sheila Barbarino, Eric
would kick his ass, when she heard someone cough loudly behind her. It was a derisive sort of cough, the kind
of noise someone might make who was trying not to laugh out loud.
She turned around.
Sitting on a faded green sofa a few feet away from her was Jace. He was wearing the same dark clothes he'd
had on the night before in the club. His arms were bare and covered with faint white lines like old scars. His
wrists bore wide metal cuffs; she could see the bone handle of a knife protruding from the left one. He was
looking right at her, the side of his narrow mouth quirked in amusement. Worse than the feeling of being
laughed at was Clary's absolute conviction that he hadn't been sitting there five minutes ago.
"What is it?" Simon had followed her gaze, but it was obvious from the blank expression on his face that he
couldn't see Jace.
But I see you.
She stared at Jace as she thought it, and he raised his left hand to wave at her. A ring glittered on a slim
finger. He got to his feet and began walking, unhurriedly, toward the door. Clary's lips parted in surprise. He
was leaving, just like that.
She felt Simon's hand on her arm. He was saying her name, asking her if something was wrong. She barely
heard him. "I'll be right back," she heard herself say, as she sprang off the couch, almost forgetting to set her
coffee cup down. She raced toward the door, leaving Simon staring after her.
Clary burst through the doors, terrified that Jace would have vanished into the alley shadows like a ghost. But
he was there, slouched against the wall. He had just taken something out of his pocket and was punching
buttons on it. He looked up in surprise as the door of the coffee shop fell shut behind her.
In the rapidly falling twilight, his hair looked coppery gold. "Your friend's poetry is terrible," he said.
Clary blinked, caught momentarily off guard. "What?"
"I said his poetry was terrible. It sounds like he ate a dictionary and started vomiting up words at random."
"I don't care about Eric's poetry." Clary was furious. "I want to know why you're following me."
"Who said I was following you?"
"Nice
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try. And you were eavesdropping, too. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just call the
police?"
"And tell them what?" Jace said witheringly. "That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little girl,
the police aren't going to arrest someone they can't see."
"I told you before, my name is not little girl," she said through her teeth. "It's Clary."

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"I know," he said. "Pretty name. Like the herb, clary sage. In the old days people thought eating the
seeds would let you see the Fair Folk. Did you know that?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You don't know much, do you?" he said. There was a lazy contempt in his gold eyes. "You seem to be
a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It's a conundrum." "What's a mundane?" "Someone of
the human world. Someone like you." "Butyou're human," Clary said. "I am," he said. "But I'm not like you."
There was no defensiveness in his tone. He sounded like he didn't
care if she believed him or not. "You think you're better. That's why you were laughing at us." "I was laughing
at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited," he said.
"And because your Simon is one of the most mundane mundanes I've ever encountered. And because Hodge
thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don't know it."
"I'm
dangerous?" Clary echoed in astonishment. "I saw you kill someone last night. I saw you drive a knife up
under his ribs, and-"And I saw him slash at you with fingers like razor blades. I saw you cut and bleeding, and
now you look as if nothing ever touched you.
"I may be a killer," Jace said, "but I know what I am. Can you say the same?" "I'm an ordinary human being,
just like you said. Who's Hodge?" "My tutor. And I wouldn't be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were
you." He leaned forward.
"Let me see your right hand." "My right hand?" Clary echoed. He nodded. "If I show you my hand, will you
leave me alone?" "Certainly." His voice was edged with amusement. She held out her right hand grudgingly. It
looked pale in the half-light spilling from the windows, the
knuckles dotted with a light dusting of freckles. Somehow she felt as exposed as if she were pulling up her
shirt and showing him her naked chest. He took her hand in his and turned it over. "Nothing." He sounded
almost disappointed. "You're not left-handed, are you?"
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"No. Why?"
He released her hand with a shrug. "Most Shadowhunter children get Marked on their right hands-or
left, if they're left-handed like I am-when they're still young. It's a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with
weapons." He showed her the back of his left hand; it looked perfectly normal to her.
"I don't see anything," she said.
"Let your mind relax," he suggested. "Wait for it to come to you. Like waiting for something to rise to the
surface of water."
"You're crazy." But she relaxed, gazing at his hand, seeing the tiny lines across the knuckles, the long joints
of the fingersÂIt
jumped out at her suddenly, flashing like a don't walk sign. A black design like an eye across the back of his
hand. She blinked, and it vanished. "A tattoo?"
He smiled smugly and lowered his hand. "I thought you could do it. And it's not a tattoo-it's a Mark. They're
runes, burned into our skin."
"They make you handle weapons better?" Clary found this hard to believe, though perhaps no more hard to
believe than the existence of zombies.
"Different Marks do different things. Some are permanent but the majority vanish when they've been
used."
"That's why your arms aren't all inked up today?" she asked. "Even when I concentrate?"
"That's exactly why." He sounded pleased with himself. "I knew you had the Sight, at least." He glanced
up at the sky. "It's nearly full dark. We should go."
"We? I thought you were going to leave me alone."
"I lied," Jace said without a shred of embarrassment. "Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with
me. He wants to talk to you."
"Why would he want to talk to me?"
"Because you know the truth now," Jace said. "There hasn't been a mundane who knew about us for at

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least a hundred years."
"Aboutus?" she echoed. "You mean people like you. People who believe in demons."
"People who kill them," said Jace. "We're called Shadow-hunters. At least, that's what we call ourselves.
The Downworlders have less complimentary names for us."
"Downworlders?"
"The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this dimension."
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Clary shook her head. "Don't stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and
zombies?" "Of course there are," Jace informed her. "Although you mostly find zombies farther south, where
the voudun priests are."
"What about mummies? Do they only hang around Egypt?"
"Don't be ridiculous. No one believes in mummies."
"They don't?"
"Of course not," Jace said. "Look, Hodge will explain all this to you when you see him."
Clary crossed her arms over her chest. "What if I don't want to see him?"
"That's your problem. You can come either willingly or unwillingly."
Clary couldn't believe her ears. "Are you threatening tokidnap me?"
"If you want to look at it that way," Jace said, "yes."
Clary opened her mouth to protest angrily, but was interrupted by a strident buzzing noise. Her phone
was ringing again.
"Go ahead and answer that if you like," Jace said generously.
The phone stopped ringing, then started up again, loud and insistent. Clary frowned-her mom must really
be freaking out. She half-turned away from Jace and began digging in her bag. By the time she unearthed
the phone, it was on its third set of rings. She raised it to her ear. "Mom?" "Oh, Clary. Oh, thank God." A
sharp prickle of alarm ran up Clary's spine. Her mother sounded panicked. "Listen to me-"
"It's all right, Mom. I'm fine. I'm on my way home-"
"No!"
Terror scraped Jocelyn's voice raw. "Don't come home! Do you understand me, Clary? Don't you dare come
home. Go to Simon's. Go straight to Simon's house and stay there until I can-" A noise in the background
interrupted her: the sound of something falling, shattering, something heavy striking the floorÂ"
Mom!" Clary shouted into the phone. "Mom, are you all right?"
A loud buzzing noise came from the phone. Clary's mother's voice cut through the static: "Just promise me
you won't come home. Go to Simon's and call Luke-tell him that he's found me-" Her words were drowned out
by a heavy crash like splintering wood.
"Who's
found you? Mom, did you call the police? Did you-"
Her frantic question was cut off by a noise Clary would never forget-a harsh, slithering noise, followed by
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a thump. Clary heard her mother draw in a sharp breath before speaking, her voice eerily calm: "I love you,
Clary."
The phone went dead.
"Mom!"
Clary shrieked into the phone. "Mom, are you there?"Call ended, the screen said. But why would her mother
have hung up like that?
"Clary," Jace said. It was the first time she'd ever heard him say her name. "What's going on?"
Clary ignored him. Feverishly she hit the button that dialed her home number. There was no answer except a
double-tone busy signal.
Clary's hands had begun to shake uncontrollably. When she tried to redial, the phone slipped out of her

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shaking grasp and hit the pavement hard. She dropped to her knees to retrieve it, but it was dead, a long crack
visible across the front. "Dammit!" Almost in tears, she threw the phone down.
"Stop that." Jace hauled her to her feet, his hand gripping her wrist. "Has something happened?"
"Give me your phone," Clary said, grabbing the black metal oblong out of his shirt pocket. "I have to-"
"It's not a phone," Jace said, making no move to get it back. "It's a Sensor. You won't be able to use it."
"But I need to call the police!"
"Tell me what happened first." She tried to yank her wrist back, but his grip was incredibly strong. "I can help
you."
Rage flooded through Clary, a hot tide through her veins. Without even thinking about it, she struck out at his
face, her nails raking his cheek. He jerked back in surprise. Tearing herself free, Clary ran toward the lights of
Seventh Avenue.
When she reached the street, she spun around, half-expecting to see Jace at her heels. But the alley was
empty. For a moment she stared uncertainly into the shadows. Nothing moved inside them. She spun on her
heel and ran for home.
4
Ravener
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The night had gotten even hotter, and running home felt
like swimming as fast as she could through boiling soup. At the corner of her block Clary got trapped at a
don't walk sign. She jittered up and down impatiently on the balls of her feet while traffic whizzed by in a blur
of headlights. She tried to call home again, but Jace hadn't been lying; his phonewasn't a phone. At least, it
didn't look like any phone Clary had ever seen before. The Sensor's buttons didn't have numbers on them, just
more of those bizarre symbols, and there was no screen.
Jogging up the street toward her house, she saw that the second-floor windows were lit, the usual sign that her
mother was home.Okay, she told herself.Everything's fine. But her stomach tightened the moment she stepped
into the entryway. The overhead light had burned out, and the foyer was in darkness. The shadows seemed full
of secret movement. Shivering, she started upstairs.
"And just where do you think you're going ?" said a voice.
Clary whirled. "What-"
She broke off. Her eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and she could see the shape of a large armchair, drawn
up in front of Madame Dorothea's closed door. The old woman was wedged into it like an overstuffed cushion.
In the dimness Clary could see only the round shape of her powdered face, the white lace fan in her hand, the
dark, yawning gap of her mouth when she spoke. "Your mother," Dorothea said, "has been making a godawful
racket up there. What's she doing? Moving furniture?"
"I don't think-"
"And the stairwell light's burned out, did you notice?" Dorothea rapped her fan against the arm of the chair.
"Can't your mother get her boyfriend in to change it?"
"Luke isn't-"
"The skylight needs washing too. It's filthy. No wonder it's nearly pitch-black in here."
Luke is NOT the landlord,
Clary wanted to say, but didn't. This was typical of her elderly neighbor. Once she got Luke to come around
and change the lightbulb, she'd ask him to do a hundred other things-pick up her groceries, grout her shower.
Once she'd made him chop up an old sofa with an axe so she could get it out of the apartment without taking
the door off the hinges.
Clary sighed. "I'll ask."
"You'd better." Dorothea snapped her fan shut with a flick of her wrist.
Clary's sense that something was wrong only increased when she reached the apartment door. It was

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unlocked, hanging slightly open, spilling a wedge-shaped shaft of light onto the landing. With a feeling of
increasing panic she pushed the door open.
Inside the apartment the lights were on, all the lamps, everything turned up to full brightness. The glow
stabbed into her eyes.
Her mother's keys and pink handbag were on the small wrought iron shelf by the door, where she always left
them. "Mom?" Clary called out. "Mom, I'm home."
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There was no reply. She went into the living room. Both windows were open, yards of gauzy white curtains
blowing in the breeze like restless ghosts. Only when the wind dropped and the curtains settled did Clary see
that the cushions had been ripped from the sofa and scattered around the room. Some were torn lengthwise,
cotton innards spilling onto the floor. The bookshelves had been tipped over, their contents scattered. The
piano bench lay on its side, gaping open like a wound, Jocelyn's beloved music books spewing out.
Most terrifying were the paintings. Every single one had been cut from its frame and ripped into strips, which
were scattered across the floor. It must have been done with a knife-canvas was almost impossible to tear with
your bare hands. The empty frames looked like bones picked clean. Clary felt a scream rising up in her
chest:"Mom!" she shrieked."Where are you? Mommy!"
She hadn't called Jocelyn "Mommy" since she was eight.
Heart pumping, she raced into the kitchen. It was empty, the cabinet doors open, a smashed bottle of Tabasco
sauce spilling peppery red liquid onto the linoleum. Her knees felt like bags of water. She knew she should
race out of the apartment, get to a phone, call the police. But all those things seemed distant-she needed to find
her mother first, needed to see that she was all right. What if robbers had come, what if her mother had put up
a fight-?
What kind of robbers didn't take a wallet with them, or the TV, the DVD player, or the expensive laptops?
She was at the door to her mother's bedroom now. For a moment it looked as if this room, at least, had been
left untouched. Jocelyn's handmade flowered quilt was folded carefully on the duvet. Clary's own face smiled
back at her from the top of the bedside table, five years old, gap-toothed smile framed by strawberry hair. A
sob rose in Clary's chest.Mom, she cried inside,what happened to you?
Silence answered her. No, not silence-a noise sounded through the apartment, raising the short hairs along the
nape of her neck. Like something being knocked over-a heavy object striking the floor with a dull thud. The
thud was followed by a dragging, slithering noise-and it was coming toward the bedroom. Stomach
contracting in terror, Clary scrambled to her feet and turned around slowly.
For a moment she thought the doorway was empty, and she felt a wave of relief. Then she looked down.
It was crouched against the floor, a long, scaled creature with a cluster of flat black eyes set dead center in the
front of its domed skull. Something like a cross between an alligator and a centipede, it had a thick, flat snout
and a barbed tail that whipped menacingly from side to side. Multiple legs bunched underneath it as it readied
itself to spring.
A shriek tore itself out of Clary's throat. She staggered backward, tripped, and fell, just as the creature lunged
at her. She rolled to the side and it missed her by inches, sliding along the wood floor, its claws gouging deep
grooves. A low growl bubbled from its throat.
She scrambled to her feet and ran toward the hallway, but the thing was too fast for her. It sprang again,
landing just above the door, where it hung like a gigantic malignant spider, staring down at her with its cluster
of eyes. Its jaws opened slowly, showing a row of fanged teeth spilling greenish drool. A long black tongue
flickered out between its jaws as it gurgled and hissed. To her horror Clary realized that the noises it was
making were words.
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"Girl,"
it hissed."Flesh. Blood. To eat, oh, to eat."
It began to slither slowly down the wall. Some part of Clary had passed beyond terror into a sort of icy
stillness. The thing was on its feet now, crawling toward her. Backing away, she seized a heavy framed photo
off the bureau beside her-herself and her mother and Luke at Coney Island, about to go on the bumper
cars-and flung it at the monster.

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The photograph hit its midsection and bounced off, striking the floor with the sound of shattering glass. The
creature didn't seem to notice. It came on toward her, broken glass splintering under its feet. "Bones, to
crunch, to suck out the marrow, to drink the veins..."
Clary's back hit the wall. She could back up no farther. She felt a movement against her hip and nearly
jumped out of her skin. Her pocket. Plunging her hand inside, she drew out the plastic thing she'd taken from
Jace. The Sensor was shuddering, like a cell phone set to vibrate. The hard material was almost painfully hot
against her palm. She closed her hand around the Sensor just as the creature sprang.
The creature hurtled into her, knocking her to the ground, and her head and shoulders slammed against the
floor. She twisted to the side, but it was too heavy. It was on top of her, an oppressive, slimy weight that made
her want to gag."To eat, to eat," it moaned."But it is not allowed, to swallow, to savor."
The hot breath in her face stank of blood. She couldn't breathe. Her ribs felt like they might shatter. Her arm
was pinned between her body and the monster's, the Sensor digging into her palm. She twisted, trying to work
her hand free."Valentine will never know. He said nothing about a girl. Valentine will not be angry." Its lipless
mouth twitched as its jaws opened, slowly, a wave of stinking breath hot in her face.
Clary's hand came free. With a scream she hit out at the thing, wanting to smash it, to blind it. She had almost
forgotten the Sensor. As the creature lunged for her face, jaws wide, she jammed the Sensor between its teeth
and felt hot, acidic drool coat her wrist and spill in burning drops onto the bare skin of her face and throat. As
if from a distance, she could hear herself screaming.
Looking almost surprised, the creature jerked back, the Sensor lodged between two teeth. It growled, a thick
angry buzz, and threw its head back. Clary saw it swallow, saw the movement of its throat.I'm next, she
thought, panicked.I'm ÂSuddenly
the thing began to twitch. Spasming uncontrollably, it rolled off Clary and onto its back, multiple
legs churning the air. Black fluid poured from its mouth.
Gasping for air, Clary rolled over and started to scramble away from the thing. She'd nearly reached the door
when she heard something whistle through the air next to her head. She tried to duck, but it was too late. An
object slammed heavily into the back of her skull, and she collapsed forward into blackness.
Light stabbed through her eyelids, blue, white, and red. There was a high wailing noise, rising in pitch like the
scream of a terrified child. Clary gagged and opened her eyes.
She was lying on cold damp grass. The night sky rippled overhead, the pewter gleam of stars washed
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out by city lights. Jace knelt beside her, the silver cuffs on his wrists throwing off sparks of light as he tore the
piece of cloth he was holding into strips. "Don't move."
The wailing threatened to split her ears in half. Clary turned her head to the side, disobediently, and was
rewarded with a razoring stab of pain that shot down her back. She was lying on a patch of grass behind
Jocelyn's carefully tended rosebushes. The foliage partially hid her view of the street, where a police car, its
blue-and-white light bar flashing, was pulled up to the curb, siren wailing. Already a small knot of neighbors
had gathered, staring as the car door opened and two blue-uniformed officers emerged.
Thepolice. She tried to sit up, and gagged again, fingers spasming into the damp earth.
"I told you not to move," Jace hissed. "That Ravener demon got you in the back of the neck. It was half-dead
so it wasn't much of a sting, but we have to get you to the Institute. Hold still."
"That thing-the monster-ittalked." Clary was shuddering uncontrollably.
"You've heard a demon talk before." Jace's hands were gentle as he slipped the strip of knotted cloth under
her neck, and tied it. It was smeared with something waxy, like the gardener's salve her mother used to keep
her paint- and turpentine-abused hands soft.
"The demon in Pandemonium-it looked like a person."
"It was an Eidolon demon. A shape-changer. Raveners look like they look. Not very attractive, but they're too
stupid to care."
"It said it was going to eat me."
"But it didn't. You killed it." Jace finished the knot and sat back.
To Clary's relief the pain in the back of her neck had faded. She hauled herself into a sitting position. "The
police are here." Her voice came out like a frog's croak. "We should-"

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"There's nothing they can do. Somebody probably heard you screaming and reported it. Ten to one those
aren't real police officers. Demons have a way of hiding their tracks."
"My mom," Clary said, forcing the words through her swollen throat.
"There's Ravener poison coursing through your veinsright now. You'll be dead in an hour if you don't come
with me." He got to his feet and held out a hand to her. She took it and he pulled her upright. "Come on."
The world tilted. Jace slid a hand across her back, holding her steady. He smelled of dirt, blood, and metal.
"Can you walk?"
"I think so." She glanced through the densely blooming bushes. She could see the police coming up the path.
One of them, a slim blond woman, held a flashlight in one hand. As she raised it, Clary saw the hand was
fleshless, a skeleton hand sharpened to bone points at the fingertips. "Her hand-"
"I told you they might be demons." Jace glanced at the back of the house. "We have to get out of here. Can
we go through the alley?"
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Clary shook her head. "It's bricked up. There's no way-" Her words dissolved into a fit of coughing. She raised
her hand to cover her mouth. It came away red. She whimpered.
He grabbed her wrist, turned it over so the white, vulnerable flesh of her inner arm lay bare under the
moonlight. Traceries of blue vein mapped the inside of her skin, carrying poisoned blood to her heart, her
brain. Clary felt her knees buckle. There was something in Jace's hand, something sharp and silver. She tried
to pull her hand back, but his grip was too hard: She felt a stinging kiss against her skin. When he let go, she
saw an inked black symbol like the ones that covered his skin, just below the fold of her wrist. This one
looked like a set of overlapping circles.
"What's that supposed to do?"
"It'll hide you," he said. "Temporarily." He slid the thing Clary had thought was a knife back into his belt. It
was a long, luminous cylinder, as thick around as an index finger and tapering to a point. "My stele," he said.
Clary didn't ask what that was. She was busy trying not to fall over. The ground was heaving up and down
under her feet. "Jace," she said, and she crumpled into him. He caught her as if he were used to catching
fainting girls, as if he did it every day. Maybe he did. He swung her up into his arms, saying something in her
ear that sounded likeCovenant. Clary tipped her head back to look at him but saw only the stars cartwheeling
across the dark sky overhead. Then the bottom dropped out of everything, and even Jace's arms around her
were not enough to keep her from falling.
5
Clave and Covenant
"Do you think she'll ever wake up? It's been three days
already."
"You have to give her time. Demon poison is strong stuff, and she's a mundane. She hasn't got runes to
keep her strong like we do."
"Mundies die awfully easily, don't they?"
"Isabelle, you know it's bad luck to talk about death in a sickroom."
Three days,
Clary thought slowly. All her thoughts ran as thickly and slowly as blood or honey.I have to wake up.
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But she couldn't.
The dreams held her, one after the other, a river of images that bore her along like a leaf tossed in a current.
She saw her mother lying in a hospital bed, eyes like bruises in her white face. She saw Luke, standing atop a

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pile of bones. Jace with white feathered wings sprouting out of his back, Isabelle sitting naked with her whip
curled around her like a net of gold rings, Simon with crosses burned into the palms of his hands. Angels,
falling and burning. Falling out of the sky.
"I told you it was the same girl."
"I know. Little thing, isn't she? Jace said she killed a Ravener."
"Yeah. I thought she was a pixie the first time we saw her. She's not pretty enough to be a pixie, though."
"Well, nobody looks their best with demon poison in their veins. Is Hodge going to call on the Brothers?"
"I hope not. They give me the creeps. Anyone who mutilates themselves like that-"
"We mutilate ourselves."
"I know, Alec, but when we do it, it isn't permanent. And it doesn't always hurt..."
"If you're old enough. Speaking of which, where is Jace? He saved her, didn't he? I would have thought he'd
take some interest in her recovery."
"Hodge said he hasn't been to see her since he brought her here. I guess he doesn't care."
"Sometimes I wonder if he-Look! She moved!"
"I guess she's alive after all." A sigh. "I'll tell Hodge."
Clary's eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She imagined she could feel tearing skin as she peeled
them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days.
She saw clear blue sky above her, white puffy clouds and chubby angels with gilded ribbons trailing from
their wrists.Am I dead? she wondered.Could heaven actually look like this? She squeezed her eyes shut and
opened them again: This time she realized that what she was staring at was an arched wooden ceiling, painted
with a rococo motif of clouds and cherubs.
Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck.
She glanced around. She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with metal
headboards. Her bed had a small nightstand beside it with a white pitcher and cup on it. Lace curtains were
pulled across the windows, blocking the light, although she could hear the faint, ever-present New York
sounds of traffic coming from outside.
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"So, you're finally awake," said a dry voice. "Hodge will be pleased. We all thought you'd probably die
in your sleep." Clary turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two
thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top,
though the red pendant still winked at her throat. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as
unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream.
"Sorry to disappoint you." Clary's voice rasped like sandpaper. "Is this the Institute?"
Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Is there anything Jacedidn't tell you?"
Clary coughed. "This is the Institute, right?"
"Yes. You're in the infirmary, not that you haven't figured that out already."
A sudden, stabbing pain made Clary clutch at her stomach. She gasped.
Isabelle looked at her in alarm. "Are you okay?"
The pain was fading, but Clary was aware of an acid feeling in the back of her throat and a strange
light-headedness. "My stomach."
"Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up." Isabelle grabbed for the
ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Clary. It
was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich
and dark. "You haven't eaten anything in three days," Isabelle pointed out. "That's probably why you feel
sick."
Clary gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste. "What is this?"
Isabelle shrugged. "One of Hodge's tisanes. They always work." She slid off the bed, landing on the
floor with a catlike arch of her back. "I'm Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here."

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"I know your name. I'm Clary. Clary Fray. Did Jace bring me here?"
Isabelle nodded. "Hodge was furious. You got ichor and blood all over the carpet in the entryway. If
he'd done it while my parents were here, he'd have gotten grounded for sure." She looked at Clary more
narrowly. "Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself."
A quick image of the scorpion thing with its crabbed, evil face flashed through Clary's mind; she
shuddered and clutched the cup more tightly. "I guess I did."
"But you're a mundie." "Amazing, isn't it?" Clary said, savoring the look of thinly disguised amazement on
Isabelle's face. "Where is Jace? Is he around?" Isabelle shrugged. "Somewhere," she said. "I should go tell
everyone you're up. Hodge'll want to talk to you."
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"Hodge is Jace's tutor, right?"
"Hodge tutors us all." She pointed. "The bathroom's through there, and I hung some of my old clothes on the
towel rack in case you want to change."
Clary went to take another sip from the cup and found that it was empty. She no longer felt hungry or
light-headed either, which was a relief. She set the cup down and hugged the sheet around herself. "What
happened tomy clothes?"
"They were covered in blood and poison. Jace burned them."
"Did he?" asked Clary. "Tell me, is he always really rude, or does he save that for mundanes?"
"Oh, he's rude to everyone," said Isabelle airily. "It's what makes him so damn sexy. That, and he's killed
more demons than anyone else his age."
Clary looked at her, perplexed. "Isn't he your brother?"
That got Isabella's attention. She laughed out loud. "Jace? My brother? No. Whatever gave you that
idea?"
"Well, he lives here with you," Clary pointed out. "Doesn't he?"
Isabelle nodded. "Well, yes, but..."
"Why doesn't he live with his own parents?"
For a fleeting moment Isabelle looked uncomfortable. "Because they're dead."
Clary's mouth opened in surprise. "Did they die in an accident?"
"No." Isabelle fidgeted, pushing a dark lock of hair behind her left ear. "His mother died when he was
born. His father was murdered when he was ten. Jace saw the whole thing."
"Oh," Clary said, her voice small. "Was it... demons?"
Isabelle got to her feet. "Look, I'd better let everyone know you've woken up. They've been waiting for
you to open your eyes for three days. Oh, and there's soap in the bathroom," she added. "You might want to
clean up a little. You smell."
Clary glared at her. "Thanks a lot."
"Any time."
Isabelle's clothes looked ridiculous. Clary had to roll the legs on the jeans up several times before she stopped
tripping on them, and the plunging neckline of the red tank top only emphasized her lack of what Eric would
have called a "rack."
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She cleaned up in the small bathroom, using a bar of hard lavender soap. Drying herself with a white hand
towel left damp hair straggling around her face in fragrant tangles. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror.
There was a purpling bruise high up on her left cheek, and her lips were dry and swollen.
have to call Luke, she thought. Surely there was a phone around here somewhere. Maybe they'd let her use it
after she talked to Hodge.
She found her Skechers placed neatly at the foot of her infirmary bed, her keys tied into the laces. Sliding her
feet into them, she took a deep breath and left to find Isabelle.
The corridor outside the infirmary was empty. Clary glanced down it, perplexed. It looked like the sort of

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hallway she sometimes found herself racing down in nightmares, shadowy and infinite. Glass lamps blown
into the shapes of roses hung at intervals on the walls, and the air smelled like dust and candle wax.
In the distance she could hear a faint and delicate noise, like wind chimes shaken by a storm. She set off down
the corridor slowly, trailing a hand along the wall. The Victorian-looking wallpaper was faded with age,
burgundy and pale gray. Each side of the corridor was lined with closed doors.
The sound she was following grew louder. Now she could identify it as the sound of a piano being played
with desultory but undeniable skill, though she couldn't identify the tune.
Turning the corner, she came to a doorway, the door propped fully open. Peering in she saw what was clearly
a music room. A grand piano stood in one corner, and rows of chairs were arranged against the far wall. A
covered harp occupied the center of the room.
Jace was seated at the grand piano, his slender hands moving rapidly over the keys. He was barefoot, dressed
in jeans and a gray T-shirt, his tawny hair ruffled up around his head as if he'd just woken up. Watching the
quick, sure movements of his hands across the keys, Clary remembered how it had felt to be lifted up by those
hands, his arms holding her up and the stars hurtling down around her head like a rain of silver tinsel.
She must have made some noise, because he twisted around on the stool, blinking into the shadows. "Alec?"
he said. "Is that you?"
"It's not Alec. It's me." She stepped farther into the room. "Clary."
Piano keys jangled as he got to his feet. "Our own Sleeping Beauty. Who finally kissed you awake?"
"Nobody. I woke up on my own."
"Was there anyone with you?"
"Isabelle, but she went off to get someone-Hodge, I think. She told me to wait, but-"
"I should have warned her about your habit of never doing what you're told." Jace squinted at her. "Are those
Isabelle's clothes? They look ridiculous on you."
"I could point out that you burned my clothes."
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"It was purely precautionary." He slid the gleaming black piano cover closed. "Come on, I'll take you to
Hodge."
The Institute was huge, a vast cavernous space that looked less like it had been designed according to a floor
plan and more like it had been naturally hollowed out of rock by the passage of water and years. Through
half-open doors Clary glimpsed countless identical small rooms, each with a stripped bed, a nightstand, and a
large wooden wardrobe standing open. Pale arches of stone held up the high ceilings, many of the arches
intricately carved with small figures. She noticed certain repeating motifs: angels and swords, suns and roses.
"Why does this place have so many bedrooms?" Clary asked. "I thought it was a research institute."
"This is the residential wing. We're pledged to offer safety and lodging to any Shadowhunter who
requests it. We can house up to two hundred people here."
"But most of these rooms are empty."
"People come and go. Nobody stays for long. Usually it's just us-Alec, Isabelle, Max, their parents-and
me and Hodge."
"Max?"
"You met the beauteous Isabelle? Alec is her elder brother. Max is the youngest, but he's overseas with
his parents."
"On vacation?"
"Not exactly." Jace hesitated. "You can think of them as-as foreign diplomats, and of this as an embassy,
of sorts. Right now they're in the Shadowhunter home country, working out some very delicate peace
negotiations. They brought Max with them because he's so young."
"Shadowhunter home country?" Clary's head was spinning. "What's it called?"
"Idris."
"I've never heard of it."
"You wouldn't have." That irritating superiority was back in his voice. "Mundanes don't know about it. There
are wardings- protective spells-up all over the borders. If you tried to cross into Idris, you'd simply find
yourself transported instantly from one border to the next. You'd never know what happened."

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"So it's not on any maps?"
"Not mundie ones. For our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France."
"But there isn't anything between Germany and France. Except Switzerland."
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"Precisely," said Jace.
"I take it you've been there. To Idris, I mean."
"I grew up there." Jace's voice was neutral, but something in his tone let her know that more questions in that
direction would not be welcome. "Most of us do. There are, of course, Shadowhunters all over the world. We
have to be everywhere, because demonic activity is everywhere. But to a Shadowhunter, Idris is always
'home.'"
"Like Mecca or Jerusalem," said Clary, thoughtfully. "So most of you are brought up there, and then when
you grow up-"
"We're sent where we're needed," said Jace shortly. "And there are a few, like Isabelle and Alec, who grow up
away from the home country because that's where their parents are. With all the resources of the Institute here,
with Hodge's training-" He broke off. "This is the library."
They had reached an arch-shaped set of wooden doors. A blue Persian cat with yellow eyes lay curled in front
of them. It raised its head as they approached and yowled. "Hey, Church," Jace said, stroking the cat's back
with a bare foot. The cat slit its eyes in pleasure.
"Wait," said Clary. "Alec and Isabelle and Max-they're the only Shadowhunters your age that you know, that
you spend time with?"
Jace stopped stroking the cat. "Yes."
"That must get kind of lonely."
"I have everything I need." He pushed the doors open. After a moment's hesitation she followed him inside.
The library was circular, with a ceiling that tapered to a point, as if it had been built inside a tower. The walls
were lined with books, the shelves so high that tall ladders set on casters were placed along them at intervals.
These were no ordinary books either-these were books bound in leather and velvet, clasped with
sturdy-looking locks and hinges made of brass and silver. Their spines were studded with dully glowing
jewels and illuminated with gold script. They looked worn in a way that made it clear that these books were
not just old but were well-used, and had been loved.
The floor was polished wood, inlaid with chips of glass and marble and bits of semiprecious stone. The inlay
formed a pattern that Clary couldn't quite decipher-it might have been the constellations, or even a map of the
world; she suspected she'd have to climb up into the tower and look down in order to see it properly.
In the center of the room sat a magnificent desk. It was carved from a single slab of wood, a great, heavy
piece of oak that gleamed with the dull shine of years. The slab rested upon the backs of two angels, carved
from the same wood, their wings gilded and their faces engraved with a look of suffering, as if the weight of
the slab were breaking their backs. Behind the desk sat a thin man with gray-streaked hair and a long beaky
noise.
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"A book lover, I see," he said, smiling at Clary. "You didn't tell me that, Jace."
Jace chuckled. Clary could tell that he had come up behind her and was standing there with his hands in his
pockets, grinning that infuriating grin of his. "We haven't done much talking during our short acquaintance,"
he said. "I'm afraid our reading habits didn't come up."
Clary turned around and shot him a glare.
"How can you tell?" she asked the man behind the desk. "That I like books, I mean."
"The look on your face when you walked in," he said, standing up and coming around from behind the desk.
"Somehow I doubted you were that impressed byme."
Clary stifled a gasp as he rose. For a moment it seemed to her that he was strangely misshapen, his left
shoulder humped and higher than the other. As he approached, she saw that the hunch was actually a bird,
perched neatly on his shoulder-a glossy feathered creature with bright black eyes.
"This is Hugo," the man said, touching the bird on his shoulder. "Hugo is a raven, and, as such, he knows

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many things. I, meanwhile, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly
enough."
Clary laughed a little, despite herself, and shook his outstretched hand. "Clary Fray."
"Honored to make your acquaintance," he said. "I would be honored to make the acquaintance of anyone who
could kill a Ravener with her bare hands."
"It wasn't my bare hands." It still felt odd to be congratulated for killing something. "It was Jace's-well, I don't
remember what it was called, but-"
"She means my Sensor," Jace said. "She shoved it down the thing's throat. The runes must have choked it. I
guess I'll need another one," he added, almost as an afterthought. "I should have mentioned that."
"There are several extra in the weapons room," said Hodge. When he smiled at Clary, a thousand small lines
rayed out from around his eyes, like the cracks in an old painting. "That was quick thinking. What gave you
the idea of using the Sensor as a weapon?"
Before she could reply, a sharp laugh sounded through the room. Clary had been so enraptured by the books
and distracted by Hodge that she hadn't seen Alec sprawled in an overstuffed red armchair by the empty
fireplace. "I can't believe you buy that story, Hodge," he said.
At first Clary didn't even register his words. She was too busy staring at him. Like many only children, she
was fascinated by the resemblance between siblings, and now, in the full light of day, she could see exactly
how much Alec looked like his sister. They had the same jet-black hair, the same slender eyebrows winging
up at the corners, the same pale, high-colored skin. But where Isabelle was all arrogance, Alec slumped down
in the chair as if he hoped nobody would notice him. His lashes were long and dark like Isabelle's, but where
her eyes were black, his were the dark blue of bottle glass. They gazed at Clary with a hostility as pure and
concentrated as acid.
"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Alec." Hodge raised an eyebrow. Clary wondered how old he was; there
was a sort of agelessness to him, despite the gray in his hair. He wore a neat gray tweed suit, perfectly pressed.
He would have looked like a kindly college professor if it hadn't been for the thick scar
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that drew up the right side of his face. She wondered how he had gotten it. "Are you suggesting that she
didn't kill that demon after all?" "Of course she didn't. Look at her-she's a mundie, Hodge, and a little kid, at
that. There's no way she took on a Ravener."
"I'm not a little kid," Clary interrupted. "I'm sixteen years old-well, I will be on Sunday."
"The same age as Isabelle," Hodge said. "Would you call her a child?"
"Isabelle hails from one of the greatest Shadowhunter dynasties in history," Alec said dryly. "This girl, on
the other hand, hails from New Jersey." "I'm from Brooklyn!" Clary was outraged. "And so what? I just killed
a demon in my own house, and you're going to be a dickhead about it because I'm not some spoiled-rotten rich
brat like you and your
sister?" Alec looked astonished."What did you call me?" Jace laughed. "She has a point, Alec," Jace said. "It's
those bridge-and-tunnel demons you really have to
watch out for-"
"It's notfunny, Jace," Alec interrupted, starting to his feet. "Are you just going to let her stand there and call
me names?" "Yes," Jace said kindly. "It'll do you good-try to think of it as endurance training." "We may
beparabatai," Alec said tightly. "But your flippancy is wearing on my patience." "And your obstinacy is
wearing on mine. When I found her, she was lying on the floor in a pool of blood
with a dying demon practically on top of her. I watched as it vanished. If she didn't kill it, who did?"
"Raveners are stupid. Maybe it got itself in the neck with its stinger. It's happened before-" "Now you're
suggesting it committed suicide?" Alec's mouth tightened. "It isn't right for her to be here. Mundies aren't
allowed in the Institute, and there
are good reasons for that. If anyone knew about this, we could be reported to the Clave." "That's not entirely
true," Hodge said. "The Law does allow us to offer sanctuary to mundanes in certain circumstances. A
Ravener has already attacked Clary's mother-she could well have been next."
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Clary wondered if this was a euphemism for "murdered." The raven on Hodge's shoulder cawed softly.
"Raveners are search-and-destroy machines," Alec said. "They act under orders from warlocks or powerful
demon lords. Now, what interest would a warlock or demon lord have in an ordinary mundane household?"
His eyes when he looked at Clary were bright with dislike. "Any thoughts?"
Clary said, "It must have been a mistake."
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"Demons don't make those kind of mistakes. If they went after your mother, there must have been a reason. If
she were innocent-"
"What do you mean, 'innocent'?" Clary's voice was quiet.
Alec looked taken aback. "I-"
"What he means," said Hodge, "is that it is extremely unusual for a powerful demon, the kind who might
command a host of lesser demons, to interest himself in the affairs of human beings. No mundane may
summon a demon-they lack that power-but there have been some, desperate and foolish, who have found a
witch or warlock to do it for them."
"My mother doesn't know any warlocks. She doesn't believe in magic." A thought occurred to Clary.
"Madame Dorothea- she lives downstairs-she's a witch. Maybe the demons were after her and got my mom by
mistake?"
Hodge's eyebrows shot up into his hair. "A witch lives downstairs from you?"
"She's a hedge-witch-a fake," Jace said. "I already looked into it. There's no reason for any warlock to be
interested in her unless he's in the market for nonfunctional crystal balls."
"And we're back where we began." Hodge reached up to stroke the bird on his shoulder. "It seems the time
has come to notify the Clave."
"No!" Jace said. "We can't-"
"It made sense to keep Clary's presence here a secret while we were not sure she would recover," Hodge said.
"But now she has, and she is the first mundane to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred
years. You know the rules about mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters, Jace. The Clave must be informed."
"Absolutely," Alec agreed. "I could get a message to my father-"
"She's not a mundane," Jace said quietly.
Hodge's eyebrows shot back up to his hairline and stayed there. Alec, caught in the middle of a sentence,
choked with surprise. In the sudden silence Clary could hear the sound of Hugo's wings rustling. "But I am,"
she said.
"No," said Jace. "You aren't." He turned to Hodge, and Clary saw the slight movement of his throat as he
swallowed. She found this glimpse of his nervousness oddly reassuring. "That night-there were Du'sien
demons, dressed like police officers. We had to get past them. Clary was too weak to run, and there wasn't
time to hide-she would have died. So I used my stele- put amendelin rune on the inside of her arm. I thought-"
"Are you out of yourmind?" Hodge slammed his hand down on top of the desk so hard that Clary thought the
wood might crack. "You know what the Law says about placing Marks on mundanes! You-you of all people
ought to know better!"
"But it worked," said Jace. "Clary, show them your arm."
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With a baffled glance in Jace's direction, she held out her bare arm. She remembered looking down at it that
night in the alley, thinking how vulnerable it seemed. Now, just below the crease of her wrist, she could see
three faint overlapping circles, the lines as faint as the memory of a scar that had faded with the passage of
years. "See, it's almost gone," Jace said. "It didn't hurt her at all."
"That's not the point." Hodge could barely control his anger. "You could have turned her into a Forsaken."
Two bright spots of color burned high up on Alec's cheekbones. "I can't believe you, Jace. Only
Shadowhunters can receive Covenant Marks-theykill mundanes-"
"She's not a mundane. Haven't you been listening? It explains why she could see us. She must have Clave
blood."
Clary lowered her arm, feeling suddenly cold. "But I don't. I couldn't."
"You must," Jace said, without looking at her. "If you didn't, that Mark I made on your arm..."

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"That's enough, Jace," said Hodge, the displeasure clear in his voice. "There's no need to frighten her further."
"But I was right, wasn't I? It explains what happened to her mother, too. If she was a Shadowhunter in exile,
she might well have Downworld enemies."
"My mother wasn't a Shadowhunter!"
"Your father, then," Jace said. "What about him?"
Clary returned his gaze with a flat stare. "He died. Before I was born."
Jace flinched, almost imperceptibly. It was Alec who spoke. "It's possible," he said uncertainly. "If her father
were a Shadowhunter, and her mother a mundane-well, we all know it's against the Law to marry a mundie.
Maybe they were in hiding."
"My mother would have told me," Clary said, although she thought of the lack of more than one photo of her
father, the way her mother never spoke of him, and knew that it wasn't true.
"Not necessarily," said Jace. "We all have secrets."
"Luke," Clary said. "Our friend. He would know." With the thought of Luke came a flash of guilt and horror.
"It's been three days-he must be frantic. Can I call him? Is there a phone?" She turned to Jace. "Please."
Jace hesitated, looking at Hodge, who nodded and moved aside from the desk. Behind him was a globe, made
of beaten brass, that didn't look quite like other globes she had seen; there was something subtly strange about
the shape of the countries and continents. Next to the globe was an old-fashioned black telephone with a silver
rotary dial. Clary lifted it to her ear, the familiar dial tone washing over her like soothing water.
Luke picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"
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"Luke!" She sagged against the desk. "It's me. It's Clary."
"Clary." She could hear the relief in his voice, along with something else she couldn't quite identify. "You're
all right?" "I'm fine," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't call you before. Luke, my mom-" "I know. The police were
here." "Then you haven't heard from her." Any vestigial hope that her mother had fled the house and hidden
somewhere disappeared. There was no way she wouldn't have contacted Luke. "What did the police
say?" "Just that she was missing." Clary thought of the policewoman with her skeletal hand, and shivered.
"Where are you?"
"I'm in the city," Clary said. "I don't know where exactly. With some friends. My wallet's gone, though. If
you've got some cash, I could take a cab to your place-" "No," he said shortly. The phone slipped in her sweaty
hand. She caught it. "What?" "No," he said. "It's too dangerous. You can't come here."
"We could call-"
"Look." His voice was hard. "Whatever your mother's gotten herself mixed up in, it's nothing to do with
me. You're better off where you are."
"But I don't want to stay here." She heard the whine in her voice, like a child's. "I don't know these
people. You-"
"I'mnot your father, Clary. I've told you that before."
Tears burned the backs of her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just-"
"Don't call me for favors again," he said. "I've got my own problems, I don't need to be bothered with
yours," he added, and hung up the phone.
She stood and stared at the receiver, the dial tone buzzing in her ear like a big ugly wasp. She dialed Luke's
number again, waited. This time it went to voice mail. She banged the phone down, her hands trembling.
Jace was leaning against the armrest of Alec's chair, watching her. "I take it he wasn't happy to hear
from you?" Clary's heart felt as if it had shrunk down to the size of a walnut: a tiny, hard stone in her chest.I
will not cry, she thought,Not in front of these people.
"I think I'd like to have a talk with Clary," said Hodge. "Alone," he added firmly, seeing Jace's
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expression.
Alec stood up. "Fine. We'll leave you to it."

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"That's hardly fair," Jace objected. "I'm the one who found her. I'm the one who saved her life! You want me
here, don't you?" he appealed, turning to Clary.
Clary looked away, knowing that if she opened her mouth, she'd start to cry. As if from a distance, she heard
Alec laugh.
"Not everyone wants you all the time, Jace," he said.
"Don't be ridiculous," she heard Jace say, but he sounded disappointed. "Fine, then. We'll be in the weapons
room."
The door closed behind them with a definitive click. Clary's eyes were stinging the way they did when she
tried to hold tears back for too long. Hodge loomed up in front of her, a fussing gray blur. "Sit down," he said.
"Here, on the couch."
She sank gratefully onto the soft cushions. Her cheeks were wet. She reached up to brush the tears away,
blinking. "I don't cry much usually," she found herself saying. "It doesn't mean anything. I'll be all right in a
minute."
"Most people don't cry when they're upset or frightened, but rather when they're frustrated. Your frustration is
understandable. You've been through a most trying time."
"Trying?" Clary wiped her eyes on the hem of Isabelle's shirt. "You could say that."
Hodge pulled the chair out from behind the desk, dragging it over so that he could sit facing her. His eyes, she
saw, were gray, like his hair and tweed coat, but there was kindness in them. "Is there anything I could get for
you?" he asked. "Something to drink? Some tea?"
"I don't want tea," said Clary, with muffled force. "I want to find my mother. And then I want to find out who
took her in the first place, and I want to kill them."
"Unfortunately," said Hodge, "we're all out of bitter revenge at the moment, so it's either tea or nothing."
Clary dropped the hem of the shirt-now spotted all over with wet blotches-and said, "What am I supposed to
do, then?"
"You could start by telling me a little about what happened," Hodge said, rummaging in his pocket. He
produced a handkerchief-crisply folded-and handed it to her. She took it with silent astonishment. She'd never
before known anyone who carried a handkerchief. "The demon you saw in your apartment-was that the first
such creature you'd ever seen? You had no inkling such creatures existed before?"
Clary shook her head, then paused. "One before, but I didn't realize what it was. The first time I saw Jace-"
"Right, of course, how foolish of me to forget." Hodge nodded. "In Pandemonium. That was the first time?"
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"Yes."
"And your mother never mentioned them to you-nothing about another world, perhaps, that most people
cannot see? Did she seem particularly interested in myths, fairy tales, legends of the fantastic-"
"No. She hated all that stuff. She even hated Disney movies. She didn't like me reading manga. She said
it was childish." Hodge scratched his head. His hair didn't move. "Most peculiar," he murmured. "Not really,"
said Clary. "My mother wasn't peculiar. She was the most normal person in the world." "Normal people don't
generally find their homes ransacked by demons," Hodge said, not unkindly. "Couldn't it have been a
mistake?" "If it had been a mistake," Hodge said, "and you were an ordinary girl, you would not have seen the
demon that attacked you-or if you had, your mind would have processed it as something else entirely: a
vicious dog, even another human being. That you could see it, that it spoke to you-"
"How did you know it spoke to me?"
"Jace reported that you said 'It talked.'"
"It hissed." Clary shivered, remembering. "It talked about wanting to eat me, but I think it wasn't
supposed to."
"Raveners are generally under the control of a stronger demon. They're not very bright or capable on their
own," explained Hodge. "Did it say what its master was looking for?"
Clary thought. "It said something about a Valentine, but-"

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Hodge jerked upright,so abruptly that Hugo, who had been resting comfortably on his shoulder,
launched himself into the air with an irritable caw."Valentine?"
"Yes," Clary said. "I heard the same name in Pandemonium from the boy-I mean, the demon-"
"It's a name we all know," Hodge said shortly. His voice was steady, but she could see a slight tremble in his
hands. Hugo, back on his shoulder, ruffed his feathers uneasily. "A demon?" "No. Valentine is-was-a
Shadowhunter." "A Shadowhunter? Why do you saywas?" "Because he's dead," said Hodge flatly. "He's been
dead for fifteen years." Clary sank back against the couch cushions. Her head was throbbing. Maybe she
should have gone for
that tea after all. "Could it be someone else? Someone with the same name?"
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Hodge's laugh was a humorless bark. "No. But it could have been someone using his name to send a message."
He stood up and paced to his desk, hands locked behind his back. "And this would be the time to do it."
"Why now?"
"Because of the Accords."
"The peace negotiations? Jace mentioned those. Peace with who?"
"Downworlders," Hodge murmured. He looked down at Clary. His mouth was a tight line. "Forgive me," he
said. "This must be confusing for you."
"You think?"
He leaned against the desk, stroking Hugo's feathers absently. "Downworlders are those who share the
Shadow World with us. We have always lived in an uneasy peace with them."
"Like vampires, werewolves, and..."
"The Fair Folk," Hodge said. "Faeries. And Lilith's children, being half-demon, are warlocks."
"So what are you Shadowhunters?"
"We are sometimes called the Nephilim," said Hodge. "In the Bible they were the offspring of humans and
angels. The legend of the origin of Shadowhunters is that they were created more than a thousand years ago,
when humans were being overrun by demon invasions from other worlds. A warlock summoned the Angel
Raziel, who mixed some of his own blood with the blood of men in a cup, and gave it to those men to drink.
Those who drank the Angel's blood became Shadowhunters, as did their children and their children's children.
The cup thereafter was known as the Mortal Cup. Though the legend may not be fact, what is true is that
through the years, when Shadowhunter ranks were depleted, it was always possible to create more
Shadowhunters using the Cup."
"Was
always possible?"
"The Cup is gone," said Hodge. "Destroyed by Valentine, just before he died. He set a great fire and burned
himself to death along with his family, his wife, and his child. Scorched the land black. No one will build there
still. They say the land is cursed."
"Is it?"
"Possibly. The Clave hands down curses on occasion as punishment for breaking the Law. Valentine broke
the greatest Law of all-he took up arms against his fellow Shadowhunters and slew them. He and his group,
the Circle, killed dozens of their brethren along with hundreds of Downworlders during the last Accords. They
were only barely defeated."
"Why would he want to turn on other Shadowhunters?"
"He didn't approve of the Accords. He despised Downworlders and felt that they should be slaughtered,
wholesale, to keep this world pure for human beings. Though the Downworlders are not demons, not
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invaders, he felt they were demonic in nature, and that that was enough. The Clave did not agree-they felt the
assistance of Downworlders was necessary if we were ever to drive off demonkind for good. And who could
argue, really, that the Fair Folk do not belong in this world, when they have been here longer than we have?"
"Did the Accords get signed?"

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"Yes, they were signed. When the Downworlders saw the Clave turn on Valentine and his Circle in their
defense, they realized Shadowhunters were not their enemies. Ironically, with his insurrection Valentine made
the Accords possible." Hodge sat down in the chair again. "I apologize, this must be a dull history lesson for
you. That was Valentine. A firebrand, a visionary, a man of great personal charm and conviction. And a killer.
Now someone is invoking his name ..."
"But who?" Clary asked. "And what does my mother have to do with it?"
Hodge stood up again. "I don't know. But I shall do what I can to find out. I will send messages to the Clave
and also to the Silent Brothers. They may wish to speak with you."
Clary didn't ask who the Silent Brothers were. She was tired of asking questions whose answers only made
her more confused. She stood up. "Is there any chance I could go home?"
Hodge looked concerned. "No, I-I wouldn't think that would be wise."
"There are things I need there, even if I'm going to stay here. Clothes-"
"We can give you money to purchase new clothes."
"Please," Clary said. "I have to see if-I have to see what's left."
Hodge hesitated, then offered a short, inverted nod. "If Jace agrees to it, you may both go." He turned to the
desk, rummaging among the papers. He glanced over his shoulder as if realizing she was still there. "He's in
the weapons room."
"I don't know where that is."
Hodge smiled crookedly. "Church will take you."
She glanced toward the door where the fat blue Persian was curled up like a small ottoman. He rose as she
came forward, fur rippling like liquid. With an imperious meow he led her into the hall. When she looked back
over her shoulder, she saw Hodge already scribbling on a piece of paper. Sending a message to the mysterious
Clave, she guessed. They didn't sound like very nice people. She wondered what their response would be.
The red ink looked like blood against the white paper. Frowning, Hodge Starkweather rolled the letter,
carefully and meticulously, into the shape of a tube, and whistled for Hugo. The bird, cawing softly, settled on
his wrist. Hodge winced. Years ago, in the Uprising, he had sustained a wound to that shoulder, and even as
light a weight as Hugo's-or the turn of a season, a change in temperature or humidity, too sudden a movement
of his arm-awakened old twinges and the memories of pains better
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forgotten.
There were some memories, though, that never faded. Images burst like flashbulbs behind his lids when he
closed his eyes. Blood and bodies, trampled earth, a white podium stained with red. The cries of the dying.
The green and rolling fields of Idris and its endless blue sky, pierced by the towers of the Glass City. The pain
of loss surged up inside him like a wave; he tightened his fist, and Hugo, wings fluttering, pecked angrily at
his fingers, drawing blood. Opening his hand, Hodge released the bird, who circled his head as he flew up to
the skylight and then vanished.
Shaking off his sense of foreboding, Hodge reached for another piece of paper, not noticing the scarlet drops
that smeared the paper as he wrote.
6
Forsaken
The weapons room looked exactly the way something
called "the weapons room" sounded like it would look. Brushed metal walls were hung with every manner of
sword, dagger, spike, pike, featherstaff, bayonet, whip, mace, hook, and bow. Soft leather bags filled with
arrows dangled from hooks, and there were stacks of boots, leg guards, and gauntlets for wrists and arms. The
place smelled of metal and leather and steel polish. Alec and Jace, no longer barefoot, sat at a long table in the
center of the room, their heads bent over an object between them. Jace looked up as the door shut behind
Clary. "Where's Hodge?" he said.
"Writing to the Silent Brothers."

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Alec repressed a shudder. "Ugh."
She approached the table slowly, conscious of Alec's gaze. "What are you doing?"
"Putting the last touches on these." Jace moved aside so she could see what lay on the table: three long slim
wands of a dully glowing silver. They did not look sharp or particularly dangerous. "Sanvi, Sansanvi, and
Semangelaf. They're seraph blades."
"Those don't look like knives. How did you make them? Magic?"
Alec looked horrified, as if she'd asked him to put on a tutu and execute a perfect pirouette. "The funny thing
about mundies," Jace said, to nobody in particular, "is how obsessed with magic they are for a bunch of people
who don't even know what the word means."
"I know what it means," Clary snapped.
"No, you don't, you just think you do. Magic is a dark and elemental force, not just a lot of sparkly
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wands and crystal balls and talking goldfish." "I never said it was a lot of talking goldfish, you-" Jace waved a
hand, cutting her off. "Just because you call an electric eel a rubber duck doesn't make it a
rubber duck, does it? And God help the poor bastard who decides they want to take a bath with the
duckie."
"You're driveling," Clary observed.
"I'm not," said Jace, with great dignity.
"Yes, you are," said Alec, rather unexpectedly. "Look, we don't do magic, okay?" he added, not looking
at Clary. "That's all you need to know about it."
Clary wanted to snap at him, but restrained herself. Alec already didn't seem to like her; there was no
point in aggravating his hostility. She turned to Jace. "Hodge said I can go home."
Jace nearly dropped the seraph blade he was holding. "Hesaid what?"
"To look through my mother's things," she amended. "If you go with me."
"Jace," Alec exhaled, but Jace ignored him.
"If you really want to prove that my mom or dad was a Shadowhunter, we should look through my
mom's things. What's left of them."
"Down the rabbit hole." Jace grinned crookedly. "Good idea. If we go right now, we should have
another three, four hours of daylight."
"Do you want me to come with you?" Alec asked, as Clary and Jace moved toward the door. Clary
glanced back at him. He was half-out of the chair, eyes expectant.
"No." Jace didn't turn around. "That's all right. Clary and I can handle this on our own."
The look Alec shot Clary was as sour as poison. She was glad when the door shut behind her.
Jace led the way down the hall, Clary half-jogging to keep up with his long-legged stride. "Have you got
your house keys?"
Clary glanced down at her shoes. "Yeah."
"Good. Not that we couldn't break in, but we'd run a greater chance of disturbing any wards that might
be up if we did."
"If you say so." The hall widened out into a marble-floored foyer, a black metal gate set into one wall. It
was only when Jace pushed a button next to the gate and it lit up that she realized it was an elevator. It
creaked and groaned as it rose to meet them. "Jace?"
"Yeah?"

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"How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood? Was there some way you could tell?"
The elevator arrived with a final groan. Jace unlatched the gate and slid it open. The inside reminded Clary of
a birdcage, all black metal and decorative bits of gilt. "I guessed," he said, latching the door behind them. "It
seemed like the most likely explanation."
"You guessed? You must have been pretty sure, considering you could have killed me."
He pressed a button in the wall, and the elevator lurched into action with a vibrating groan that she felt all
through the bones in her feet. "I was ninety percent sure."
"I see," Clary said.
There must have been something in her voice, because he turned to look at her. Her hand cracked across his
face, a slap that rocked him back on his heels. He put his hand to his cheek, more in surprise than pain. "What
the hell was that for?"
"The other ten percent," she said, and they rode the rest of the way down to the street in silence.
Jace spent the train ride to Brooklyn wrapped in an angry silence. Clary stuck close to him anyway, feeling a
little bit guilty, especially when she looked at the red mark her slap had left on his cheek.
She didn't really mind the silence; it gave her a chance to think. She kept reliving the conversation with Luke,
over and over in her head. It hurt to think about, like biting down on a broken tooth, but she couldn't stop
doing it.
Farther down the train, two teenage girls sitting on an orange bench seat were giggling together. The sort of
girls Clary had never liked at St. Xavier's, sporting pink jelly mules and fake tans. Clary wondered for a
moment if they were laughing at her, before she realized with a start of surprise that they were looking at Jace.
She remembered the girl in the coffee shop who had been staring at Simon. Girls always got that look on their
faces when they thought someone was cute. She had nearly forgotten that Jacewas cute, given everything that
had happened. He didn't have Alec's delicate cameo looks, but Jace's face was more interesting. In daylight his
eyes were the color of golden syrup and were...looking right at her. He cocked an eyebrow. "Can I help you
with something?"
Clary turned instant traitor against her gender. "Those girls on the other side of the car are staring at you."
Jace assumed an air of mellow gratification. "Of course they are," he said. "I am stunningly attractive."
"Haven't you ever heard that modesty is an attractive trait?"
"Only from ugly people," Jace confided. "The meek may inherit the earth, but at the moment it belongs to the
conceited. Like me." He winked at the girls, who giggled and hid behind their hair.
Clary sighed. "How come they can see you?"
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"Glamours are a pain to use. Sometimes we don't bother." The incident with the girls on the train did seem to
put him in a better mood. When they left the station and headed up the hill to Clary's apartment, he took one of
the seraph blades out of his pocket and started flipping it back and forth between his fingers and across his
knuckles, humming to himself.
"Do you have to do that?" Clary asked. "It's annoying."
Jace hummed louder. It was a loud, tuneful sort of hum, somewhere between "Happy Birthday" and "The
Battle Hymn of the Republic."
"I'm sorry I smacked you," she said.
He stopped humming. "Just be glad you hit me and not Alec. He would have hit you back."
"He seems to be itching for the chance," Clary said, kicking an empty soda can out of her path. "What was it
that Alec called you? Para-something?"
"Parabatai,"
said Jace. "It means a pair of warriors who fight together-who are closer than brothers. Alec is more than just
my best friend. My father and his father wereparabatai when they were young. His father was my
godfather-that's why I live with them. They're my adopted family."
"But your last name isn't Lightwood."
"No," Jace said, and she would have asked what it was, but they had arrived at her house, and her heart had

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started to thump so loudly that she was sure it must be audible for miles. There was a humming in her ears,
and the palms of her hands were damp with sweat. She stopped in front of the box hedges, and raised her eyes
slowly, expecting to see yellow police tape cordoning off the front door, smashed glass littering the lawn, the
whole thing reduced to rubble.
But there were no signs of destruction. Bathed in pleasant afternoon light, the brownstone seemed to glow.
Bees droned lazily around the rosebushes under Madame Dorothea's windows.
"It looks the same," Clary said.
"On the outside." Jace reached into his jeans pocket and drew out another one of the metal and plastic
contraptions she'd mistaken for a cell phone.
"So that's a Sensor? What does it do?" she asked.
"It picks up frequencies, like a radio does, but these frequencies are demonic in origin."
"Demon shortwave?"
"Something like that." Jace held the Sensor out in front of him as he approached the house. It clicked faintly
as they climbed the stairs, then stopped. Jace frowned. "It's picking up trace activity, but that could just be left
over from that night. I'm not getting anything strong enough for there to be demons present now."
Clary let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Good." She bent to retrieve her keys.
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When she straightened up, she saw the scratches on the front door. It must have been too dark for her to have
seen them last time. They looked like claw marks, long and parallel, raked deeply into the wood.
Jace touched her arm. "I'll go in first," he said. Clary wanted to tell him that she didn't need to hide behind
him, but the words wouldn't come. She could taste the terror she'd felt when she'd first seen the Ravener. The
taste was sharp and coppery on her tongue like old pennies.
He pushed the door open with one hand, beckoning her after him with the hand that held the Sensor. Once
inside the entryway, Clary blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dimness. The bulb overhead was still out, the
skylight too filthy to let in any light, and shadows lay thick across the chipped floor. Madame Dorothea's door
was firmly shut. No light showed through the gap under it. Clary wondered uneasily if anything had happened
to her.
Jace raised his hand and ran it along the banister. It came away wet, streaked with something that looked
blackish red in the dim light. "Blood."
"Maybe it's mine." Her voice sounded tinny. "From the other night."
"It'd be dry by now if it were," Jace said. "Come on."
He headed up the stairs, Clary close behind him. The landing was dark, and she fumbled her keys three times
before she managed to slide the right one into the lock. Jace leaned over her, watching impatiently. "Don't
breathe down my neck," she hissed; her hand was shaking. Finally the tumblers caught, the lock clicking open.
Jace pulled her back. "I'll go in first."
She hesitated, then stepped aside to let him pass. Her palms were sticky, and not from the heat. In fact, it was
cool inside the apartment, almost cold-chilly air seeped from the entryway, stinging her skin. She felt goose
bumps rising as she followed Jace down the short hallway and into the living room.
It was empty. Startlingly, entirely empty, the way it had been when they'd first moved in-the walls and floor
bare, the furniture gone, even the curtains torn down from the windows. Only faint lighter squares of paint on
the wall showed where her mother's paintings had hung. As if in a dream, Clary turned and walked toward the
kitchen, Jace pacing her, his light eyes narrowed.
The kitchen was just as empty, even the refrigerator gone, the chairs, the table-the kitchen cabinets stood
open, their bare shelves reminding her of a nursery rhyme. She cleared her throat. "What would demons," she
said, "want with our microwave?"
Jace shook his head, mouth curling under at the corners. "I don't know, but I'm not sensing any demonic
presence right now. I'd say they're long gone."
She glanced around one more time. Someone had cleaned up the spilled Tabasco sauce, she noticed distantly.
"Are you satisfied?" Jace asked. "There's nothing here."
She shook her head. "I want to see my room."
He looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. "If that's what it takes," he

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said, sliding the seraph blade into his pocket.
The light in the hallway was out, but Clary didn't need much light to navigate inside her own house. With
Jace just behind her, she found the door to her bedroom and reached for the knob. It was cold in her hand-so
cold it nearly hurt, like touching an icicle with your bare skin. She saw Jace look at her quickly, but she was
already turning the knob, or trying to. It moved slowly, almost stickily, as if the other side of it were
embedded in something glutinous and syrupyÂThe
door blew outward, knocking her off her feet. She skidded across the hallway floor and slammed into the
wall, rolling onto her stomach. There was a dull roaring in her ears as she pulled herself up to her knees.
Jace, flat against the wall, was fumbling in his pocket, his face a mask of surprise. Looming over him like a
giant in a fairy tale was an enormous man, big around as an oak tree, a broad-bladed axe clutched in one
gigantic dead-white hand. Tattered filthy rags hung off his grimy skin, and his hair was a single matted tangle,
thick with dirt. He stank of poisonous sweat and rotting flesh. Clary was glad she couldn't see his face-the
back of him was bad enough.
Jace had the seraph blade in his hand. He raised it, calling out:"Sansanvi!"
A blade shot from the tube. Clary thought of old movies where bayonets were hidden inside walking sticks,
released at the flick of a switch. But she'd never seen a blade like this before: clear as glass, with a glowing
hilt, wickedly sharp and nearly as long as Jace's forearm. He struck out, slashing at the gigantic man, who
staggered back with a bellow.
Jace whirled around, racing toward her. He caught her arm, hauling her to her feet, pushing her ahead of him
down the hall. She could hear the thing behind them, following; its footsteps sounded like lead weights being
dropped onto the floor, but it was coming on fast.
They sped through the entryway and out onto the landing, Jace whipping around to slam the front door shut.
She heard the click of the automatic lock and caught her breath. The door shook on its hinges as a tremendous
blow struck against it from inside the apartment. Clary backed away to the stairs. Jace glanced at her. His eyes
were glowing with manic excitement. "Get downstairs! Get out of the-"
Another blow came, and this time the hinges gave way and the door flew outward. It would have knocked
Jace over if he hadn't moved so fast that Clary barely saw it; suddenly he was on the top stair, the blade
burning in his hand like a fallen star. She saw Jace look at her and shout something, but she couldn't hear him
over the roar of the gigantic creature that burst from the shattered door, making straight for him. She flattened
herself against the wall as it passed in a wave of heat and stink- and then its axe was flying, whipping through
the air, slicing toward Jace's head. He ducked, and it thunked heavily into the banister, biting deep.
Jace laughed. The laugh seemed to enrage the creature; abandoning the axe, he lurched at Jace with his
enormous fists raised. Jace brought the seraph blade around in an arcing sweep, burying it to the hilt in the
giant's shoulder. For a moment the giant stood swaying. Then he lurched forward, his hands outstretched and
grasping. Jace stepped aside hastily, but not hastily enough: The enormous fists caught hold of him as the
giant staggered and fell, dragging Jace in his wake. Jace cried out once; there was a series of heavy and
cracking thumps, and then silence.
Clary scrambled to her feet and raced downstairs. Jace lay sprawled at the foot of the steps, his arm bent
beneath him at an unnatural angle. Across his legs lay the giant, the hilt of Jace's blade protruding
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from his shoulder. He was not quite dead, but flopping weakly, a bloody froth leaking from his mouth. Clary
could see his face now-it was dead-white and papery, latticed with a black network of horrible scars that
almost obliterated his features. His eye sockets were red suppurating pits. Fighting the urge to gag, Clary
stumbled down the last few stairs, stepped over the twitching giant, and knelt down next to Jace.
He was so still. She laid a hand on his shoulder, felt his shirt sticky with blood-his own or the giant's, she
couldn't tell. "Jace?"
His eyes opened. "Is it dead?"
"Almost," Clary said grimly.
"Hell." He winced. "My legs-"
"Hold still." Crawling around to his head, Clary slipped her hands under his arms and pulled. He grunted with

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pain as his legs slipped out from under the creature's spasming carcass. Clary let go, and he struggled to his
feet, his left arm across his chest. She stood up. "Is your arm all right?"
"No. Broken," he said. "Can you reach into my pocket?"
She hesitated, nodded. "Which one?"
"Inside jacket, right side. Take out one of the seraph blades and hand it to me." He held still as she nervously
slipped her fingers into his pocket. She was standing so close that she could smell the scent of him, sweat and
soap and blood. His breath tickled the back of her neck. Her fingers closed on a tube and she drew it out, not
looking at him.
"Thanks," he said. His fingers traced it briefly before he named it: "Sanvi." Like its predecessor, the tube
grew into a wicked-looking dagger, its glow illuminating his face. "Don't watch," he said, going to stand over
the scarred thing's body. He raised the blade over his head and brought it down. Blood fountained from the
giant's throat, splattering Jace's boots.
She half-expected the giant to vanish, folding in on itself the way the kid in Pandemonium had. But it didn't.
The air was full of the smell of blood: heavy and metallic. Jace made a sound low in his throat. He was
white-faced, whether with pain or disgust she couldn't tell. "I told you not to watch," he said.
"I thought it would disappear," she said. "Back to its own dimension-you said."
"I said that's what happens to demons when they die." Wincing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulder,
baring the upper part of his left arm. "That wasn't a demon." With his right hand he drew something out of his
belt. It was the smooth wand-shaped object he'd used to carve those overlapping circles into Clary's skin.
Looking at it, she felt her forearm begin to burn.
Jace saw her staring and grinned the ghost of a grin. "This," he said, "is a stele." He touched it to an inked
mark just below his shoulder, a curious shape almost like a star. Two arms of the star jutted out from the rest
of the mark, unconnected. "And this," he said, "is what happens when Shadowhunters are wounded."
With the tip of the stele, he traced a line connecting the two arms of the star. When he lowered his hand, the
mark was shining as if it had been etched with phosphorescent ink. As Clary watched, it sank into his
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skin, like a weighted object sinking into water. It left behind a ghostly reminder: a pale, thin scar, almost
invisible.
An image rose in Clary's mind. Her mother's back, not quite covered by her bathing suit top, the blades of her
shoulders and curves of her spine dappled with narrow, white marks. It was like something she had seen in a
dream-her mother's back didn't really look like that, she knew. But the image nagged at her.
Jace let out a sigh, the tense look of pain leaving his face. He moved the arm, slowly at first, then more easily,
lifting it up and down, clenching his fist. Clearly it was no longer broken.
"That's amazing," Clary said. "How did you-?"
"That was aniratze -a healing rune," Jace said. "Finishing the rune with the stele activates it." He shoved the
slim wand into his belt and shrugged his jacket back on. With the toe of his boot he prodded the giant's corpse.
"We're going to have to report this to Hodge," he said. "He'll freak out," he added, as if the thought of Hodge's
alarm gave him some satisfaction. Jace, Clary thought, was the sort of person who liked it when things
werehappening, even things that were bad.
"Why will he freak?" Clary said. "And I get that that thing isn't a demon-that's why the Sensor didn't register
it, right?"
Jace nodded. "You see the scars all over its face?"
"Yes."
"Those were made with a stele. Like this one." He tapped the wand in his belt. "You asked me what happens
when you carve Marks onto someone who doesn't have Shadowhunter blood. Just one Mark will only burn
you, but a lot of Marks, powerful ones? Carved into the flesh of a totally ordinary human being with no trace
of Shadowhunter ancestry? You get this." He jerked his chin at the corpse. "The runes are agonizingly painful.
The Marked ones go insane-the pain drives them out of their minds. They become fierce, mindless killers.
They don't sleep or eat unless you make them, and they die, usually quickly. Runes have great power and can
be used to do great good-but they can be used for evil. The Forsaken are evil."
Clary stared at him in horror. "But why would anyone do that to themselves?"

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"Nobody would. It's something that gets done to them. By a warlock, maybe, some Downworlder gone bad.
The Forsaken are loyal to the one who Marked them, and they're fierce killers. They can obey simple
commands, too. It's like having a-a slave army." He stepped over the dead Forsaken, and glanced over his
shoulder at her. "I'm going back upstairs."
"But there's nothing there."
"There might be more of them," he said, almost as if he were hoping there would be. "You should wait here."
He started up the steps.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a shrill and familiar voice. "There are more of them where the first one
came from."
Jace, who was nearly at the top of the stairs, spun and stared. So did Clary, although she knew
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immediately who had spoken. That gravelly accent was unmistakable. "Madame Dorothea?" The old woman
inclined her head regally. She stood in the doorway of her apartment, dressed in what
looked like a tent made of raw purple silk. Gold chains glittered on her wrists and roped her throat. Her
long badger-striped hair straggled from the bun pinned to the top of her head.
Jace was still staring. "But..."
"Morewhat?" Clary said.
"More Forsaken," replied Dorothea with a cheerfulness that, Clary felt, didn't really fit the circumstances.
She glanced around the entryway. "You have made a mess, haven't you? I'm sure you weren't planning
on cleaning up either. Typical."
"But you're amundane," Jace said, finally finishing his sentence. "So
observant," said Dorothea, her eyes gleaming. "The Clave really broke the mold with you." The bewilderment
on Jace's face was fading, replaced by a dawning anger. "You know about the Clave?" he demanded. "You
knew about them, and you knew there were Forsaken in this house, and you didn't notify them? Just the
existence of Forsaken is a crime against the Covenant-" "Neither Clave nor Covenant have ever done anything
for me," said Madame Dorothea, her eyes flashing angrily. "I owe them nothing." For a moment her gravelly
New York accent vanished, replaced with something else, a thicker, deeper accent that Clary didn't recognize.
"Jace, stop it," Clary said. She turned to Madame Dorothea. "If you know about the Clave and the Forsaken,"
she said, "then maybe you know what happened to my mother?" Dorothea shook her head, her earrings
swinging. There was something like pity on her face. "My advice
to you," she said, "is to forget about your mother. She's gone." The floor under Clary seemed to tilt. "You
mean she's dead?" "No." Dorothea spoke the word almost reluctantly. "I'm sure she's still alive. For now."
"Then I have to find her," Clary said. The world had stopped tilting; Jace was standing behind her, his
hand on her elbow as if to brace her, but she barely noticed. "You understand? I have to find her
before-"
Madame Dorothea held up a hand. "I don't want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business."
"But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor-"
"This is an official Clave investigation." Jace cut her off. "I can always come back with the Silent
Brothers."
"Oh, for the-" Dorothea glanced at her door, then at Jace and Clary. "I suppose you might as well come
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in," she said, finally. "I'll tell you what I can." She started toward the door, then halted on the threshold,
glaring. "But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you'll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and
an extra pair of arms."
"That might be nice, an extra pair of arms," Jace said. "Handy in a fight."
"Not if they're growing out of your..." Dorothea paused and smiled at him, not without malice. "Neck."
"Yikes," said Jace mildly.

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"Yikes is right, Jace Wayland." Dorothea marched into the apartment, her purple tent flying around her like a
gaudy flag.
Clary looked at Jace. "Wayland?"
"It's my name." Jace looked shaken. "I can't say I like that she knows it."
Clary glanced after Dorothea. The lights were on inside the apartment; already the heavy smell of incense was
flooding the entryway, mixing unpleasantly with the stench of blood. "Still, I think we might as well try
talking to her. What have we got to lose?"
"Once you've spent a bit more time in our world," Jace said, "you won't ask me that again."
7
The Five-Dimensional Door
Madame Dorothea's apartment seemed to have roughly
the same layout as Clary's, though she'd made a very different use of the space. The entryway, reeking of
incense, was hung with bead curtains and astrological posters. One showed the constellations of the zodiac,
another a guide to Chinese magical symbols, and another showed a hand with fingers spread, each line on the
palm carefully labeled. Above the hand Latinate script spelled out the words"In Manibus Fortuna." Narrow
shelves holding stacked books ran along the wall beside the door.
One of the bead curtains rattled, and Madame Dorothea poked her head through. "Interested in chiromancy?"
she said, noting Clary's gaze. "Or just nosy?"
"Neither," Clary said. "Can you really tell fortunes?"
"My mother had a great talent. She could see a man's future in his hand or the leaves at the bottom of his
teacup. She taught me some of her tricks." She transferred her gaze to Jace. "Speaking of tea, young man,
would you like some?"
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"What?" Jace said, looking flustered.
"Tea. I find it both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea."
"I'll have tea," Clary said, realizing how long it had been since she had eaten or drunk anything. She felt
as if she'd been running on pure adrenaline since she woke up.
Jace succumbed. "All right. As long as it isn't Earl Grey," he added, wrinkling his fine-boned nose. "I
hate bergamot."
Madame Dorothea cackled loudly and disappeared back through the bead curtain, leaving it swaying
gently behind her.
Clary raised her eyebrows at Jace. "You hate bergamot?"
Jace had wandered over to the narrow bookshelf and was examining its contents. "You have a problem
with that?"
"You may be the only guy my age I've ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it's in Earl
Grey tea."
"Yes, well," Jace said, with a supercilious look, "I'm not like other guys. Besides," he added, flipping a
book off the shelf, "at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It's
required."
"I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners."
Jace flipped a page. "Very funny, Fray."
Clary, who had been studying the palmistry poster, whirled on him. "Don't call me that."

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He glanced up, surprised. "Why not? It's your last name, isn't it?"
The image of Simon rose up behind her eyes. Simon the last time she had seen him, staring after her as
she ran out of Java Jones. She turned back to the poster, blinking. "No reason."
"I see," Jace said, and she could tell from his voice that he did see, more than she wanted him to. She heard
him drop the book back onto the shelf. "This must be the trash she keeps up front to impress credible
mundanes," he said, sounding disgusted. "There's not one serious text here."
"Just because it's not the kind of magic you do-," Clary began crossly. He scowled furiously, silencing her.
"Ido not do magic,"he said. "Get it through your head: Human beings are not magic users. It's part of what
makes them human. Witches and warlocks can only use
magic because they have demon blood." Clary took a moment to process this. "But I've seen you use magic.
You use enchanted weapons-" "I use tools that are magical. And just to be able to do that, I have to undergo
rigorous training. The rune
tattoos on my skin protect me too. If you tried to use one of the seraph blades, for instance, it'd probably burn
your skin, maybe kill you."
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"What if I got the tattoos?" Clary asked. "Could I use them then?"
"No," Jace said crossly. "The Marks are only part of it. There are tests, ordeals, levels of training-look,
just forget it, okay? Stay away from my blades. In fact, don't touch any of my weapons without my
permission."
"Well, there goes my plan for selling them all on eBay," Clary muttered.
"Selling them onwhat?"
Clary smiled blandly at him. "A mythical place of great magical power."
Jace looked confused, then shrugged. "Most myths are true, at least in part."
"I'm starting to get that."
The bead curtain rattled again, and Madame Dorothea's head appeared. "Tea's on the table," she said.
"There's no need for you two to keep standing there like donkeys. Come into the parlor."
"There's a parlor?" Clary said.
"Of course there's a parlor," said Dorothea. "Where else would I entertain?"
"I'll just leave my hat with the footman," said Jace.
Madame Dorothea shot him a dark look. "If you were half as funny as you thought you were, my boy, you'd
be twice as funny as you are." She disappeared back through the curtain, her loud "Hmph!" nearly drowned
out by rattling beads.
Jace frowned. "I'm not quite sure what she meant by that."
"Really," said Clary. "It made perfect sense to me." She marched through the bead curtain before he could
reply.
The parlor was so dimly lit that it took several blinks for Clary's eyes to adjust. Faint light outlined the black
velvet curtains drawn across the entire left wall. Stuffed birds and bats dangled from the ceiling on thin cords,
shiny dark beads where their eyes should have been. The floor was layered with frayed Persian rugs that spat
up puffs of dust underfoot. A group of overstuffed pink armchairs were gathered around a low table: A stack
of tarot cards bound with a silk ribbon occupied one end of the table, a crystal ball on a gold stand the other. In
the middle of the table was a silver tea service, laid out for company: a neat plate of stacked sandwiches, a
blue teapot unfurling a thin stream of white smoke, and two teacups on matching saucers set carefully in front
of two of the armchairs.
"Wow," Clary said weakly. "This looks great." She took a seat in one of the armchairs. It felt good to sit
down.
Dorothea smiled, her eyes glinting with a sly humor. "Have some tea," she said, hefting the pot. "Milk?
Sugar?"
Clary looked sideways at Jace, who was sitting beside her and who had taken possession of the
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sandwich plate. He was examining it closely. "Sugar," she said.

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Jace shrugged, took a sandwich, and set the plate down. Clary watched him warily as he bit into it. He
shrugged again. "Cucumber," he said, in response to her stare.
"I always think cucumber sandwiches are just the thing for tea, don't you?" Madame Dorothea inquired, of no
one in particular.
"I hate cucumber," Jace said, and handed the rest of his sandwich to Clary. She bit into it-it was seasoned with
just the right amount of mayonnaise and pepper. Her stomach rumbled in grateful
appreciation of the first food she'd tasted since the nachos she'd eaten with Simon.
"Cucumber and bergamot," Clary said. "Is there anything else you hate that I ought to know about?"
Jace looked at Dorothea over the rim of his teacup. "Liars," he said.
Calmly the old woman set her teapot down. "You can call me a liar all you like. It's true, I'm not a witch.
But my mother was."
Jace choked on his tea. "That's impossible."
"Why impossible?" Clary asked curiously. She took a sip of her tea. It was bitter, strongly flavored with
a peaty smokiness.
Jace expelled a breath. "Because they're half-human, half-demon. All witches and warlocks are crossbreeds.
And because they're crossbreeds, they can't have children. They're sterile."
"Like mules," Clary said thoughtfully, remembering something from biology class. "Mules are sterile
crossbreeds." "Your knowledge of livestock is astounding," said Jace. "All Downworlders are in some part
demon, but
only warlocks are the children of demon parents. It's why their powers are the strongest."
"Vampires and werewolves-they're part demon too? And faeries?"
"Vampires and werewolves are the result of diseases brought by demons from their home dimensions. Most
demon diseases are deadly to humans, but in these cases they worked strange changes on the infected, without
actually killing them. And faeries-"
"Faeries are fallen angels," said Dorothea, "cast down out of heaven for their pride."
"That's the legend," Jace said. "It's also said that they're the offspring of demons and angels, which always
seemed more likely to me. Good and evil, mixing together. Faeries are as beautiful as angels are supposed to
be, but they have a lot of mischief and cruelty in them. And you'll notice most of them avoid midday
sunlight-"
"For the devil has no power," said Dorothea softly, as if she were reciting an old rhyme, "except in the dark."
Jace scowled at her. Clary said, "'Supposed to be? You mean angels don't-"
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"Enough about angels," said Dorothea, suddenly practical. "It's true that warlocks can't have children. My
mother adopted me because she wanted to make sure there'd be someone to attend this place after she was
gone. I don't have to master magic myself. I have only to watch and guard."
"Guard what?" asked Clary.
"What indeed?" With a wink the older woman reached for a sandwich from the plate, but it was empty.
Clary had eaten them all. Dorothea chuckled. "It's good to see a young woman eat her fill. In my day,
girls were robust, strapping creatures, not twigs like they are nowadays."
"Thanks," Clary said. She thought of Isabelle's tiny waist and felt suddenly gigantic. She set her empty
teacup down with a clatter.
Instantly, Madame Dorothea pounced on the cup and stared into it intently, a line appearing between her
penciled eyebrows.
"What?" Clary said nervously. "Did I crack the cup or something?"
"She's reading your tea leaves," Jace said, sounding bored, but he leaned forward along with Clary as
Dorothea turned the cup around and around in her thick fingers, scowling. "Is it bad?" Clary asked. "It is
neither bad nor good. It is confusing." Dorothea looked at Jace. "Give meyour cup," she

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commanded. Jace looked affronted. "But I'm not done with my-" The old woman snatched the cup out of his
hand and splashed the excess tea back into the pot.
Frowning, she gazed at what remained. "I see violence in your future, a great deal of blood shed by you
and others. You'll fall in love with the wrong person. Also, you have an enemy."
"Only one? That's good news." Jace leaned back in his chair as Dorothea put down his cup and picked
up Clary's again. She shook her head.
"There is nothing for me to read here. The images are jumbled, meaningless." She glanced at Clary. "Is
there a block in your mind?"
Clary was puzzled. "A what?"
"Like a spell that might conceal a memory, or might have blocked out your Sight."
Clary shook her head. "No, of course not."
Jace leaned forward alertly. "Don't be so hasty," he said. "It's true that she claims not to remember ever
having had the Sight before this week. Maybe-"
"Maybe I'm just a late developer," Clary snapped. "And don'tleer at me, just because I said that." Jace
assumed an injured air. "I wasn't going to."
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"You were working up to a leer, I could tell."
"Maybe," Jace acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean I'm not right. Something's blocking your memories, I'm
almost sure of it."
"Very well, let's try something else." Dorothea put the cup down, and reached for the silk-wrapped tarot
cards. She fanned the cards and held them out to Clary. "Slide your hand over these until you touch one that
feels hot or cold, or seems to cling to your fingers. Then draw that one and show it to me."
Obediently Clary ran her fingers over the cards. They felt cool to the touch, and slippery, but none seemed
particularly warm or cold, and none stuck to her fingers. Finally she selected one at random, and
held it up.
"The Ace of Cups," Dorothea said, sounding bemused. "The love card."
Clary turned it over and looked at it. The card was heavy in her hand, the image on the front thick with real
paint. It showed a hand holding up a cup in front of a rayed sun painted with gilt. The cup was made of gold,
engraved with a pattern of smaller suns and studded with rubies. The style of the artwork was as familiar to
her as her own breath. "This is a good card, right?"
"Not necessarily. The most terrible things men do, they do in the name of love," said Madame Dorothea, her
eyes gleaming. "But it is a powerful card. What does it mean to you?"
"That my mother painted it," said Clary, and dropped the card onto the table. "She did, didn't she?"
Dorothea nodded, a look of pleased satisfaction on her face. "She painted the whole pack. A gift for me."
"So you say." Jace stood up, his eyes cold. "How well did you know Clary's mother?"
Clary craned her head to look up at him. "Jace, you don't have to-"
Dorothea sat back in her chair, the cards fanned out across her wide chest. "Jocelyn knew what I was, and I
knew what she was. We didn't talk about it much. Sometimes she did favors for me-like painting this pack of
cards-and in return I'd tell her the occasional piece of Downworld gossip. There was a name she asked me to
keep an ear out for, and I did."
Jace's expression was unreadable. "What name was that?"
"Valentine."
Clary sat straight up in her chair. "But that's-"
"And when you say you knew what Jocelyn was, what do you mean? What was she?" Jace asked.
"Jocelyn was what she was," said Dorothea. "But in her past she'd been like you. A Shadowhunter. One
of the Clave."
"No," Clary whispered.

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Dorothea looked at her with sad almost kindly eyes. "It's true. She chose to live in this house precisely
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because-" "Because this is a Sanctuary." Jace said to Dorothea. "Isn't it? Your mother was a Control. She made
this space, hidden, protected-it's a perfect spot for Downworlders on the run to hide out. That's what you do,
isn't it? You hide criminals here." "Youwould call them that," Dorothea said. "You're familiar with the motto
of the Covenant?" "Sed lex dura lex,"
said Jace automatically. "The Law is hard, but it is the Law." "Sometimes the Law is too hard. I know the
Clave would have taken me away from my mother if they could. You want me to let them do the same to
others?" "So you're a philanthropist." Jace's lip curled. "I suppose you expect me to believe that Downworlders
don't pay you handsomely for the privilege of your Sanctuary?" Dorothea grinned, wide enough to show a
flash of gold molars. "We can't all get by on our looks like
you."
Jace looked unmoved by the flattery. "I should tell the Clave about you-"
"You can't!" Clary was on her feet now. "You promised."
"I never promised anything." Jace looked mutinous. He strode to the wall and tore aside one of the
velvet hangings. "You want to tell me what this is?" he demanded.
"It's a door, Jace," said Clary. Itwas a door, set strangely in the wall between the two bay windows.
Clearly it couldn't be a door that led anywhere, or it would have been visible from the outside of the
house. It looked as if it were made of some softly glowing metal, more buttery than brass but as heavy as
iron. The knob had been cast in the shape of an eye.
"Shut up," Jace said angrily. "It's a Portal. Isn't it?"
"It's a five-dimensional door," said Dorothea, laying the tarot cards back on the table. "Dimensions aren't
all straight lines, you know," she added, in response to Clary's blank look. "There are dips and folds and nooks
and crannies all tucked away. It's a bit hard to explain when you've never studied dimensional theory, but, in
essence, that door can take you anywhere in this dimension that you want to go. It's-"
"An escape hatch," Jace said. "That's why your mother wanted to live here. So she could always flee at
a moment's notice." "Then why didn't she-," Clary began, and broke off, suddenly horrified. "Because of me,"
she said. "She wouldn't leave without me that night. So she stayed."
Jace was shaking his head. "You can't blame yourself."
Feeling tears gather under her eyelids, Clary pushed past Jace to the door. "I want to see where she would
have gone," she said, reaching for the door. "I want to see where she was going to escape to-" "Clary, no!"
Jace reached for her, but her fingers had already closed around the knob. It spun rapidly
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under her hand, the door flying open as if she'd pushed it. Dorothea lumbered to her feet with a cry, but it was
too late. Before she could even finish her sentence, Clary found herself flung forward and tumbling through
empty space.
8
Weapon of Choice
She was too surprised to scream. The sensation of falling
was the worst part; her heart flew up into her throat and her stomach turned to water. She flung her
hands out, trying to catch at something, anything that might slow her descent.
Her hands closed on branches. Leaves tore off in her grip. She thumped to the ground, hard, her hip and

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shoulder striking packed earth. She rolled over, sucking the air back into her lungs. She was just
beginning to sit up when someone landed on top of her.
She was knocked backward. A forehead banged against hers, her knees banging against someone
else's. Tangled up in arms and legs, Clary coughed hair (not her own) out of her mouth and tried to
struggle out from under the weight that felt like it was crushing her flat.
"Ouch," Jace said in her ear, his tone indignant. "You elbowed me."
"Well, youlanded on me."
He levered himself up on his arms and looked down at her placidly. Clary could see blue sky above his
head, a bit of tree branch, and the corner of a gray clapboard house. "Well, you didn't leave me much choice,
did you?" he asked. "Not after you decided to leap merrily through that Portal like you were jumping the F
train. You're just lucky it didn't dump us out in the East River."
"You didn't have to come after me."
"Yes, I did," he said. "You're far too inexperienced to protect yourself in a hostile situation without me."
"That's sweet. Maybe I'll forgive you."
"Forgive me? For what?"
"For telling me to shut up."
His eyes narrowed. "I did not... Well, I did, but you were-"
"Never mind." Her arm, pinned under her back, was beginning to cramp. Rolling to the side to free it,
she saw the brown grass of a dead lawn, a chain-link fence, and more of the gray clapboard house, now
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distressingly familiar.
She froze. "I know where we are."
Jace stopped spluttering. "What?"
"This is Luke's house." She sat up, pitching Jace to the side. He rolled gracefully to his feet and held out
a hand to help her up. She ignored him and scrambled upright, shaking out her numb arm.
They stood in front of a small gray row house, nestled among the other row houses that lined the
Williamsburg waterfront. A breeze blew off the East River, setting a small sign swinging over the brick front
steps. Clary watched Jace as he read the block-lettered words aloud,"Garroway Books. Fine Used, New, and
Out-of-Print. Closed Saturdays." He glanced at the dark front door, its knob wound with a heavy padlock. A
few days' worth of mail lay on the doormat, untouched. He glanced at Clary. "He lives in a bookstore?"
"He lives behind the store." Clary glanced up and down the empty street, which was bordered on one end by
the arched span of the Williamsburg Bridge, and by a deserted sugar factory on the other. Across
the sluggishly moving river the sun was setting behind the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, outlining them in
gold. "Jace, how did we get here?"
"Through the Portal," Jace said, examining the padlock. "It takes you to whatever place you're thinking
of."
"But I wasn't thinking of here," Clary objected. "I wasn't thinking of anywhere."
"You must have been." He dropped the subject, seeming uninterested. "So, since we're here anyway..."
"Yeah?"
"What do you want to do?"
"Leave, I guess," Clary said bitterly. "Luke told me not to come here."
Jace shook his head. "And you just accept that?"
Clary hugged her arms around herself. Despite the fading heat of the day, she felt cold. "Do I have a
choice?"
"We always have choices," Jace said. "If I were you, I'd be pretty curious about Luke right now. Do you have
keys to the house?"

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Clary shook her head. "No, but sometimes he leaves the back door unlocked." She pointed to the narrow alley
between Luke's row house and the next. Plastic trash cans were propped in a neat row beside stacks of folded
newspapers and a plastic tub of empty soda bottles. At least Luke was still a
responsible recycler.
"You sure he isn't home?" Jace asked.
She glanced at the empty curb. "Well, his truck's gone, the store's closed, and all the lights are off. I'd
say probably not."
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"Then lead the way."
The narrow aisle between the row houses ended in a high chain-link fence. It surrounded Luke's small back
garden, where the only plants flourishing seemed to be the weeds that had sprung up through the paving
stones, cracking them into powdery shards.
"Up and over," Jace said, jamming the toe of a boot into a gap in the fence. He began to climb. The fence
rattled so loudly that Clary glanced around nervously, but there were no lights on in the neighbors' house. Jace
cleared the top of the fence and sprang down the other side, landing in the bushes to the accompaniment of an
earsplitting yowl.
For a moment Clary thought he must have landed on a stray cat. She heard Jace shout in surprise as he fell
backward. A dark shadow-much too big to be feline-exploded out of the shrubbery and streaked across the
yard, keeping low. Rolling to his feet, Jace darted after it, looking murderous.
Clary started to climb. As she threw her leg over the top of the fence, Isabelle's jeans caught on a twist of wire
and tore up the side. She dropped to the ground, shoes scuffing the soft dirt, just as Jace cried out in triumph.
"Got him!" Clary turned to see Jace sitting on top of the prone intruder, whose arms were up over his head.
Jace grabbed for his wrist. "Come on, let's see your face-"
"Get the hell off me, you pretentious asshole," the intruder snarled, shoving at Jace. He struggled halfway into
a sitting position, his battered glasses knocked askew.
Clary stopped dead in her tracks."Simon?"
"Oh, God," said Jace, sounding resigned. "And here I'd actually hoped I'd got hold of something interesting."
"But what were you doing hiding in Luke's bushes?" Clary asked, brushing leaves out of Simon's hair. He
suffered her ministrations with glaring bad grace. Somehow when she'd pictured her reunion with Simon,
when all this was over, he'd been in a better mood. "That's the part I don't get."
"All right, that's enough. I can fix my own hair, Fray," Simon said, jerking away from her touch. They were
sitting on the steps of Luke's back porch. Jace had propped himself on the porch railing and was assiduously
pretending to ignore them, while using the stele to file the edges of his fingernails. Clary wondered if the
Clave would approve.
"I mean, did Luke know you were there?" she asked.
"Of course he didn't know I was there," Simon said irritably. "I've never asked him, but I'm sure he has a
fairly stringent policy about random teenagers lurking in his shrubbery."
"You're not random; he knows you." She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, still bleeding slightly
where a branch had scratched it. "The main thing is that you're all right."
"ThatI'm all right?" Simon laughed, a sharp, unhappy sound. "Clary, do you have any idea what I've been
through this past couple of days? The last time I saw you, you were running out of Java Jones like a
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bat out of hell, and then you just... disappeared. You never picked up your cell-then your home phone
was disconnected-then Luke told me you were off staying with some relatives upstate when Iknow you
don't have any other relatives. I thought I'd done something to piss you off."
"What could you possibly have done?" Clary reached for his hand, but he pulled it back without looking
at her.
"I don't know," he said. "Something."
Jace, still occupied with the stele, chuckled low under his breath.

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"You're my best friend," Clary said. "I wasn't mad at you."
"Yeah, well, you clearly also couldn't be bothered to call me and tell me you were shacking up with
some dyed-blond wanna-be goth you probably met at Pandemonium," Simon pointed out sourly. "After I
spent the past three days wondering if you weredead."
"I was not shacking up," Clary said, glad of the darkness as the blood rushed to her face.
"And my hair is naturally blond," said Jace. "Just for the record."
"So what have you been doing these past three days, then?" Simon said, his eyes dark with suspicion.
"Do you really have a great-aunt Matilda who contracted avian flu and needed to be nursed back to health?"
"Did Luke actually say that?" "No. He just said you had gone to visit a sick relative, and that your phone
probably just didn't work out in the country. Not that I believed him. After he shooed me off his front porch, I
went around the side of the house and looked in the back window. Watched him packing up a green duffel bag
like he was going away for the weekend. That was when I decided to stick around and keep an eye on things."
"Why? Because he was packing a bag?" "He was packing it full of weapons," Simon said, scrubbing at the
blood on his cheek with the sleeve of his T-shirt. "Knives, a couple daggers, even a sword. Funny thing is,
some of the weapons looked like they were glowing." He looked from Clary to Jace, and back again. His tone
was edged as sharply as one of Luke's knives. "Now, are you going to say I was imagining it?"
"No," Clary said. "I'm not going to say that." She glanced at Jace. The last light of sunset struck gold sparks
from his eyes. She said, "I'm going to tell him the truth." "I know." "Are you going to try to stop me?" He
looked down at the stele in his hand. "My oath to the Covenant binds me," he said. "No such oath
binds you." She turned back to Simon, taking a deep breath. "All right," she said. "Here's what you have to
know."
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The sun had slipped entirely past the horizon, and the porch was in darkness by the time Clary stopped
speaking. Simon had listened to her lengthy explanation with a nearly impassive expression, only wincing a
little when she got to the part about the Ravener demon. When she was done speaking, she cleared her dry
throat, suddenly dying for a glass of water. "So," she said, "any questions?"
Simon held up his hand. "Oh, I've got questions. Several."
Clary exhaled warily. "Okay, shoot."
He pointed at Jace. "Now, he's a-what do you call people like him again?"
"He's a Shadowhunter," Clary said.
"A demon hunter," Jace clarified. "I kill demons. It's not that complicated, really."
Simon looked at Clary again. "For real?" His eyes were narrowed, as if he half-expected her to tell him
that none of it was true and Jace was actually a dangerous escaped lunatic she'd decided to befriend on
humanitarian grounds.
"For real."
There was an intent look on Simon's face. "And there are vampires, too? Werewolves, warlocks, all that
stuff?"
Clary gnawed her lower lip. "So I hear."
"And you kill them, too?" Simon asked, directing the question to Jace, who had put the stele back in his
pocket and was examining his flawless nails for defects.
"Only when they've been naughty."
For a moment Simon merely sat and stared down at his feet. Clary wondered if burdening him with this
kind of information had been the wrong thing to do. He had a stronger practical streak than almost anyone else
she knew; he might hate knowing something like this, something for which there was no logical explanation.
She leaned forward anxiously, just as Simon lifted his head. "That isso awesome," he said.

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Jace looked as startled as Clary felt. "Awesome?"
Simon nodded enthusiastically enough to make the dark curls bounce on his forehead. "Totally. It's like
Dungeons and Dragons, butreal."
Jace was looking at Simon as if he were some bizarre species of insect. "It's like what?"
"It's a game," Clary explained. She felt vaguely embarrassed. "People pretend to be wizards and elves,
and they kill monsters and stuff."
Jace looked stupefied.
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Simon grinned. "You've never heard of Dungeons and Dragons?"
"I've heard of dungeons," Jace said. "Also dragons. Although they're mostly extinct."
Simon looked disappointed. "You've never killed a dragon?"
"He's probably never met a six-foot-tall hot elf-woman in a fur bikini, either," Clary said irritably. "Lay
off, Simon."
"Real elves are about eight inches tall," Jace pointed out. "Also, they bite."
"But vampires are hot, right?" Simon said. "I mean, some of the vampires are babes, aren't they?"
Clary worried for a moment that Jace might lunge across the porch and throttle Simon senseless.
Instead, he considered the question. "Some of them, maybe."
"Awesome,"
Simon repeated. Clary decided she had preferred it when they were fighting. Jace slid off the porch railing.
"So are we going to search the house, or not?" Simon scrambled to his feet. "I'm game. What are we looking
for?" "We?" said Jace, with a sinister delicacy. "I don't remember inviting you along."
"Jace,"
Clary said angrily.
The left corner of his mouth curled up. "Just joking." He stepped aside to leave her a clear path to the door.
"Shall we?"
Clary fumbled for the doorknob in the dark. It opened, triggering the porch light, which illuminated the
entryway. The door that led into the bookstore was closed; Clary jiggled the knob. "It's locked."
"Allow me, mundanes," said Jace, setting her gently aside. He took his stele out of his pocket and put it to the
door. Simon watched him with some resentment. No amount of vampire babes, Clary suspected, was ever
going to make him like Jace.
"He's a piece of work, isn't he?" Simon muttered. "How do you stand him?"
"He saved my life."
Simon glanced at her quickly. "How-"
With a click the door swung open. "Here we go," said Jace, sliding his stele back into his pocket. Clary saw
the Mark on the door-just over his head-fade as they passed through it. The back door opened onto a small
storage room, the bare walls peeling paint. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, their contents identified
with marker scrawls: "Fiction," "Poetry," "Cooking," "Local Interest," "Romance."
"The apartment's through there." Clary headed toward the door she'd indicated, at the far end of the
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room.
Jace caught her arm. "Wait."
She looked at him nervously. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't know." He edged between two narrow stacks of boxes, and whistled. "Clary, you might want to come
over here and see this."
She glanced around. It was dim in the storage room, the only illumination the porch light shining through the

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window. "It's so dark-"
Light flared up, bathing the room in a brilliant glow. Simon turned his head aside, blinking. "Ouch."
Jace chuckled. He was standing on top of a sealed box, his hand raised. Something glowed in his palm, the
light escaping through his cupped fingers. "Witchlight," he said.
Simon muttered something under his breath. Clary was already clambering through the boxes, pushing a way
to Jace. He was standing behind a teetering pile of mysteries, the witch-light casting an eerie glow over his
face. "Look at that," he said, indicating a space higher up on the wall. At first she thought he was pointing at
what looked like a pair of ornamental sconces. As her eyes adjusted, she realized they were actually loops of
metal attached to short chains, the ends of which were sunk into the wall. "Are those-"
"Manacles," said Simon, picking his way through the boxes. "That's, ah..."
"Don't say 'kinky.'" Clary shot him a warning look. "This is Luke we're talking about."
Jace reached up to run his hand along the inside of one of the metal loops. When he lowered it, his fingers
were dusted with red-brown powder. "Blood. And look." He pointed to the wall right around where the chains
were sunk in; the plaster seemed to bulge outward. "Someone tried to yank these things out of the wall. Tried
pretty hard, from the looks of it."
Clary's heart had begun to beat hard inside her chest. "Do you think Luke is all right?"
Jace lowered the witchlight. "I think we'd better find out."
The door to the apartment was unlocked. It led into Luke's living room. Despite the hundreds of books in the
store itself, there were hundreds more in the apartment. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling, the volumes on them
"double-parked," one row blocking another. Most were poetry and fiction, with plenty of fantasy and mystery
thrown in. Clary remembered plowing through the entirety ofThe Chronicles of Prydainhere, curled up in
Luke's window seat as the sun went down over the East River.
"I think he's still around," called Simon, standing in the doorway of Luke's small kitchenette. "The
percolator's on and there's coffee here. Still hot."
Clary peered around the kitchen door. Dishes were stacked in the sink. Luke's jackets were hung neatly on
hooks inside the coat closet. She walked down the hallway and opened the door of his small bedroom. It
looked the same as ever, the bed with its gray coverlet and flat pillows unmade, the top of the bureau covered
in loose change. She turned away. Some part of her had been absolutely certain that when they walked in
they'd find the place torn to pieces, and Luke tied up, injured or worse. Now she didn't know what to think.
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Numbly she crossed the hall to the little guest bedroom where she'd so often stayed when her mother was out
of town on business. They'd stay up late watching old horror movies on the flickering black-and-white TV.
She even kept a backpack full of extra things here so she didn't have to lug her stuff back and forth from
home.
Kneeling down, she tugged it out from under the bed by its olive green strap. It was covered with buttons,
most of which Simon had given her. gamers do it better, otaku wench, still not king. Inside were some folded
clothes, a few spare pairs of underwear, a hairbrush, even shampoo.Thank God, she thought, and kicked the
bedroom door closed. Quickly she changed, stripping off Isabelle's too-big-and now grass-stained and
sweaty-clothes, and pulling on a pair of her own sandblasted cords, soft as worn paper, and a blue tank top
with a design of Chinese characters across the front. She tossed Isabelle's clothes into her backpack, yanked
the cord shut, and left the bedroom, the pack bouncing familiarly between her shoulder blades. It was nice to
have something of her own again.
She found Jace in Luke's book-lined office, examining a green duffel bag that lay unzipped across the desk. It
was, as Simon had said, full of weapons-sheathed knives, a coiled whip, and something that looked like a
razor-edged metal disk.
"It's achakhram," said Jace, looking up as Clary came into the room. "A Sikh weapon. You whirl it around
your index finger before releasing it. They're rare and hard to use. Strange that Luke would have one. They
used to be Hodge's weapon of choice, back in the day. Or so he tells me."
"Luke collects stuff. Art objects. You know," Clary said, indicating the shelf behind the desk, which was lined
with bronze Indian and Russian icons. Her favorite was a statuette of the Indian goddess of destruction, Kali,
brandishing a sword and a severed head as she danced with her head thrown back and her eyes slitted closed.

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To the side of the desk was an antique Chinese screen, carved out of glowing rosewood. "Pretty things."
Jace moved thechakhram aside gingerly. A handful of clothes spilled out of the untied end of Luke's duffel
bag, as if they had been an afterthought. "I think this is yours, by the way."
He drew out a rectangular object hidden among the clothes: a wooden-framed photograph with a long vertical
crack along the glass. The crack threw a network of spidery lines across the smiling faces of Clary, Luke, and
her mother. "Thatis mine," Clary said, taking it out of his hand.
"It's cracked," Jace observed.
"I know.I did that-I smashed it. When I threw it at the Ravener demon." She looked at him, seeing the
dawning realization on his face. "That means Luke's been back to the apartment since the attack. Maybe even
today-"
"He must have been the last person to come through the Portal," said Jace. "That's why it took us here. You
weren't thinking of anything, so it sent us to the last place it had been."
"Nice of Dorothea to tell us he was there," said Clary.
"He probably paid her off to be quiet. Either that or she trusts him more than she trusts us. Which means he
might not be-"
"Guys!" It was Simon, dashing into the office in a panic. "Someone's coming."
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Clary dropped the photo. "Is it Luke?"
Simon peered back down the hall, then nodded. "It is. But he's not by himself-there are two men with him."
"Men?" Jace crossed the room in a few strides, peered through the door, and spat a curse under his breath.
"Warlocks."
Clary stared. "Warlocks? But-"
Shaking his head, Jace backed away from the door. "Is there some other way out of here? A back door?"
Clary shook her head. The sound of footsteps in the hallway was audible now, striking pangs of fear into her
chest.
Jace looked around desperately. His eyes came to rest on the rosewood screen. "Get behind that," he said,
pointing."Now."
Clarydropped the fractured photo on the desk and slipped behind the screen, pulling Simon after her. Jace was
right behind them, his stele in his hand. He had barely concealed himself when Clary heard the door swing
wide open, the sound of people walking into Luke's office-then voices. Three men speaking. She looked
nervously at Simon, who was very pale, and then at Jace, who had raised the stele in his hand and was moving
the tip lightly, in a sort of square shape, across the back of the screen. As Clary stared, the square went clear,
like a pane of glass. She heard Simon suck in his breath-a tiny sound, barely audible-and Jace shook his head
at them both, mouthing words:They can't see us through it, but we can see them.
Biting her lip, Clary moved to the edge of the square and peered through it, conscious of Simon breathing
down her neck. She could see the room beyond perfectly: the bookshelves, the desk with the duffel bag thrown
across it-and Luke, ragged-looking and slightly stooped, his glasses pushed up to the top of his head, standing
near the door. It was frightening even though she knew he couldn't see her, that the window Jace had made
was like the glass in a police station interrogation room: strictly one-way.
Luke turned, looking back through the doorway. "Yes, feel free to look around," he said, his tone heavily
weighted with sarcasm. "Nice of you to show such an interest."
A low chuckle sounded from the corner of the office. With an impatient flick of the wrist, Jace tapped the
frame of his "window," and it opened out wider, showing more of the room. There were two men there with
Luke, both in long reddish robes, their hoods pushed back. One was thin, with an elegant gray mustache and
pointed beard. When he smiled, he showed blindingly white teeth. The other was burly, thickset as a wrestler,
with close-cropped reddish hair. His skin was dark purple and looked shiny over the cheekbones, as if it had
been stretched too tight.
"Those are warlocks?" Clary whispered softly.
Jace didn't answer. He had gone rigid all over, stiff as a bar of iron.He's afraid I'll make a run for it, try to get
to Luke, Clary thought. She wished she could reassure him that she wouldn't. There was something about
those two men, in their thick cloaks the color of arterial blood, that was terrifying.

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"Consider this a friendly follow-up,Graymark," said the man with the gray mustache. His smile showed
teeth so sharp they looked as if they'd been filed to cannibal points. "There's nothing friendly about you,
Pangborn." Luke sat down on the edge of his desk, angling his body so it blocked the men's view of his duffel
bag and its contents. Now that he was closer, Clary could see that his face and hands were badly bruised, his
fingers scraped and bloody. A long cut along his neck disappeared down into his collar.What on earth
happened to him?
"Blackwell, don't touch that-it's valuable," Luke said sternly. The big redheaded man, who had picked up the
statue of Kali from the top of the bookcase, ran his beefy fingers over it consideringly. "Nice," he said. "Ah,"
said Pangborn, taking the statue from his companion. "She who was created to battle a demon who could not
be killed by any god or man. 'Oh, Kali, my mother full of bliss! Enchantress of the
almighty Shiva, in thy delirious joy thou dancest, clapping thy hands together. Thou art the Mover of all
that moves, and we are but thy helpless toys.'"
"Very nice," said Luke. "I didn't know you were a student of the Indian myths."
"All the myths are true," said Pangborn, and Clary felt a small shiver go up her spine. "Or have you
forgotten even that?"
"I forget nothing," said Luke. Though he looked relaxed, Clary could see tension in the lines of his
shoulders and mouth. "I suppose Valentine sent you?"
"He did," said Pangborn. "He thought you might have changed your mind."
"There's nothing to change my mind about. I already told you I don't know anything. Nice cloaks, by the
way."
"Thanks," said Blackwell with a sly grin. "Skinned them off a couple of dead warlocks."
"Those are official Accord robes, aren't they?" Luke asked. "Are they from the Uprising?"
Pangborn chuckled softly. "Spoils of battle."
"Aren't you afraid someone might mistake you for the real thing?"
"Not," said Blackwell, "once they got up close."
Pangborn fondled the edge of his robe. "Do you remember the Uprising, Lucian?" he said softly. "That
was a great and terrible day. Do you remember how we trained together for the battle?"
Luke's face twisted. "The past is the past. I don't know what to tell you gentlemen. I can't help you now.
I don't know anything."
"'Anything' is such a general word, so unspecific," said Pangborn, sounding melancholy. "Surely someone
who owns so many books must knowsomething."
"If you want to know where to find a jog-toed swallow in springtime, I could direct you to the correct
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reference title. But if you want to know where the Mortal Cup has disappeared to..." "Disappeared might not
be quite the correct word," purred Pangborn. "Hidden, more like. Hidden by
Jocelyn."
"That may be," said Luke. "So hasn't she told you where it is yet?"
"She has not yet regained consciousness," said Pangborn, carving the air with a long-fingered hand.
"Valentine is disappointed. He was looking forward to their reunion."
"I'm sure she didn't reciprocate the sentiment," muttered Luke.
Pangborn cackled. "Jealous, Graymark? Perhaps you no longer feel about her the way youused to."
A trembling had started in Clary's fingers, so pronounced that she knitted her hands together tightly to try
to stop them from shaking.Jocelyn? Can they be talking about my mother?

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"I never felt any way about her, particularly," said Luke. "Two Shadowhunters, exiled from their own kind,
you can see why we might have banded together. But I'm not going to try to interfere with Valentine's plans
for her, if that's what he's worried about."
"I wouldn't say he was worried," said Pangborn. "More curious. We all wondered if you were still alive.
Still recognizably human."
Luke arched his eyebrows. "And?"
"You seem well enough," said Pangborn grudgingly. He set the Kali statuette down on the shelf. "There
was a child, wasn't there? A girl."
Luke looked taken aback. "What?"
"Don't play dumb," said Blackwell in his snarl of a voice. "We know the bitch had a daughter. They
found photos of her in the apartment, a bedroom-"
"I thought you were asking about children of mine," Luke interrupted smoothly. "Yes, Jocelyn had a
daughter. Clarissa. I assume she's run off. Did Valentine send you to find her?"
"Not us," said Pangborn. "But he is looking."
"We could search this place," added Blackwell.
"I wouldn't advise it," said Luke, and slid off the desk. There was a certain cold menace to his look as he
stared down at the two men, though his expression hadn't changed. "What makes you think she's still alive? I
thought Valentine sent Raveners to scour the place. Enough Ravener poison, and most people will crumble
away to ashes, leave no trace behind."
"There was a dead Ravener," said Pangborn. "It made Valentine suspicious."
"Everything makes Valentine suspicious," said Luke. "Maybe Jocelyn killed it. She was certainly capable."
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Blackwell grunted. "Maybe."
Luke shrugged. "Look, I've got no idea where the girl is, but for what it's worth, I'd guess she's dead.
She'd have turned up by now otherwise. Anyway, she's not much of a danger. She's fifteen years old, she's
never heard of Valentine, and she doesn't believe in demons." Pangborn chuckled. "A fortunate child." "Not
anymore," said Luke. Blackwell raised his eyebrows. "You sound angry, Lucian." "I'm not angry, I'm
exasperated. I'm not planning on interfering with Valentine's plans, do you understand
that? I'm not a fool." "Really?" said Blackwell. "It's nice to see that you've developed a healthy respect for
your own skin over the years, Lucian. You weren't always so pragmatic." "You do know," said Pangborn, his
tone conversational, "that we'd trade her, Jocelyn, for the Cup? Safely delivered, right to your door. That's a
promise from Valentine himself." "I know," said Luke. "I'm not interested. I don't know where your precious
Cup is, and I don't want to
get involved in your politics. I hate Valentine," he added, "but I respect him. I know he'll mow down
everyone in his path. I intend to be out of his way when it happens. He's a monster-a killing machine."
"Look who's talking," snarled Blackwell.
"I take it these are your preparations for removing yourself from Valentine's path?" said Pangborn,
pointing a long finger at the half-concealed duffel bag on the desk. "Getting out of town, Lucian?"
Luke nodded slowly. "Going to the country. I plan to lay low for a while."
"We could stop you," said Blackwell. "Make you stay."
Luke smiled. It transformed his face. Suddenly he was no longer the kind, scholarly man who'd pushed
Clary on the swings at the park and taught her how to ride a tricycle. Suddenly there was something feral
behind his eyes, something vicious and cold. "You could try."
Pangborn glanced at Blackwell, who shook his head once, slowly. Pangborn turned back to Luke.
"You'll notify us if you experience any sudden memory resurgence?"
Luke was still smiling. "You'll be first on my list to call."

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Pangborn nodded shortly. "I suppose we'll take our leave. The Angel guard you, Lucian."
"The Angel does not guard those like me," said Luke. He picked the duffel bag up off the desk and
knotted the top. "On your way, gentlemen?"
Lifting their hoods to cover their faces again, the two men left the room, followed a moment later by
Luke. He paused a moment at the door, glancing around as if he wondered if he'd forgotten something.
Then he shut it carefully behind him.
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Clary stayed where she was, frozen, hearing the front door swing shut and the distant jingle of chain and keys
as Luke refastened the padlock. She kept seeing the look on Luke's face, over and over, as he said he wasn't
interested in what happened to her mother.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Clary?" It was Simon, his voice hesitant, almost gentle. "Are you okay?"
She shook her head, mutely. She felt far from okay. In fact, she felt like she'd never be okay again.
"Of course she isn't." It was Jace, his voice sharp and cold as ice shards. He took hold of the screen and
moved it aside sharply. "At least now we know who would send a demon after your mother. Those men think
she has the Mortal Cup."
Clary felt her lips thin into a straight line. "That's totally ridiculousand impossible."
"Maybe," said Jace, leaning against Luke's desk. He fixed her with eyes as opaque as smoked glass.
"Have you ever seen those men before?"
"No." She shook her head. "Never."
"Lucian seemed to know them. To be friendly with them."
"I wouldn't say friendly," said Simon. "I'd say they were suppressing their hostility."
"They didn't kill him outright," said Jace. "They think he knows more than he's telling."
"Maybe," said Clary, "or maybe they're just reluctant to kill another Shadowhunter."
Jace laughed, a harsh, almost vicious noise that raised the hairs up on Clary's arms. "I doubt that."
She looked at him hard. "What makes you so sure? Do you know them?"
The laughter had gone from his voice entirely when he replied. "Do I know them?" he echoed. "You
might say that. Those are the men who murdered my father."
9
The Circle and the Brotherhood
Clary stepped forward to touch Jace's arm, say something,
anything-whatdid you say to someone who'd just seen his father's killers? Her hesitation turned out not to
matter; Jace shrugged her touch off as if it stung. "We should go," he said, stalking out of the office and
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into the living room. Clary and Simon hurried after him. "We don't know when Luke might come back."
They left through the back entrance, Jace using his stele to lock up behind them, and made their way out onto
the silent street. The moon hung like a locket over the city, casting pearly reflections on the water of the East
River. The distant hum of cars going by over the Williamsburg Bridge filled the humid air with a sound like
beating wings. Simon said, "Does anyone want to tell me where we're going?"
"To the L train," said Jace calmly.
"You've got to be kidding me," Simon said, blinking. "Demon slayers take the subway?"
"It's faster than driving."
"I thought it'd be something cooler, like a van with 'Death to Demons' painted on the outside, or..."
Jace didn't even bother to interrupt. Clary shot Jace a sideways look. Sometimes, when Jocelyn was really
angry about something or was in one of her upset moods, she would get what Clary called "scary-calm." It was
a calm that made Clary think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice just before it cracked under your weight. Jace
was scary-calm. His face was expressionless, but something burned at the backs of his tawny eyes.
"Simon," she said. "Enough."

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Simon shot her a look as if to say,Whose side are you on? but Clary ignored him. She was still watching Jace
as they turned onto Kent Avenue. The lights of the bridge behind them lit his hair to an unlikely halo. She
wondered if it was wrong that she was glad in some way that the men who'd taken her mother were the same
men who'd killed Jace's father all those years ago. For now, at least, he'd have to help her find Jocelyn,
whether he wanted to or not. For now, at least, he couldn't leave her alone.
"You livehere?" Simon stood staring up at the old cathedral, with its broken-in windows and doors sealed
with yellow police tape. "But it's a church."
Jace reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a brass key on the end of a chain. It looked like the sort
of key one might use to open an old chest in an attic. Clary watched him curiously-he hadn't locked the door
behind him when they'd left the Institute before, just let it slam shut. "We find it useful to inhabit hallowed
ground."
"I get that but, no offense, this place is a dump," Simon said, looking dubiously at the bent iron fence that
surrounded the ancient building, the trash piled up beside the steps.
Clary let her mind relax. She imagined herself taking one of her mother's turpentine rags and dabbing at the
view in front of her, cleaning away the glamour as if it were old paint.
There it was: the true vision, glowing through the false one like light through dark glass. She saw the soaring
spires of the cathedral, the dull gleam of the leaded windows, the brass plate fixed to the stone wall beside the
door, the Institute's name etched into it. She held the vision for a moment before letting it go almost with a
sigh.
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"It's a glamour, Simon," she said. "It doesn't really look like this."
"If this is your idea of glamour, I'm having second thoughts about letting you make me over."
Jace fitted the key into the lock, glancing over his shoulder at Simon. "I'm not sure you're quite sensible of the
honor I'm doing you," he said. "You'll be the first mundane who has ever been inside the Institute."
"Probably the smell keeps the rest of them away."
"Ignore him," Clary said to Jace, and elbowed Simon in the side. "He always says exactly what comes into his
head. No filters."
"Filters are for cigarettes and coffee," Simon muttered under his breath as they went inside. "Two things I
could use right now, incidentally."
Clary thought longingly of coffee as they made their way up a winding set of stone stairs, each one carved
with a glyph. She was beginning to recognize some of them-they tantalized her sight the way half-heard words
in a foreign language sometimes tantalized her hearing, as if by just concentrating harder she could force some
meaning out of them.
Clary and the two boys reached the elevator and rode up in silence. She was still thinking about coffee, big
mugs of coffee that were half milk the way her mother would make them in the morning. Sometimes Luke
would bring them bags of sweet rolls from the Golden Carriage Bakery in Chinatown. At the thought of Luke,
Clary's stomach tightened, her appetite vanishing.
The elevator came to a hissing stop, and they were again in the entryway Clary remembered. Jace shrugged
off his jacket, threw it over the back of a nearby chair, and whistled through his teeth. In a few seconds Church
appeared, slinking low to the ground, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dusty air. "Church," Jace said, kneeling
down to stroke the cat's gray head. "Where's Alec, Church? Where's Hodge?"
Church arched his back and meowed. Jace crinkled his nose, which Clary might have found cute in other
circumstances. "Are they in the library?" He stood up, and Church shook himself, trotted a little way down the
corridor, and glanced back over his shoulder. Jace followed the cat as if this were the most natural thing in the
world, indicating with a wave of his hand that Clary and Simon were to fall into step behind him.
"I don't like cats," Simon said, his shoulder bumping Clary's as they maneuvered the narrow hallway.
"It's unlikely," Jace said, "knowing Church, that he likes you, either."
They were passing through one of the corridors that were lined with bedrooms. Simon's eyebrows rose. "How
many people live here, exactly?"
"It's an institute," Clary said. "A place where Shadowhunters can stay when they're in the city. Like a sort of
combination safe haven and research facility."

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"I thought it was a church."
"It'sinside a church."
"Becausethat's not confusing." She could hear the nerves under his flippant tone. Instead of shushing
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him, Clary reached down and took his hand, winding her fingers through his cold ones. His hand was clammy,
but he returned the pressure with a grateful squeeze.
"I know it's weird," she said quietly, "but you just have to go along with it. Trust me."
Simon's dark eyes were serious. "I trust you," he said. "I don't trusthim." He cut his glance toward Jace, who
was walking a few paces ahead of them, apparently conversing with the cat. Clary wondered what they were
talking about. Politics? Opera? The high price of tuna?
"Well, try," she said. "Right now he's the best chance I'm going to have of finding my mom."
A little shudder passed over Simon. "This place feels not right to me," he whispered.
Clary remembered how she'd felt waking up here this morning-as if everything were both alien and familiar at
the same time. For Simon, clearly, there was nothing of that familiarity, only the sense of the strange, the alien
and inimical. "You don't have to stay with me," she said, though she'd fought Jace on the train for the right to
keep Simon with her, pointing out that after his three days of watching Luke, he might well know something
that would be useful to them once they had a chance to break it down in detail.
"Yes," Simon said, "I do." And he let go of her hand as they turned through a doorway and found themselves
inside a kitchen. It was an enormous kitchen, and unlike the rest of the Institute, it was all modern, with steel
counters and glassed-in shelves holding rows of crockery. Next to a red cast-iron stove stood Isabelle, a round
spoon in her hand, her dark hair pinned up on top of her head. Steam was rising from the pot, and ingredients
were strewn everywhere-tomatoes, chopped garlic and onions, strings of dark-looking herbs, grated piles of
cheese, some shelled peanuts, a handful of olives, and a whole fish, its eye staring glassily upward.
"I'm making soup," Isabelle said, waving a spoon at Jace. "Are you hungry?" She glanced behind him then,
her dark gaze taking in Simon as well as Clary. "Oh, my God," she said with finality. "You brought another
mundie here? Hodge is going to kill you."
Simon cleared his throat. "I'm Simon," he said.
Isabelle ignored him. "JACE WAYLAND," she said. "Explain yourself."
Jace was glaring at the cat. "I told you to bring me to Alec! Backstabbing Judas."
Church rolled onto his back, purring contentedly.
"Don't blame Church," Isabelle said. "It's not his fault Hodge is going to kill you." She plunged the spoon
back into the pot. Clary wondered what exactly peanut-fish-olive-tomato soup tasted like.
"I had to bring him," Jace said. "Isabelle-today I saw two of the men who killed my father."
Isabelle's shoulders tightened, but when she turned around, she looked more upset than surprised. "I don't
suppose he's one of them?" she asked, pointing her spoon at Simon.
To Clary's surprise, Simon said nothing to this. He was too busy staring at Isabelle, rapt and openmouthed. Of
course, Clary realized with a sharp stab of annoyance. Isabelle was exactly Simon's type-tall, glamourous, and
beautiful. Come to think of it, maybe that was everyone's type. Clary stopped wondering about the
peanut-fish-olive-tomato soup and started wondering what would happen if she
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dumped the contents of the pot on Isabella's head.
"Of course not," Jace said. "Do you think he'd be alive now if he were?"
Isabelle cast an indifferent look at Simon. "I suppose not," she said, absently dropping a piece offish on
the floor. Church fell on it ravenously.
"No wonder he brought us here," said Jace disgustedly. "I can't believe you've been stuffing him with fish
again. He's looking distinctly podgy."
"He does not look podgy. Besides, none of the rest of you ever eat anything. I got this recipe from a
water sprite at the Chelsea Market. He said it was delicious-"
"If you knew how to cook, maybe Iwould eat," Jace muttered.
Isabelle froze, her spoon poised dangerously."What did you say?"
Jace edged toward the fridge. "I said I'm going to look for a snack to eat."

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"That's what I thought you said." Isabelle returned her attention to the soup. Simon continued to stare at
Isabelle. Clary, inexplicably furious, dropped her backpack on the floor and followed Jace to the refrigerator.
"I can't believe you're eating," she hissed.
"What should I be doing instead?" he inquired with maddening calm. The inside of the fridge was filled with
milk cartons whose expiration dates reached back several weeks, and plastic Tupperware containers labeled
with masking tape lettered in red ink: hodge's. do not eat.
"Wow, he's like a crazy roommate," Clary observed, momentarily diverted.
"What, Hodge? He just likes things in order." Jace took one of the containers out of the fridge and opened it.
"Hmm. Spaghetti."
"Don't ruin your appetite," Isabelle called.
"That," said Jace, kicking the fridge door shut and seizing a fork from a drawer, "is exactly what I intend
to do." He looked at Clary. "Want some?"
She shook her head.
"Of course not," he said around a mouthful, "you ate all those sandwiches."
"It wasn'tthat many sandwiches." She glanced over at Simon, who appeared to have succeeded in
engaging Isabelle in conversation. "Can we go find Hodge now?"
"You seem awfully eager to get out of here."
"Don't you want to tell him what we saw?"
"I haven't decided yet." Jace set the container down and thoughtfully licked spaghetti sauce off his
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knuckle. "But if you want to go so badly-" "I do." "Fine." He seemed awfully calm, she thought, not
scary-calm as he had been before, but more contained
than he ought to be. She wondered how often he let glimpses of his real self peek through the façade that
was as hard and shiny as the coat of lacquer on one of her mother's Japanese boxes. "Where are you going?"
Simon looked up as they reached the door. Jagged bits of dark hair fell into his eyes; he looked stupidly dazed,
Clary thought unkindly, as if someone had hit him across the back of the head with a two-by-four.
"To find Hodge," she said. "I need to tell him about what happened at Luke's."
Isabelle looked up. "Are you going to tell him that you saw those men, Jace? The ones that-"
"I don't know." He cut her off. "So keep it to yourself for now."
She shrugged. "All right. Are you going to come back? Do you want any soup?"
"No," said Jace.
"Do you think Hodge will want any soup?"
"No one wants any soup."
"I want some soup," Simon said.
"No, you don't," said Jace. "You just want to sleep with Isabelle."
Simon was appalled. "That isnot true."
"How flattering," Isabelle murmured into the soup, but she was smirking.
"Oh, yes it is," said Jace. "Go ahead and ask her-then she can turn you down and the rest of us can get
on with our lives while you fester in miserable humiliation." He snapped his fingers. "Hurry up, mundie
boy, we've got work to do." Simon looked away, flushed with embarrassment. Clary, who a moment ago
would have been meanly pleased, felt a rush of anger toward Jace. "Leave him alone," she snapped. "There's
no need to be sadistic just because he isn't one ofyou."
"One of us," said Jace, but the sharp look had gone out of his eyes. "I'm going to find Hodge. Come along or
not, it's your choice." The kitchen door swung shut behind him, leaving Clary alone with Simon and Isabelle.
Isabelle ladled some of the soup into a bowl and pushed it across the counter toward Simon without looking at
him. She was still smirking, though-Clary could feel it. The soup was a dark green color, studded with floating
brown things.
"I'm going with Jace," Clary said. "Simon... ?"
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"Mmgnstayhr," he mumbled, looking at his feet.
"What?"
"I'm going to stay here." Simon parked himself on a stool. "I'm hungry."
"Fine." Clary's throat felt tight, as if she'd swallowed something either very hot or very cold. She stalked
out of the kitchen, Church slinking at her feet like a cloudy gray shadow.
In the hallway Jace was twirling one of the seraph blades between his fingers. He pocketed it when he
saw her. "Kind of you to leave the lovebirds to it."
Clary frowned at him. "Why are you always such an asshat?"
"An asshat?" Jace looked as if he were about to laugh.
"What you said to Simon-"
"I was trying to save him some pain. Isabelle will cut out his heart and walk all over it in high-heeled
boots. That's what she does to boys like that."
"Is that what she did to you?" Clary said, but Jace only shook his head before turning to Church.
"Hodge," he said. "Andreally Hodge this time. Bring us anywhere else, and I'll make you into a tennis
racket."
The Persian snorted and slunk down the hall ahead of them. Clary, trailing a little behind Jace, could see the
stress and tiredness in the line of Jace's shoulders. She wondered if the tension ever really left him.
"Jace."
He looked at her. "What?"
"I'm sorry. For snapping at you."
He chuckled. "Which time?"
"You snap at me, too, you know."
"I know," he said, surprising her. "There's something about you that's so-"
"Irritating?"
"Unsettling."
She wanted to ask if he meant that in a good or a bad way, but didn't. She was too afraid he'd make a
joke out of the answer. She cast about for something else to say. "Does Isabelle always make dinner for
you?" she asked.
"No, thank God. Most of the time the Lightwoods are here and Maryse-that's Isabelle's mother-she cooks for
us. She's an amazing cook." He looked dreamy, the way Simon had looked gazing at Isabelle
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over the soup.
"Then how come she never taught Isabelle?" They were passing through the music room now, where she'd
found Jace playing the piano that morning. Shadows had gathered thickly in the corners.
"Because," Jace said slowly, "it's only been recently that women have been Shadowhunters along with men. I
mean, there have always been women in the Clave-mastering the runes, creating weaponry, teaching the
Killing Arts-but only a few were warriors, ones with exceptional abilities. They had to fight to be trained.
Maryse was a part of the first generation of Clave women who were trained as a matter of course-and I think
she never taught Isabelle how to cook because she was afraid that if she did, Isabelle would be relegated to the
kitchen permanently."

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"Would she have been?" Clary asked curiously. She thought of Isabelle in Pandemonium, how confident she'd
been and how assuredly she'd used her blood-spattering whip.
Jace laughed softly. "Not Isabelle. She's one of the best Shadowhunters I've ever known."
"Better than Alec?"
Church, streaking soundlessly ahead of them through the gloom, came to a sudden halt and meowed. He was
crouched at the foot of a metal spiral staircase that spun up into a hazy half-light overhead. "So he's in the
greenhouse," Jace said. It took Clary a moment before she realized he was speaking to the cat. "No surprise
there."
"The greenhouse?" Clary said.
Jace swung himself onto the first step. "Hodge likes it up there. He grows medicinal plants, things we can use.
Most of them only grow in Idris. I think it reminds him of home."
Clary followed him. Her shoes clattered on the metal steps; Jace's didn't. "Is he better than Isabelle?" she
asked again. "Alec, I mean."
He paused and looked down at her, leaning down from the steps as if he were poised to fall. She remembered
her dream:angels, falling and burning. "Better?" he said. "At demon-slaying? No, not really. He's never killed
a demon."
"Really?"
"I don't know why not. Maybe because he's always protecting Izzy and me." They had reached the top of the
stairs. A set of double doors greeted them, carved with patterns of leaves and vines. Jace shouldered them
open.
The smell struck Clary the moment she passed through the doors: a green, sharp smell, the smell of living and
growing things, of dirt and the roots that grew in dirt. She had been expecting something much smaller,
something the size of the little greenhouse out behind St. Xavier's, where the AP biology students cloned pea
pods, or whatever it was they did. This was a huge glass-walled enclosure, lined with trees whose thickly
leaved branches breathed out cool green-scented air. There were bushes hung with glossy berries, red and
purple and black, and small trees hung with oddly-shaped fruits she'd never seen before.
Clary exhaled. "It smells like..."Springtime, she thought,before the heat comes and crushes the leaves into
pulp and withers the petals off the flowers.
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"Home," said Jace, "to me." He pushed aside a hanging frond and ducked past it. Clary followed.
The greenhouse was laid out in what seemed to Clary's untrained eye no particular pattern, but everywhere
she looked was a riot of color: blue purple blossoms spilling down the side of a shining green hedge, a trailing
vine studded with jewel-toned orange buds. They emerged into a cleared space where a low granite bench
rested against the bole of a drooping tree with silvery green leaves. Water glimmered in a stone-bound rock
pool. Hodge sat on the bench, his black bird perched on his shoulder. He had been staring thoughtfully down
at the water, but looked skyward at their approach. Clary followed his gaze upward and saw the glass roof of
the greenhouse shining above them like the surface of an inverted lake.
"You look like you're waiting for something," Jace observed, breaking a leaf off a nearby bough and twirling
it between his fingers. For someone who seemed so contained, he had a lot of nervous habits. Perhaps he just
liked to be constantly in motion.
"I was lost in thought." Hodge rose from the bench, stretching out his arm for Hugo. The smile faded from his
face as he looked at them. "What happened? You look as if-"
"We were attacked," Jace said shortly. "Forsaken."
"Forsaken warriors? Here?"
"Warrior," said Jace. "We only saw one."
"But Dorothea said there were more," Clary added.
"Dorothea?" Hodge held a hand up. "This might be easier if you took events in order."
"Right." Jace gave Clary a warning look, cutting her off before she could start talking. Then he launched into
a recital of the afternoon's events, leaving out only one detail-that the men in Luke's apartment had been the
same men who'd killed his father seven years ago. "Clary's mother's friend-or whatever he is, really-goes by
the name Luke Garroway," Jace finished finally. "But while we were at his house, the two men who claimed

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they were emissaries of Valentine referred to him as Lucian Graymark."
"And their names were..."
"Pangborn," said Jace. "And Blackwell."
Hodge had gone very pale. Against his gray skin the scar along his cheek stood out like a twist of red wire. "It
is as I feared," he said, half to himself. "The Circle is rising again."
Clary looked at Jace for clarification, but he seemed as puzzled as she was. "The Circle?" he said.
Hodge was shaking his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from his brain. "Come with me," he said. "It's time I
showed you something."
The gas lamps were lit in the library, and the polished oak surfaces of the furniture seemed to smolder like
somber jewels. Streaked with shadows, the stark faces of the angels holding up the enormous desk
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looked even more suffused with pain. Clary sat on the red sofa, legs drawn up, Jace leaning restlessly against
the sofa arm beside her. "Hodge, if you need help looking-"
"Not at all." Hodge emerged from behind the desk, brushing dust from the knees of his trousers. "I've found
it."
He was carrying a large book bound in brown leather. He paged through it with an anxious finger, blinking
owl-like behind his glasses and muttering: "Where... where... ah, here it is!" He cleared his throat before he
read aloud: "I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles....I will be ready to risk
my life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris, and for the mortal
world with whose safety we are charged."
Jace made a face. "What was that from?"
"It was the loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel, twenty years ago," said Hodge, sounding strangely tired.
"It sounds creepy," said Clary. "Like a fascist organization or something."
Hodge set the book down. He looked as pained and grave as the statuary angels beneath the desk. "They were
a group," he said slowly, "of Shadowhunters, led by Valentine, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and
returning the world to a 'purer' state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the
Accords. They must be signed again each fifteen years, to keep their magic potent," he added, for Clary's
benefit. "Then, they planned to slaughter them all, unarmed and defenseless. This terrible act, they thought,
would spark off a war between humans and DownworldersÂone
they intended to win."
"That was the Uprising," said Jace, finally recognizing in Hodge's story one that was already familiar to
him. "I didn't know Valentine and his followers had a name."
"The name isn't spoken often nowadays," said Hodge. "Their existence remains an embarrassment to the
Clave. Most documents pertaining to them have been destroyed."
"Then why do you have a copy of that oath?" Jace asked.
Hodge hesitated-only for a moment, but Clary saw it, and felt a small and inexplicable shiver of
apprehension run up her spine. "Because," he said, finally, "I helped write it."
Jace looked up at that. "You were in the Circle."
"I was. Many of us were." Hodge was looking straight ahead. "Clary's mother as well."
Clary jerked back as if he'd slapped her."What?"
"I said-"
"I know what you said! My mother would never have belonged to something like that. Some kind
of-some kind of hate group." "It wasn't-," Jace began, but Hodge cut him off.
"I doubt," he said slowly, as if the words pained him, "that she had much choice."
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Clary stared. "What are you talking about? Why wouldn't she have had a choice?"
"Because," said Hodge, "she was Valentine's wife."
Part Two
Easy Is the Descent

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Facilis descensus Averno;
Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
Hoc opus, hic labor est.
-Virgil,TheAeneid
10
City of Bones
There was a moment of astonished silence before both
Clary and Jace began speaking at once. "Valentine had a wife? He wasmarried? I thought-"
"That's impossible! My mother would never-she was only ever married to my father! She didn't have an
ex-husband!"
Hodge raised his hands wearily. "Children-"
"I'm not a child." Clary spun away from the desk. "And I don't want to hear any more."
"Clary," said Hodge. The kindness in his voice hurt; she turned slowly, and looked at him across the room.
She thought how odd it was that, with his gray hair and scarred face, he looked so much older than her mother.
And yet they had been "young people" together, had joined the Circle together, had
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known Valentine together. "My mother wouldn't...," she began, and trailed off. She was no longer sure how
well she knew Jocelyn. Her mother had become a stranger to her, a liar, a hider of secrets. What wouldn't she
have done?
"Your mother left the Circle," said Hodge. He didn't move toward her but watched her across the room with a
bird's bright-eyed stillness. "Once we realized how extreme Valentine's views had become-once we knew what
he was prepared to do-many of us left. Lucian was the first to leave. That was a blow to Valentine. They had
been very close." Hodge shook his head. "Then Michael Wayland. Your father, Jace."
Jace raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
"There were those who stayed loyal. Pangborn. Blackwell. The Lightwoods-"
"The Lightwoods? You mean Robert and Maryse?" Jace looked thunderstruck. "What about you? When did
you leave?"
"I didn't," said Hodge softly. "Neither did they. ... We were afraid, too afraid of what he might do. After the
Uprising the loyalists like Blackwell and Pangborn fled. We stayed and cooperated with the Clave. Gave them
names. Helped them track down the ones who had run away. For that we received clemency."
"Clemency?" Jace's look was quick, but Hodge saw it.
He said: "You are thinking of the curse that binds me here, aren't you? You always assumed it was a
vengeance spell cast by an angry demon or warlock. I let you think it. But it is not the truth. The curse that
binds me was cast by the Clave."
"For being in the Circle?" Jace asked, his face a mask of astonishment.
"For not leaving it before the Uprising."
"But the Lightwoods weren't punished," Clary said. "Why not? They'd done the same thing you'd done."
"There were extenuating circumstances in their case-they were married, they had a child. Although it is not as
if they reside in this outpost, far from home, by their own choice. We were banished here, the three of us-the
four of us, I should say; Alec was a squalling baby when we left the Glass City. They can return to Idris on
official business only, and then only for short times. I can never return. I will never see the Glass City again."
Jace stared. It was as if he were looking at his tutor with new eyes, Clary thought, though it wasn't Jace who
had changed. He said, "The Law is hard, but it is the Law."
"I taught you that," said Hodge, dry amusement in his voice. "And now you turn my lessons back at me.
Rightly too." He looked as if he wanted to sink down into a nearby chair, but held himself upright
nevertheless. In his rigid posture there was something of the soldier he had once been, Clary thought.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" she said. "That my mother was married to Valentine. You knew her name-"

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"I knew her as Jocelyn Fairchild, not Jocelyn Fray," said Hodge. "And you were so insistent on her
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ignorance of the Shadow World, you convinced me it could not be the Jocelyn I knew-and perhaps I did not
want to believe it. No one would wish for Valentine's return." He shook his head again. "When I sent for the
Brothers of the Bone City this morning, I had no idea just what news we would have for them," he said.
"When the Clave finds out Valentine may have returned, that he is seeking the Cup, there will be an uproar. I
can only hope it does not disrupt the Accords."
"I bet Valentine would like that," Jace said. "But why does he want the Cup so badly?"
Hodge's face was gray. "Isn't that obvious?" he said. "So he can build himself an army."
Jace looked startled. "But that would never-"
"Dinnertime!" It was Isabelle, standing framed in the door of the library. She still had the spoon in her
hand, though her hair had escaped from its bun and was straggling down her neck. "Sorry if I'm interrupting,"
she added, as an afterthought.
"Dear God," said Jace, "the dread hour is nigh."
Hodge looked alarmed. "I-I-I had a very filling breakfast," he stammered. "I mean lunch. A filling lunch. I
couldn't possibly eat-"
"I threw out the soup," Isabelle said. "And ordered Chinese from that place downtown."
Jace unhitched himself from the desk and stretched. "Great. I'm starved."
"I might be able to eat a bite," admitted Hodge meekly.
"You two are terrible liars," said Isabelle darkly. "Look, I know you don't like my cooking-"
"So stop doing it," Jace advised her reasonably. "Did you order mu shu pork? You know I love mu shu
pork."
Isabelle cast her eyes skyward. "Yes. It's in the kitchen."
"Awesome." Jace ducked by her with an affectionate ruffle of her hair. Hodge went after him, pausing
only to pat Isabelle on the shoulder-then he was gone, with a funny apologetic duck of the head. Had
Clary really only a few minutes before been able to see the ghost in him of his old warrior self? Isabelle was
looking after Jace and Hodge, twisting the spoon in her scarred, pale fingers. Clary said, "Is he really?"
Isabelle didn't look at her. "Is who really what?"
"Jace. Is he really a terrible liar?"
Now Isabelle did turn her eyes on Clary, and they were large and dark and unexpectedly thoughtful.
"He's not a liar at all. Not about important things. He'll tell you horrible truths, but he won't lie." She paused
before she added quietly: "That's why it's generally better not to ask him anything unless you know you can
stand to hear the answer."
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The kitchen was warm and full of light and the salt-sweet smell of takeout Chinese food. The smell reminded
Clary of home; she sat and looked at her glistening plate of noodles, toyed with her fork, and tried not to look
at Simon, who was staring at Isabelle with an expression more glazed than the General Tso's Duckling.
"Well, I think it's kind of romantic," said Isabelle, sucking tapioca pearls through an enormous pink straw.
"What is?" asked Simon, instantly alert.
"That whole business about Clary's mother being married to Valentine," said Isabelle. Jace and Hodge had
filled her in, though Clary noted that both had left out the part about the Lightwoods having been in the Circle,
and the curses the Clave had handed down. "So now he's back from the dead and he's come looking for her.
Maybe he wants to get back together."
"I kind of doubt he sent a Ravener demon to her house because he wants to 'get back together,'" said Alec,
who had turned up when the food was served. Nobody had asked him where he'd been, and he hadn't offered

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the information. He was sitting next to Jace, across from Clary, and was avoiding looking at her.
"It wouldn't be my move," Jace agreed. "First the candy and flowers, then the apology letters,then the
ravenous demon hordes. In that order."
"He might have sent her candy and flowers," Isabelle said. "We don't know."
"Isabelle," said Hodge patiently, "this is the man who rained down destruction on Idris the like of which it had
never seen, who set Shadowhunter against Downworlder and made the streets of the Glass City run with
blood."
"That's sort of hot," Isabelle argued, "that evil thing."
Simon tried to look menacing, but gave it up when he saw Clary staring at him. "So why does Valentine want
this Cup so bad, and why does he think Clary's mom has it?" he asked.
"You said it was so he could make an army," Clary said, turning to Hodge. "You mean because you can use
the Cup to make Shadowhunters?"
"Yes."
"So Valentine could just walk up to any guy on the street and make a Shadowhunter out of him? Just with the
Cup?" Simon leaned forward. "Would it work on me?"
Hodge gave him a long and measured look. "Possibly," he said. "But most likely, you're too old. The Cup
works on children. An adult would either be unaffected by the process entirely, or killed outright."
"A child army," said Isabelle softly.
"Only for a few years," said Jace. "Kids grow fast. It wouldn't be too long before they were a force to contend
with."
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"I don't know," said Simon. "Turning a bunch of kids into warriors, I've heard of worse stuff happening. I don't
see the big deal about keeping the Cup away from him."
"Leaving out that he would inevitably use this army to launch an attack on the Clave," Hodge said dryly, "the
reason that only a few humans are selected to be turned into Nephilim is that most would never survive the
transition. It takes special strength and resilience. Before they can be turned, they must be extensively
tested-but Valentine would never bother with that. He would use the Cup on any child he could capture, and
cull out the twenty percent who survived to be his army."
Alec was looking at Hodge with the same horror Clary felt. "How do you know he'd do that?"
"Because," Hodge said, "when he was in the Circle, that was his plan. He said it was the only way to build the
kind of force that was needed to defend our world."
"But that's murder," said Isabelle, who looked a little green. "He was talking about killing children."
"He said that we had made the world safe for humans for a thousand years," said Hodge, "and now was their
time to repay us with their own sacrifice."
"Theirchildren?" demanded Jace, his cheeks flushed. "That goes against everything we're supposed to be
about. Protecting the helpless, safeguarding humanity-"
Hodge pushed his plate away. "Valentine was insane," he said. "Brilliant, but insane. He cared about nothing
but killing demons and Downworlders. Nothing but making the world pure. He would have sacrificed his own
son for the cause and could not understand how anyone else would not."
"He had a son?" said Alec.
"I was speaking figuratively," said Hodge, reaching for his handkerchief. He used it to mop his forehead
before returning it to his pocket. His hand, Clary saw, was trembling slightly. "When his land burned, when
his home was destroyed, it was assumed that he had burned himself and the Cup to ashes rather than relinquish
either to the Clave. His bones were found in the ashes, along with the bones of his wife."
"But my mother lived," said Clary. "She didn't die in that fire."
"And neither, it seems now, did Valentine," said Hodge. "The Clave will not be pleased to have been fooled.
But more importantly, they will want to secure the Cup. And more importantly than that, they will want to
make sure Valentine does not."
"It seems to me that the first thing we'd better do is find Clary's mother," said Jace. "Find her, find the Cup,
get it before Valentine does."
This sounded fine to Clary, but Hodge looked at Jace as if he'd proposed juggling nitroglycerine as a solution.

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"Absolutely not."
"Then what do we do?"
"Nothing," Hodge said. "All this is best left to skilled, experienced Shadowhunters."
"I am skilled," protested Jace. "Iam experienced."
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Hodge's tone was firm, nearly parental. "I know that you are, but you're still a child, or nearly one." Jace
looked at Hodge through slitted eyes. His lashes were long, casting shadows down over his angular
cheekbones. In someone else it would have been a shy look, even an apologetic one, but on Jace it looked
narrow and menacing. "I amnot a child." "Hodge is right," said Alec. He was looking at Jace, and Clary
thought that he must be one of the few people in the world who looked at Jace not as if he were afraid of him,
but as if he were afraidfor him.
"Valentine is dangerous. I know you're a good Shadowhunter. You're probably the best our age. But
Valentine's one of the best there ever was. It took a huge battle to bring him down."
"And he didn't exactly stay down," said Isabelle, examining her fork tines. "Apparently."
"But we're here," said Jace. "We're here and because of the Accords, nobody else is. If we don't do
something-"
"We are going to do something," said Hodge. "I'll send the Clave a message tonight. They could have a
force of Nephilim here by tomorrow if they wanted. They'll take care of this. You have done more than
enough."
Jace subsided, but his eyes were still glittering. "I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it," said Alec. "You just have to shut up and not do anything stupid."
"But what about my mother?" Clary demanded. "She can't wait for some representative from the Clave
to show up. Valentine has her right now-Pangborn and Blackwell said so-and he could be ..." She couldn't
bring herself to say the wordtorture, but Clary knew she wasn't the only one thinking it. Suddenly no one at the
table could meet her eyes.
Except Simon. "Hurting her," he said, finishing her sentence. "Except, Clary, they also said she was
unconscious and that Valentine wasn't happy about it. He seems to be waiting for her to wake up."
"I'd stay unconscious if I were her," Isabelle muttered.
"But that could be any time," said Clary, ignoring Isabelle. "I thought the Clave was pledged to protect
people. Shouldn't there be Shadowhunters here right now? Shouldn't they already be searching for her?"
"That would be easier," snapped Alec, "if we had the slightest idea where to look."
"But we do," said Jace.
"You do?" Clary looked at him, startled and eager. "Where?"
"Here." Jace leaned forward and touched his fingers to the side of her temple, so gently that a flush crept
up her face. "Everything we need to know is locked up in your head, under those pretty red curls."
Clary reached up to touch her hair protectively. "I don't think-"
"So what are you going to do?" Simon asked sharply. "Cut her head open to get at it?"
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Jace's eyes sparked, but he said calmly, "Not at all. The Silent Brothers can help her retrieve her memories."
"Youhate the Silent Brothers," protested Isabelle. "I don't hate them," said Jace candidly. "I'm afraid of them.
It's not the same thing." "I thought you said they were librarians," said Clary. "They are librarians."
Simon whistled. "Those must be some killer late fees." "The Silent Brothers are archivists, but that is not all
they are," interrupted Hodge, sounding as if he were running out of patience. "In order to strengthen their
minds, they have chosen to take upon themselves some of the most powerful runes ever created. The power of
these runes is so great that the use of them-" He broke off and Clary heard Alec's voice in her head,

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saying:They mutilate themselves. "Well, it warps and twists their physical forms. They are not warriors in the
sense that other Shadowhunters are warriors. Their powers are of the mind, not the body."
"They can read minds?" Clary said in a small voice.
"Among other things. They are among the most feared of all demon hunters."
"I don't know," said Simon, "it doesn't sound so bad to me. I'd rather have someone mess around inside
my head than chop it off."
"Then you're a bigger idiot than you look," said Jace, regarding him with scorn.
"Jace is right," said Isabelle, ignoring Simon. "The Silent Brothersare really creepy."
Hodge's hand was clenched on the table. "They are very powerful," he said. "They walk in darkness and
do not speak, but they can crack open a man's mind the way you might crack open a walnut-and leave
him screaming alone in the dark if that is what they desire."
Clary looked at Jace, appalled. "You want to give me tothem?"
"I want them tohelp you." Jace leaned across the table, so close she could see the darker amber flecks
in his light eyes. "Maybe we don't get to look for the Cup," he said softly. "Maybe the Clave will do that.
But what's in your mind belongs to you. Someone's hidden secrets there, secrets you can't see. Don't you
want to know the truth about your own life?"
"I don't want someone else inside my head," she said weakly. She knew he was right, but the idea of
turning herself over to beings that even the Shadowhunters thought were creepy sent a chill through her
blood.
"I'll go with you," said Jace. "I'll stay with you while they do it."
"That's enough." Simon had stood up from the table, red with anger. "Leave her alone."
Alec glanced over at Simon as if he'd just noticed him, raking tumbled black hair out of his eyes and
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blinking. "What are you still doing here, mundane?"
Simon ignored him. "I said, leave her alone."
Jace glanced over at him, a slow, sweetly poisonous glance. "Alec is right," he said. "The Institute is sworn to
shelter Shadowhunters, not their mundane friends. Especially when they've worn out their welcome."
Isabelle got up and took Simon's arm. "I'll show him out."
For a moment it looked like he might resist her, but he caught Clary's eye across the table as she shook her
head slightly. He subsided. Head up, he let Isabelle lead him from the room.
Clary stood up. "I'm tired," she said. "I want to go to sleep."
"You've hardly eaten anything-," Jace protested.
She brushed aside his reaching hand. "I'm not hungry." It was cooler in the hallway than it had been in the
kitchen. Clary leaned against the wall, pulling at her shirt, which was sticking to the cold sweat on her chest.
Far down the hall she could see Isabelle's and Simon's retreating figures, swallowed up by shadows. She
watched them go silently, a shivery odd feeling growing in the pit of her stomach. When had Simon become
Isabelle's responsibility, instead of hers? If there was one thing she was learning from all this, it was how easy
it was to lose everything you had always thought you'd have forever.
The room was all gold and white, with high walls that gleamed like enamel, and a roof, high above, clear and
glittering like diamonds. Clary wore a green velvet dress and carried a gold fan in her hand. Her hair, twisted
into a knot that spilled curls, made her head feel strangely heavy every time she turned to look behind her.
"You see someone more interesting than me?" asked Simon. In the dream he was mysteriously an expert
dancer. He steered her through
the crowd as if she were a leaf caught in a river current. He was wearing all black, like a Shadowhunter, and it
showed his coloring to good advantage: dark hair, lightly browned skin, white teeth. He's handsome,Clary

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thought, with a jolt of surprise.
"There's no one more interesting than you," Clary said. "It's just this place. I've never seen anything like it."
She turned again as they passed a champagne fountain: an enormous silver dish, the centerpiece a mermaid
with a jar pouring sparkling wine down her bare back. People were filling their glasses from the dish, laughing
and talking. The mermaid turned her head as Clary passed, and smiled. The smile
showedwhite teeth as sharp as a vampire's.
"Welcome to the Glass City," said a voice that wasn't Simon's. Clary found that Simon had disappeared and
she was now dancing with Jace, who was wearing white, the material of his shirt a thin cotton; she could see
the black Marks through it. There was a bronze chain around his throat, and his hair and eyes looked more
gold than ever; she thought about how she would like to paint his portrait with the dull gold paint one
sometimes saw in Russian icons.
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"Where's Simon?" she asked as they spun again around the champagne fountain. Clary saw Isabelle there, with
Alec, both of them in royal blue. They were holding hands like Hansel and Gretel in the dark forest.
"This place is for the living," said Jace. His hands were cool on hers, and she was aware of them in a way she
had not been of Simon's.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?"
He leaned close. She could feel his lips against her ear. They were not cool at all. "Wake up, Clary," he
whispered. "Wake up. Wake up."
She bolted upright in bed, gasping, hair plastered to her neck with cold sweat. Her wrists were held in a
hard grip; she tried to pull away, then realized who was restraining her. "Jace?" "Yeah." He was sitting on the
edge of the bed-how had she gotten into a bed?-looking tousled and half-awake, with early-morning hair and
sleepy eyes.
"Let go of me."
"Sorry." His fingers slipped from her wrists. "You tried to hit me the second I said your name."
"I'm a little jumpy, I guess." She glanced around. She was in a small bedroom furnished in dark wood.
By the quality of the faint light coming in through the half-open window, she guessed it was dawn, or just
after. Her backpack was propped against one wall. "How did I get here? I don't remember..." "I found you
asleep on the floor in the hallway." Jace sounded amused. "Hodge helped me get you into bed. Thought you'd
be more comfortable in a guest room than in the infirmary."
"Wow. I don't remember anything." She ran her hands through her hair, pushing draggled curls out of her
eyes. "What time is it, anyway?" "About five." "In themorning?" She glared at him. "You'd better have a good
reason for waking me up." "Why, were you having a good dream?"
She could still hear music in her ears, feel the heavy jewels brushing her cheeks. "I don't remember." He stood
up. "One of the Silent Brothers is here to see you. Hodge sent me to wake you up. Actually, he offered to wake
you up himself, but since it's five a.m., I figured you'd be less cranky if you had something nice to look at."
"Meaning you?" "What else?"
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"I didn't agree to this, you know," she snapped. "This Silent Brother thing."
"Do you want to find your mother," he said, "or not?"
She stared at him.
"You just have to meet Brother Jeremiah. That's all. You might even like him. He's got a great sense of humor
for a guy who never says anything."
She put her head in her hands. "Get out. Get out so I can change."
She swung her legs out of bed the moment the door shut behind him. Though it was barely dawn, humid heat
was already beginning to gather in the room. She pushed the window shut and went into the bathroom to wash
her face and rinse her mouth, which tasted like old paper.
Five minutes later she was sliding her feet into her green sneakers. She'd changed into cutoffs and a plain
black T-shirt. If only her thin freckled legs looked more like Isabelle's lanky smooth limbs. But it couldn't be

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helped. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and went to join Jace in the hallway.
Church was there with him, muttering and circling restlessly.
"What's with the cat?" Clary asked.
"The Silent Brothers make him nervous."
"Sounds like they make everyone nervous."
Jace smiled thinly. Church meowed as they set off down the hall, but didn't follow them. At least the thick
stones of the cathedral walls still held some of the night's chill: The corridors were dark and cool.
When they reached the library, Clary was surprised to see that the lamps were off. The library was lit only by
the milky glow that filtered down through the high windows set into the vaulted roof. Hodge sat behind the
enormous desk in a suit, his gray-streaked hair silvered by the dawn light. For a moment she thought he was
alone in the room: that Jace had been playing a joke on her. Then she saw a figure move out of the dimness,
and she realized that what she had thought was a patch of darker shadow was a man. A tall man in a heavy
robe that fell from neck to foot, covering him completely. The hood of the robe was raised, hiding his face.
The robe itself was the color of parchment, and the intricate runic designs along the hem and sleeves looked as
if they had been inked there in drying blood. The hair rose along Clary's arms and on the back of her neck,
prickling almost painfully.
"This," said Hodge, "is Brother Jeremiah of the Silent City."
The man came toward them, his heavy cloak swirling as he moved, and Clary realized what it was about him
that was strange: He made no sound at all as he walked, not the slightest footstep. Even his cloak, which
should have rustled, was silent. She would almost have wondered if he were a ghost-but no, she thought as he
halted in front of them, there was a strange, sweet smell about him, like incense and blood, the smell of
something living.
"And this, Jeremiah," Hodge said, rising from his desk, "is the girl I wrote to you about. Clarissa Fray."
The hooded face turned slowly toward her. Clary felt cold to her fingertips. "Hello," she said.
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There was no reply.
"I decided you were right, Jace," said Hodge.
"Iwas right," said Jace. "I usually am."
Hodge ignored this. "I sent a letter to the Clave about all this last night, but Clary's memories are her own.
Only she can decide how she wants to deal with the contents of her own head. If she wants the help of the
Silent Brothers, she should have that choice."
Clary said nothing. Dorothea had said there was a block in her mind, hiding something. Of course she wanted
to know what it was. But the shadowy figure of the Silent Brother was so-well,silent. Silence itself seemed to
flow from him like a dark tide, black and thick as ink. It chilled her bones.
Brother Jeremiah's face was still turned toward her, nothing but darkness visible underneath his hood.
This is Jocelyn's daughter?
Clary gave a little gasp, stepping back. The words had echoed inside her head, as if she'd thought them
herself-but she hadn't.
"Yes," said Hodge, and added quickly, "but her father was a mundane."
That does not matter,
said Jeremiah.The blood of the Clave is dominant.
"Why did you call my mother Jocelyn?" said Clary, searching in vain for some sign of a face beneath the
hood. "Did you know her?"
"The Brothers keep records on all members of the Clave," explained Hodge. "Exhaustive records-"
"Not that exhaustive," said Jace, "if they didn't even know she was still alive."
It is likely that she had the assistance of a warlock in her disappearance. Most Shadowhunters cannot so easily
escape the Clave.
There was no emotion in Jeremiah's voice; he sounded neither approving nor disapproving of Jocelyn's
actions.
"There's something I don't understand," Clary said. "Why would Valentine think my mom had the Mortal
Cup? If she went through so much trouble to disappear, like you said, then why would she bring it with her?"

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"To keep him from getting his hands on it," said Hodge. "She above all people would have known what
would happen if Valentine had the Cup. And I imagine she didn't trust the Clave to hold on to it. Not after
Valentine got it away from them in the first place."
"I guess." Clary couldn't keep the doubt from her voice. The whole thing seemed so unlikely. She tried to
picture her mother fleeing under cover of darkness, with a big gold cup stashed in the pocket of her overalls,
and failed.
"Jocelyn turned against her husband when she found out what he intended to do with the Cup," said
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Hodge. "It's not unreasonable to assume she would do everything in her power to keep the Cup from falling
into his hands. The Clave themselves would have looked first to her if they'd thought she was still alive."
"It seems to me," Clary said with an edge to her voice, "that no one the Clave thinks is dead, is ever actually
dead. Maybe they should invest in dental records."
"My father's dead," said Jace, the same edge in his voice. "I don't need dental records to tell me that."
Clary turned on him in some exasperation. "Look, I didn't mean-"
That is enough,
interrupted Brother Jeremiah.There is truth to be learned here, if you are patient enough to listen to it.
With a quick gesture he raised his hands and drew the hood back from his face. Forgetting Jace, Clary fought
the urge to cry out. The archivist's head was bald, smooth and white as an egg, darkly indented where his eyes
had once been. They were gone now. His lips were crisscrossed with a pattern of dark lines that resembled
surgical stitches. She understood now what Isabelle had meant by mutilation.
The Brothers of the Silent City do not lie,
said Jeremiah.If you want the truth from me, you shall have it, but I shall ask of you the same in return.
Clary lifted her chin. "I'm not a liar either."
The mind cannot lie.
Jeremiah moved toward her.It is your memories I want.
The smell of blood and ink was stifling. Clary felt a wave of panic. "Wait-"
"Clary." It was Hodge, his tone gentle. "It's entirely possible that there are memories you have buried or
repressed, memories formed when you were too young to have a conscious recollection of them, that Brother
Jeremiah can reach. It could help us a great deal."
She said nothing, biting the inside of her lip. She hated the idea of someone reaching inside her head,
touching memories so private and hidden that even she couldn't reach them.
"She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to do," Jace said suddenly. "Does she?"
Clary interrupted Hodge before he could reply. "It's all right. I'll do it."
Brother Jeremiah nodded curtly, and moved toward her with the soundlessness that sent chills up her spine.
"Will it hurt?" she whispered.
He didn't reply, but his narrow white hands came up to touch her face. The skin of his fingers was thin as
parchment paper, inked all over with runes. She could feel the power in them, jumping like static electricity to
sting her skin. She closed her eyes, but not before she saw the anxious expression that crossed Hodge's face.
Colors swirled up against the darkness behind her eyelids. She felt a pressure, a drawing pull in her head
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and hands and feet. She clenched her hands, straining against the weight, the blackness. She felt as if she were
pressed up against something hard and unyielding, being slowly crushed. She heard herself gasp and went
suddenly cold all over, cold as winter. In a flash she saw an icy street, gray buildings looming overhead, an
explosion of whiteness stinging her face in freezing particlesÂ"
That'senough." Jace's voice cut through the winter chill, and the falling snow vanished, a shower of white
sparks. Clary's eyes sprang open.
Slowly the library came back into focus-the book-lined walls, the anxious faces of Hodge and Jace. Brother
Jeremiah stood unmoving, a carved idol of ivory and red ink. Clary became aware of the sharp pains in her
hands, and glanced down to see red lines scored across her skin where her nails had dug in.
"Jace,"
Hodge said reprovingly.

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"Look at her hands." Jace gestured toward Clary, who curled her fingers in to cover her injured palms.
Hodge put a broad hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"
Slowly she moved her head in a nod. The crushing weight had gone, but she could feel the sweat that
drenched her hair, pasted her shirt to her back like sticky tape.
There is a block in your mind,
said Brother Jeremiah.Your memories cannot be reached.
"A block?" asked Jace. "You mean she's repressed her memories?"
No. I mean they have been blocked from her conscious mind by a spell. I cannot break it here. She will have
to come to the Bone City and stand before the Brotherhood.
"Aspell?" said Clary incredulously. "Who would have put a spell on me?"
Nobody answered her. Jace looked at his tutor. He was surprisingly pale, Clary thought, considering that this
had been his idea. "Hodge, she shouldn't have to go if she doesn't-"
"It's all right." Clary took a deep breath. Her palms ached where her nails had cut them, and she wanted badly
to lie down somewhere dark and rest. "I'll go. I want to know the truth. I want to know what's in my head."
Jace nodded once. "Fine. Then I'll go with you."
Leaving the Institute was like climbing into a wet, hot canvas bag. Humid air pressed down on the city,
turning the air to grimy soup. "I don't see why we have to leave separately from Brother Jeremiah," Clary
grumbled. They were standing on the corner outside the Institute. The streets were deserted except for a
garbage truck trundling slowly down the block. "What, is he embarrassed to be seen with Shadowhunters or
something?"
"The Brotherhoodare Shadowhunters," Jace pointed out. Somehow he managed to look cool despite
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the heat. It made Clary want to smack him.
"I suppose he went to get his car?" she inquired sarcastically.
Jace grinned. "Something like that."
She shook her head. "You know, I'd feel a lot better about this if Hodge had come with us."
"What, I'm not protection enough for you?"
"It's not protection I need right now-it's someone who can help me think." Suddenly reminded, she
clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh-Simon!"
"No, I'm Jace," said Jace patiently. "Simon is the weaselly little one with the bad haircut and dismal fashion
sense."
"Oh, shut up," she replied, but it was more automatic than heartfelt. "I meant to call before I went to sleep.
See if he got home okay."
Shaking his head, Jace regarded the heavens as if they were about to open up and reveal the secrets of
the universe. "With everything that's going on, you're worried about Weasel Face?"
"Don't call him that. He doesn't look like a weasel."
"You may be right," said Jace. "I've met an attractive weasel or two in my time. He looks more like a
rat."
"He does not-"
"He's probably at home lying in a puddle of his own drool. Just wait till Isabelle gets bored with him and
you have to pick up the pieces."
"Is Isabelle likely to get bored with him?" Clary asked.
Jace thought about this. "Yes," he said.
Clary wondered if perhaps Isabelle was smarter than Jace gave her credit for. Maybe she would realize
what an amazing guy Simon was: how funny, how smart, how cool. Maybe they'd start dating. The idea
filled her with a nameless horror.
Lost in thought, it took her several moments to realize that Jace had been saying something to her. When she
blinked at him, she saw a wry grin spread across his face. "What?" she asked, ungraciously.
"I wish you'd stop desperately trying to get my attention like this," he said. "It's become embarrassing."
"Sarcasm is the last refuge of the imaginatively bankrupt," she told him.
"I can't help it. I use my rapier wit to hide my inner pain."

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"Your pain will be outer soon if you don't get out of traffic. Are youtrying to get run over by a cab?"
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"Don't be ridiculous," he said. "We could never get a cab that easily in this neighborhood."
As if on cue, a narrow black car with tinted windows rumbled up to the curb and paused in front of Jace,
engine purring. It was long and sleek and low to the ground like a limousine, the windows curved outward.
Jace looked at her sideways; there was amusement in his glance, but also a certain urgency. She glanced at the
car again, letting her gaze relax, letting the strength of what was real pierce the veil of glamour.
Now the car looked like Cinderella's carriage, except instead of being pink and gold and blue like an Easter
egg, it was black as velvet, its windows darkly tinted. The wheels were black, the leather trimmings all black.
On the black metal driver's bench sat Brother Jeremiah, holding a set of reins in his gloved hands. His face
was hidden beneath the cowl of his parchment-colored robe. On the other end of the reins were two horses,
black as smoke, snarling and pawing at the sky.
"Get in," said Jace. When she continued to stand there gaping, he took her arm and half-pushed her in through
the open door of the carriage, swinging himself up after her. The carriage began to move before he had closed
the door behind them. He fell back in his seat-plush and glossily upholstered-and looked over at her. "A
personal escort to the Bone City is nothing to turn your nose up at."
"I wasn't turning my nose up. I was just surprised. I wasn't expecting ... I mean, I thought it was a car."
"Just relax," said Jace. "Enjoy that new-carriage smell."
Clary rolled her eyes and turned to look out the windows. She would have thought that a horse and carriage
wouldn't have stood a chance in Manhattan traffic, but they were moving downtown easily, their soundless
progression unnoticed by the snarl of taxis, buses, and SUVs that choked the avenue. In front of them a yellow
cab switched lanes, cutting off their forward progress. Clary tensed, worried about the horses-then the carriage
lurched upward as the horses sprang lightly to the top of the cab. She choked off a gasp. The carriage, rather
than dragging along the ground, sailed up behind the horses, rolling lightly and soundlessly up and over the
cab's roof and down the other side. Clary glanced backward as the carriage hit the pavement again with a
jolt-the cab driver was smoking and staring ahead, utterly oblivious. "I always thought cab drivers didn't pay
attention to traffic, but this is ridiculous," she said weakly.
"Just because you can see through glamour now..." Jace let the end of the sentence hang delicately in the air
between them.
"I can only see through it when I concentrate," she said. "It hurts my head a little."
"I bet that's because of the block in your mind. The Brothers will take care of that."
"Then what?"
"Then you'll see the world as it is-infinite," said Jace with a dry smile.
"Don't quote Blake at me."
The smile turned less dry. "I didn't think you'd recognize it. You don't strike me as someone who reads a lot
of poetry."
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"Everyone knows that quote because of the Doors."
Jace looked at her blankly.
"The Doors. They were a band."
"If you say so," he said.
"I suppose you don't have much time for enjoying music," Clary said, thinking of Simon, for whom music
was his entire life, "in your line of work."
He shrugged. "Maybe the occasional wailing chorus of the damned."
Clary looked at him quickly, to see if he was joking, but he was expressionless.
"But you were playing the piano yesterday," she began, "at the Institute. So you must-"
The carriage lurched upward again. Clary grabbed at the edge of her seat and stared-they were rolling
along the top of a downtown M1 bus. From this vantage point she could see the upper floors of the old

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apartment buildings that lined the avenue, elaborately carved with gargoyles and ornamental cornices. "I was
just messing around," said Jace, without looking at her. "My father insisted I learn to play an instrument."
"He sounds strict, your father." Jace's tone was sharp. "Not at all. He indulged me. He taught me
everything-weapons training, demonology, arcane lore, ancient languages. He gave me anything I wanted.
Horses, weapons, books, even a hunting falcon." But weapons and books aren't exactly what most kids want
for Christmas, Clary thought as the carriage thunked back down to the pavement. "Why didn't you mention to
Hodge that you knew the men that Luke was talking to? That they were the ones who killed your dad?" Jace
looked down at his hands. They were slim and careful hands, the hands of an artist, not a warrior. The ring she
had noticed earlier flashed on his finger. She would have thought there would have been something feminine
about a boy wearing a ring, but there wasn't. The ring itself was solid and heavy-looking, made of a dark
burned-looking silver with a pattern of stars around the band. The letter
W was carved into it. "Because if I did," he said, "he'd know I wanted to kill Valentine myself. And he'd
never let me try."
"You mean you want to kill him for revenge?"
"For justice," said Jace. "I never knew who killed my father. Now I do. This is my chance to make it
right." Clary didn't see how killing one person could make right the death of another, but she sensed there was
no point saying that. "But you knew who killed him," she said. "It was those men. You said..." Jace wasn't
looking at her, so Clary let her voice trail off. They were rolling through Astor Place now, narrowly dodging a
purple New York University tram as it cut through traffic. Passing pedestrians looked
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crushed by the heavy air, like insects pinned under glass. Some groups of homeless kids were crowded around
the base of a big brass statue, folded cardboard signs asking for money propped up in front of them. Clary saw
a girl about her own age with a smoothly shaved bald head leaning against a brown-skinned boy with
dreadlocks, his face adorned with a dozen piercings. He turned his head as the carriage rolled by as if he could
see it, and she caught the gleam of his eyes. One of them was clouded, as though it had no pupil.
"I was ten," Jace said. She turned to look at him. He was without expression. It always seemed like some
color drained out of him when he talked about his father. "We lived in a manor house, out in the country. My
father always said it was safer away from people. I heard them coming up the drive and went to tell him. He
told me to hide, so I hid. Under the stairs. I saw those men come in. They had others with them. Not men.
Forsaken. They overpowered my father and cut his throat. The blood ran across the floor. It soaked my shoes.
I didn't move."
It took a moment for Clary to realize he was done speaking, and another to find her voice. "I'm so sorry,
Jace."
His eyes gleamed in the darkness. "I don't understand why mundanes always apologize for things that aren't
their fault."
"I'm not apologizing. It's a way of-empathizing. Of saying that I'm sorry you're unhappy."
"I'm not unhappy," he said. "Only people with no purpose are unhappy. I've got a purpose."
"Do you mean killing demons, or getting revenge for your father's death?"
"Both."
"Would your father really want you to kill those men? Just for revenge?"
"A Shadowhunter who kills another of his brothers is worse than a demon and should be put down like one,"
Jace said, sounding as if he were reciting the words from a textbook.
"But are all demons evil?" she said. "I mean, if all vampires aren't evil, and all werewolves aren't evil,
maybe-"
Jace turned on her, looking exasperated. "It's not the same thing at all. Vampires, werewolves, even warlocks,
they're part-human. Part of this world, born in it. They belong here. But demons come from other worlds.
They're interdimensional parasites. They come to a world and use it up. They can't build, just destroy-they
can't make, only use. They drain a place to ashes and when it's dead, they move on to the next one. It's life
they want-not just your life or mine, but all the life of this world, its rivers and cities, its oceans, its everything.
And the only thing that stands between them and the destruction of allthis" -he pointed outside the window of

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the carriage, waving his hand as if he meant to indicate everything in the city from the skyscrapers uptown to
the clog of traffic on Houston Street-"is the Nephilim."
"Oh," Clary said. There didn't seem to be much elseto say. "How many other worlds are there?"
"No one knows. Hundreds? Millions, maybe."
"And they're all-dead worlds? Used up?" Clary felt her stomach drop, though it might have been only the jolt
as they rolled up and over a purple Mini. "That seems so sad."
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"I didn't say that." The dark orangey light of city haze spilled in through the window, outlining his sharp
profile. "There are probably other living worlds like ours. But only demons can travel between them. Because
they're mostly noncorporeal, partly, but nobody knows exactly why. Plenty of warlocks have tried it, and it's
never worked. Nothing from Earth can pass through the wardings between the worlds. If we could," he added,
"we might be able to block them from coming here, but nobody's even been able to figure out how to do that.
In fact, more and more of them are coming through. There used to be only small demon invasions into this
world, easily contained. But even in my lifetime more and more of them have spilled in through the wardings.
The Clave is always having to dispatch Shadowhunters, and a lot of times they don't come back."
"But if you had the Mortal Cup, you could make more, right? More demon hunters?" Clary asked tentatively.
"Sure," Jace said. "But we haven't had the Cup for years now, and a lot of us die young. So our numbers
slowly dwindle."
"Aren't you, uh..." Clary searched for the right word. "Reproducing?"
Jace burst out laughing just as the carriage made a sudden, sharp left turn. He braced himself, but Clary was
thrown against him. He caught her, hands holding her lightly but firmly away from him. She felt the cool
impress of his ring like a sliver of ice against her sweaty skin. "Sure," he said. "We love reproducing. It's one
of our favorite things."
Clary pulled away from him, her face burning in the darkness, and turned to look out the window. They were
rolling toward a heavy wrought iron gate, trellised with dark vines.
"We're here," announced Jace as the smooth roll of wheels over pavement turned to the jounce of
cobblestones. Clary glimpsed words across the arch as they rolled under it: new YORK CITY MARBLE
CEMETERY.
"But they stopped burying people in Manhattan a century ago because they ran out of room-didn't they?" she
said. They were moving down a narrow alley with high stone walls on either side.
"The Bone City has been here longer than that." The carriage came to a shuddering halt. Clary jumped as Jace
stretched his arm out, but he was only reaching past her to open the door on her side. His arm was lightly
muscled and downed with golden hairs fine as pollen.
"You don't get a choice, do you?" she asked. "About being a Shadowhunter. You can't just opt out."
"No," he said. The door swung open, letting in a blast of muggy air. The carriage had drawn to a stop on a
wide square of green grass surrounded by mossy marble walls. "But if I had a choice, this is still what I'd
choose."
"Why?" she asked.
He raised an eyebrow, which made Clary instantly jealous. She'd always wanted to be able to do that.
"Because," he said. "It's what I'm good at."
He jumped down from the carriage. Clary slid to the edge of her seat, dangling her legs. It was a long drop to
the cobblestones. She jumped. The impact stung her feet, but she didn't fall. She swung around in
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triumph to find Jace watching her. "I would have helped you down," he said.
She blinked. "It's okay. You didn't have to."
He glanced behind him. Brother Jeremiah was descending from his perch behind the horses in a silent fall
of robes. He cast no shadow on the sun-baked grass.
Come,
he said. He glided away from the carriage and the comforting lights of Second Avenue, moving toward the
dark center of the garden. It was clear that he expected them to follow.
The grass was dry and crackling underfoot, the marble walls to either side smooth and pearly. There were

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names carved into the stone of the walls, names and dates. It took Clary a moment to realize that they were
grave markers. A chill scraped up her spine. Where were the bodies? In the walls, buried upright as if they'd
been walled in alive ... ?
She had forgotten to look where she was going. When she collided with something unmistakably alive, she
yelped out loud.
It was Jace. "Don't screech like that. You'll wake the dead."
She frowned at him. "Why are we stopping?"
He pointed at Brother Jeremiah, who had come to a halt in front of a statue just slightly taller than he was, its
base overgrown with moss. The statue was of an angel. The marble of the statue was so smooth it was almost
translucent. The face of the angel was fierce and beautiful and sad. In long white hands the angel held a cup,
its rim studded with marble jewels. Something about the statue tickled Clary's memory with an uneasy
familiarity. There was a date inscribed on the base, 1234, and words inscribed around it: nephilim: facilis
descensus averni.
"Is that meant to be the Mortal Cup?" she asked.
Jace nodded. "And that's the motto of the Nephilim-the Shadowhunters-there on the base."
"What does it mean?"
Jace's grin was a white flash in the darkness. "It means 'Shadowhunters: Looking Better in Black Than the
Widows of our Enemies Since 1234.'"
"Jace-"
It means,
said Jeremiah,The descent into Hell is easy.
"Nice and cheery," said Clary, but a shiver passed over her skin despite the heat.
"It's the Brothers' little joke, having that here," said Jace. "You'll see."
She looked at Brother Jeremiah. He had drawn a stele, faintly glowing, from some inner pocket of his robe,
and with the tip he traced the pattern of a rune on the statue's base. The mouth of the stone angel suddenly
gaped wide in a silent scream, and a yawning black hole opened in the grassy turf at Jeremiah's
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feet. It looked like an open grave.
Slowly Clary approached the edge of it and peered inside. A set of granite steps led down into the hole, their
edges worn soft by years of use. Torches were set along the steps at intervals, flaring hot green and icy blue.
The bottom of the stairs was lost in darkness.
Jace took the stairs with the ease of someone who finds a situation familiar if not exactly comfortable.
Halfway to the first torch, he paused and looked up at her. "Comeon," he said impatiently.
Clary had barely set her foot on the first step when she felt her arm caught in a cold grip. She looked up in
astonishment. Brother Jeremiah was holding her wrist, his icy white fingers digging into the skin. She could
see the bony gleam of his scarred face beneath the edge of his cowl.
Do not fear,
said his voice inside her head.Itwould take more than a single human cry to wake these dead.
When he released her arm, she skittered down the stairs after Jace, her heart pounding against her ribs. He was
waiting for her at the foot of the steps. He'd taken one of the green burning torches out of its bracket and was
holding it at eye level. It lent a pale green cast to his skin. "You all right?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The stairs ended in a shallow landing; ahead of them stretched a
tunnel, long and black, ridged with the curling roots of trees. A faint bluish light was visible at the tunnel's
end. "It's so... dark," she said lamely.
"You want me to hold your hand?"
Clary put both her hands behind her back like a small child. "Don't talk down to me."
"Well, I could hardly talkup to you. You're too short." Jace glanced past her, the torch showering sparks as he
moved. "No need to stand on ceremony, Brother Jeremiah," he drawled. "Lead on. We'll be right behind you."
Clary jumped. She still wasn't used to the archivist's silent comings and goings. He moved noiselessly from
where he had been standing behind her and headed into the tunnel. After a moment she followed, knocking
Jace's outstretched hand aside as she went.

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Clary's first sight of the Silent City was of row upon row of tall marble arches that rose overhead,
disappearing into the distance like the orderly rows of trees in an orchard. The marble itself was a pure, ashy
ivory, hard and polished-looking, inset in places with narrow strips of onyx, jasper, and jade. As they moved
away from the tunnel and toward the forest of arches, Clary saw that the floor was inscribed with the same
runes that sometimes decorated Jace's skin with lines and whorls and swirling patterns.
As the three of them passed through the first arch, something large and white loomed up on her left side, like
an iceberg off the bow of theTitanic. It was a block of white stone, smooth and square, with a sort of door inset
into the front. It reminded her of a child-size playhouse, almost but not quite big enough for her to stand up
inside.
"It's a mausoleum," said Jace, directing a flash of torchlight at it. Clary could see that a rune was carved
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into the door, which was sealed shut with bolts of iron. "A tomb. We bury our dead here."
"All your dead?" she said, half-wanting to ask him if his father was buried here, but he had already moved
ahead, out of earshot. She hurried after him, not wanting to be alone with Brother Jeremiah in this spooky
place. "I thought you said this was a library."
There are many levels to the Silent City,
interjected Jeremiah.And not all the dead are buried here. There is another ossuary in Idris, of course, much
larger. But on this level are the mausoleums and the place of burning.
"The place of burning?"
Those who die in battle are burned, their ashes used to make the marble arches that you see here. The blood
and bone of demon slayers is itself a powerful protection against evil. Even in death, the Clave serves the
cause.
How exhausting, Clary thought, to fight all your life and then be expected to continue that fight even when
your life was over. At the edges of her vision she could see the square white vaults rising on either side of her
in orderly rows of tombs, each door locked from the outside. She understood now why this was called the
Silent City: Its only inhabitants were the mute Brothers and the dead they so zealously guarded.
They had reached another staircase leading down into more twilight; Jace thrust the torch ahead of him,
streaking the walls with shadows. "We're going to the second level, where the archives and the council rooms
are," he said, as if to reassure her.
"Where are the living quarters?" Clary asked, partly to be polite, partly out of a real curiosity. "Where do the
Brothers sleep?"
Sleep?
The silent word hung in the darkness between them. Jace laughed, and the flame of the torch he held
flickered. "You had to ask."
At the foot of the stairs was another tunnel, which widened out at the end into a square pavilion, each corner
of which was marked by a spire of carved bone. Torches burned in long onyx holders along the sides of the
square, and the air smelled of ashes and smoke. In the center of the pavilion was a long table of black basalt
veined in white. Behind the table, against the dark wall, hung an enormous silver sword, point down, its hilt
carved in the shape of outspread wings. Seated at the table was a row of Silent Brothers, each wrapped and
cowled in the same parchment-colored robes as Jeremiah.
Jeremiah wasted no time. Wehave arrived. Clarissa, stand before the Council.
Clary
glanced at Jace, but he was blinking, clearly confused. Brother Jeremiah must have spoken only inside her
head. She looked at the table, at the long row of silent figures muffled in their heavy robes. Alternating
squares made up the pavilion floor: golden bronze and a darker red. Just in front of the table was a larger
square, made of black marble and embossed with a parabolic design of silver stars.
Clary stepped into the center of the black square as if she were stepping in front of a firing squad. She raised
her head. "All right," she said. "Now what?"
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The Brothers made a sound then, a sound that raised the hairs up all along Clary's neck and the backs of her
arms. It was a sound like a sigh or a groan. In unison they raised their hands and pushed their cowls back,

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baring their scarred faces and the pits of their empty eyes.
Though she had seen Brother Jeremiah's uncovered face already, Clary's stomach knotted. It was like looking
at a row of skeletons, like one of those medieval woodcuts where the dead walked and talked and danced on
the piled bodies of the living. Their stitched mouths seemed to grin at her.
The Council greets you, Clarissa Fray,
she heard, and it was not just one silent voice inside her head but a dozen, some low and rough, some smooth
and monotone, but all were demanding, insistent, pushing at the fragile barriers around her mind.
"Stop," she said, and to her astonishment her voice came out firm and strong. The din inside her mind ceased
as suddenly as a record that had stopped spinning. "You can go inside my head," she said, "but only when I'm
ready."
If you do not want our help, there is no need for this. You are the one who asked for our assistance, after all.
"You want to know what's in my mind, just like I do," she said. "That doesn't mean you can't be careful about
it."
The Brother who sat in the center seat templed his thin white fingers beneath his chin, itis an interesting
puzzle, admittedly, he said, and the voice inside her mind was dry and neutral.But there is no need for the use
of force, if you do not resist.
She gritted her teeth. She wanted to resist them, wanted to pry those intrusive voices out of her head. To stand
by and allow such a violation of her most intimate, personal selfÂBut
there was every chance that had already happened, she reminded herself. This was nothing more than the
excavation of a past crime, the theft of her memory. If it worked, what had been taken from her would be
restored. She closed her eyes.
"Go ahead," she said.
The first contact came as a whisper inside her head, delicate as the brush of a falling leaf.State your name for
the Council.
Clarissa Fray.
The first voice was joined by others.Who are you?
I'm Clary. My mother is Jocelyn Fray. I live at 807 Berkeley Place in Brooklyn. I am fifteen years old. My
father's name was
ÂHer
mind seemed to snap in on itself, like a rubber band, and she reeled soundlessly into a whirlwind of
images cast against the insides of her closed eyelids. Her mother was hurrying her down a night-black street
between piles of heaped and dirty snow. Then a lowering sky, gray and leaden, rows of black trees stripped
bare. An empty square cut into the earth, a plain coffin lowered into it.Ashes to ashes.
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Jocelyn wrapped in her patchwork quilt, tears spilling down her cheeks, quickly closing a box and shoving it
under a cushion as Clary came into the room. She saw the initials on the box again: J.C.
The images came faster now, like the pages of one of those books where the drawings seemed to move when
you flipped them. Clary stood on top of a flight of stairs, looking down a narrow corridor, and there was Luke
again, his green duffel bag at his feet. Jocelyn stood in front of him, shaking her head. "Why now, Lucian? I
thought that you were dead..." Clary blinked; Luke looked different, almost a stranger, bearded, his hair long
and tangled-and branches came down to block her view; she was in the park again, and green faeries, tiny as
toothpicks, buzzed among the red flowers. She reached for one in delight, and her mother swung her up into
her arms with a cry of terror. Then it was winter on the black street again, and they were hurrying, huddled
under an umbrella, Jocelyn half-pushing and half-dragging Clary between the looming banks of snow. A
granite doorway loomed up out of the falling whiteness; there were words carved above the door, the
magnificent. Then she was standing inside an entryway that smelled of iron and melting snow. Her fingers
were numb with cold. A hand under her chin directed her to look up, and she saw a row of words scrawled
along the wall. Two words leaped out at her, burning into her eyes: "MAGNUS BANE."
A sudden pain lanced through her right arm. She shrieked as the images fell away and she spun upward,
breaking the surface of consciousness like a diver breaking up through a wave. There was something cold
pressed against her cheek. She pried her eyes open and saw silver stars. She blinked twice before she realized

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that she was lying on the marble floor, her knees curled up to her chest. When she moved, hot pain shot up her
arm.
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.
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"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?"
Iam 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

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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."
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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 souffle. 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 spaghettifra diavolo that makes you want to kiss
your fingers? I don'tthink 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 heis?"
"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'veheard 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.
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"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. "Whowas that?"
"You mean Clancy?" Jace asked, glancing around the brightly lit restaurant. It was pleasant inside, despite the

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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 ademon," 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 sprouting 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
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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
havesmoothies 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. Isabella'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-"

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"Shutup," 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 Baron 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?"
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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 notreally 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.
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"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,

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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 atthis."
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?"
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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."
"Magnus," said Simon. "Magnus like Magnus Bane?"
"I doubt there are that many warlocks named Magnus in the Tristate Area," said Jace.
Alec blinked at it. "Does that mean we have to go to the party?" he inquired of no one in particular.
"We don'thave to do anything," said Jace, who was reading the fine print on the invitation. "But according to
this, Magnus Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn." He looked at Clary. "I, for one, am a little curious as to
what the High Warlock of Brooklyn's name is doing inside your head."
The party didn't start until midnight, so with a whole day to kill, Jace and Alec disappeared to the weapons
room and Isabelle and Simon announced their intention of going for a walk in Central Park so that she could
show him the faerie circles. Simon asked Clary if she wanted to come along. Stifling a murderous rage, she
refused on the grounds of exhaustion.
It wasn't exactly a lie-shewas exhausted, her body still weakened from the aftereffects of the poison and the
too-early rising. She lay on her bed in the Institute, shoes kicked off, willing herself to sleep, but sleep
wouldn't come. The caffeine in her veins fizzed like carbonated water, and her mind was full of darting
images. She kept seeing her mother's face looking down at her, her expression panicked. Kept seeing the

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Speaking Stars, hearing the voices of the Silent Brothers in her head.Why would there be a block in her mind?
Why would a powerful warlock have put it there, and to what purpose? She wondered what memories she
might have lost, what experiences she'd had that she couldn't now recall. Or maybe everything she thought
shedid remember was a lie ... ?
She sat up, no longer able to bear where her thoughts were taking her. Barefoot, she padded out into the
corridor and toward the library. Maybe Hodge could help her.
But the library was empty. Afternoon light slanted in through the parted curtains, laying bars of gold across
the floor. On the desk lay the book Hodge had read out of earlier, its worn leather cover gleaming. Beside it
Hugo slept on his perch, beak tucked under wing.
My mother knew that book,
Clary thought. Shetouched it, read out of it. The ache to hold something that was a part of her mother's life
felt like a gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She crossed the room hastily and laid her hands on the book. It
felt warm, the leather heated by sunlight. She raised the cover.
Something folded slid out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor at her feet. She bent to retrieve it,
smoothing it open reflexively.
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It was the photograph of a group of young people, none much older than Clary herself. She knew it had been
taken at least twenty years ago, not because of the clothes they were wearing-which, like most Shadowhunter
gear, were nondescript and black-but because she recognized her mother instantly: Jocelyn, no more than
seventeen or eighteen, her hair halfway down her back and her face a little rounder, the chin and mouth less
defined.She looks like me, Clary thought dazedly.
Jocelyn's arm was around a boy Clary didn't recognize. It gave her a jolt. She'd never thought of her mother
being involved with anyone other than her father, since Jocelyn had never dated or seemed interested in
romance. She wasn't like most single mothers, who trolled PTA meetings for likely-looking dads, or Simon's
mom, who was always checking her profile on JDate. The boy was good-looking, with hair so fair it was
nearly white, and black eyes.
"That's Valentine," said a voice at her elbow. "When he was seventeen."
She leaped back, almost dropping the photo. Hugo gave a startled and unhappy caw before settling back down
on his perch, feathers ruffled.
It was Hodge, looking at her with curious eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she said, setting the photograph down on the desk and backing hastily away. "I didn't mean to
pry into your things."
"It's all right." He touched the photograph with a scarred and weathered hand-a strange contrast to the neat
spotlessness of his tweed cuffs. "It's a piece of your past, after all."
Clary drifted back toward the desk as if the photo exerted a magnetic pull. The white-haired boy in the photo
was smiling at Jocelyn, his eyes crinkled in that way that boys' eyes crinkled when they really liked you.
Nobody, Clary thought, had ever looked ather that way. Valentine, with his cold, fine-featured face, looked
absolutely unlike her own father, with his open smile and the bright hair she'd inherited. "Valentine looks ...
sort of nice."
"Nice he wasn't," said Hodge, with a twisted smile, "but he was charming and clever and very persuasive. Do
you recognize anyone else?"
She looked again. Standing behind Valentine, a little to the left, was a thin boy with a shock of light brown
hair. He had the big shoulders and gawky wrists of someone who hadn't grown into his height yet. "Is that
you?"
Hodge nodded. "And... ?"
She had to look twice before she identified someone else she knew: so young as to be nearly unrecognizable.
In the end his glasses gave him away, and the eyes behind them, light blue as seawater. "Luke," she said.
"Lucian. And here." Leaning over the photo, Hodge indicated an elegant-looking teenage couple, both
dark-haired, the girl half a head taller than the boy. Her features were narrow and predatory, almost cruel.
"The Lightwoods," he said. "And there"-he indicated a very handsome boy with curling dark hair, high color
in his square-jawed face-"is Michael Wayland."

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"He doesn't look anything like Jace."
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"Jace resembles his mother."
"Is this, like, a class photo?" Clary asked.
"Not quite. This is a picture of the Circle, taken in the year it was formed. That's why Valentine, the leader, is
in the front, and Luke is on his right side-he was Valentine's second in command."
Clary turned her gaze away. "I still don't understand why my mother would join something like that."
"You must understand-"
"You keep saying that," Clary said crossly. "I don't see why I must understand anything. You tell me the truth,
and I'll either understand it or I won't."
The corner of Hodge's mouth twitched. "As you say." He paused to reach out a hand and stroke Hugo, who
was strutting along the edge of the desk importantly. "The Accords have never had the support of the whole
Clave. The more venerable families, especially, cling to the old times, when Downworlders were for killing.
Not just out of hatred but because it made them feel safer. It is easier to confront a threat as a mass, a group,
not individuals who must be evaluated one by one...and most of us knew someone who had been injured or
killed by a Downworlder. There is nothing," he added, "quite like the moral absolutism of the young. It's easy,
as a child, to believe in good and evil, in light and dark. Valentine never lost that- neither his destructive
idealism nor his passionate loathing of anything he considered 'nonhuman.'"
"But he loved my mother," said Clary.
"Yes,"
said Hodge. "He loved your mother. And he loved Idris...."
"What wasso great about Idris?" Clary asked, hearing the grumpiness in her own voice.
"It was," Hodge began, and corrected himself, "itis, home-for the Nephilim, where they can be their true
selves, a place where there is no need for hiding or glamour. A place blessed by the Angel. You have never
seen a city until you have seen Alicante of the glass towers. It is more beautiful than you can imagine." There
was raw pain in his voice.
Clary thought suddenly of her dream. "Were there ever ... dances in the Glass City?"
Hodge blinked at her as if waking up from a dream. "Every week. I never attended, but your mother did. And
Valentine." He chuckled softly. "I was more of a scholar. I spent my days in the library in Alicante. The books
you see here are only a fraction of the treasures it holds. I thought perhaps I might join the Brotherhood
someday, but after what I did, of course, they would not have me."
"I'm sorry," Clary said awkwardly. Her mind was still full of the memory of her dream.Was there a mermaid
fountain where they danced? Did Valentine wear white, so that my mother could see the Marks on his skin
even through his shirt?
"Can I keep this?" she asked, indicating the photograph.
A flicker of hesitation passed over Hodge's face. "I would prefer you not show it to Jace," he said. "He has
enough to contend with, without photos of his dead father turning up."
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"Of course." She hugged it to her chest. "Thank you."
"It's nothing." He looked at her quizzically. "Did you come to the library to see me, or for some other
purpose?"
"I was wondering if you'd heard from the Clave. About the Cup. And-my mom."
"I got a short reply this morning."
She could hear the eagerness in her own voice. "Have they sent people? Shadowhunters?"
Hodge looked away from her. "Yes, they have."
"Why aren't they staying here?" she asked.
"There is some concern that the Institute is being watched by Valentine. The less he knows, the better."
He saw her miserable expression, and sighed. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more, Clarissa. I am not much
trusted by the Clave, even now. They told me very little. I wish I could help you."
There was something about the sadness in his voice that made her reluctant to push him for more information.
"You can," she said. "I can't sleep. I keep thinking too much. Could you..."

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"Ah, the unquiet mind." His voice was full of sympathy. "I can give you something for that. Wait here."
The potion Hodge gave her smelled pleasantly of juniper and leaves. Clary kept opening the vial and smelling
it on her way back down the corridor. It was unfortunately still open when she entered her bedroom and found
Jace sprawled out on the bed, looking at her sketchbook. With a little shriek of astonishment, she dropped the
vial; it bounced across the floor, spilling pale-green liquid onto the hardwood.
"Oh, dear," said Jace, sitting up, the sketchbook abandoned. "I hope that wasn't anything important."
"It was a sleeping potion," she said angrily, toeing the vial with the tip of a sneaker. "And now it's gone."
"If only Simon were here. He could probably bore you to sleep."
Clary was in no mood to defend Simon. Instead she sat down on the bed, picking up the sketchbook. "I don't
usually let people look at this."
"Why not?" Jace looked tousled, as if he'd been asleep himself. "You're a pretty good artist. Sometimes even
excellent."
"Well, because-it's like a diary. Except I don't think in words, I think in pictures, so it's all drawings. But it's
still private." She wondered if she sounded as crazy as she suspected.
Jace looked wounded. "A diary with no drawings of me in it? Where are the torrid fantasies? The romance
novel covers? The-"
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"Doall the girls you meet fall in love with you?" Clary asked quietly.
The question seemed to deflate him, like a pin popping a balloon. "It's notlove," he said, after a pause. "At
least-"
"You could try not being charming all the time," Clary said. "It might be a relief for everyone."
He looked down at his hands. They were like Hodge's hands already, snowflaked with tiny white scars,
though the skin was young and unlined. "If you're really tired, I could put you to sleep," he said. "Tell you a
bedtime story."
She looked at him. "Are you serious?"
"I'm always serious."
She wondered if being tired had made them both a little crazy. But Jace didn't look tired. He looked almost
sad. She set the sketchbook down on the night table, and lay down, curling sideways on the pillow. "Okay."
"Close your eyes."
She closed them. She could see the afterimage of lamplight reflected against her inner lids, like tiny
starbursts.
"Once there was a boy," said Jace.
Clary interrupted immediately. "A Shadowhunter boy?"
"Of course." For a moment a bleak amusement colored his voice. Then it was gone. "When the boy was six
years old, his father gave him a falcon to train. Falcons are raptors-killing birds, his father told him, the
Shadowhunters of the sky.
"The falcon didn't like the boy, and the boy didn't like it, either. Its sharp beak made him nervous, and its
bright eyes always seemed to be watching him. It would slash at him with beak and talons when he came near:
For weeks his wrists and hands were always bleeding. He didn't know it, but his father had selected a falcon
that had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus was nearly impossible to tame. But the boy tried, because
his father had told him to make the falcon obedient, and he wanted to please his father.
"He stayed with the falcon constantly, keeping it awake by talking to it and even playing music to it, because
a tired bird was meant to be easier to tame. He learned the equipment: the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash
that bound the bird to his wrist. He was meant to keep the falcon blind, but he couldn't bring himself to do
it-instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust
him. He fed it from his hand, and at first it would not eat. Later it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of
his palm. But the boy was glad, because it was progress, and because he wanted the bird to know him, even if
the bird had to consume his blood to make that happen.
"He began to see that the falcon was beautiful, that its slim wings were built for the speed of flight, that it was
strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the ground, it moved like light. When it learned to circle
and come to his wrist, he nearly shouted with delight. Sometimes the bird would hop to his shoulder and put

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its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and when he was certain it was not
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just tamed but perfectly tamed, he went to his father and showed him what he had done, expecting him to be
proud.
"Instead his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, in his hands and broke its neck. 'I told you to make it
obedient,' his father said, and dropped the falcon's lifeless body to the ground. 'Instead, you taught it to love
you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: They are fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not
tamed; it was broken.'
"Later, when his father left him, the boy cried over his pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the
body of the bird away and bury it. The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he'd learned: that to
love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed."
Clary, who had been lying still, hardly breathing, rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. "That's an awful
story," she said indignantly.
Jace had his legs pulled up, his chin on his knees. "Is it?" he said ruminatively.
"The boy's father is horrible. It's a story about child abuse. I should have known that's what Shadowhunters
think a bedtime story is like. Anything that gives you screaming nightmares-"
"Sometimes the Marks can give you screaming nightmares," said Jace. "If you get them when you're too
young." He looked at her thoughtfully. The late afternoon light came in through the curtains and made his face
a study in contrasts.Chiaroscuro, she thought. The art of shadows and light. "It's a good story if you think
about it," he said. "The boy's father is just trying to make him stronger. Inflexible."
"But you have to learn to bend a little," said Clary with a yawn. Despite the story's content, the rhythm of
Jace's voice had made her sleepy. "Or you'll break."
"Not if you're strong enough," said Jace firmly. He reached out, and she felt the back of his hand brush her
cheek; she realized her eyes were slipping shut. Exhaustion made her bones liquid; she felt as if she might
wash away and vanish. As she fell into sleep, she heard the echo of words in her mind.He gave me anything I
wanted. Horses, weapons, books, even a hunting falcon.
"Jace," she tried to say. But sleep had her in its claws; it drew her down, and she was silent.
She was woken by an urgent voice. "Getup !"
Clary opened her eyes slowly. They felt gluey, stuck together. Something was tickling her face. It was
someone's hair. She sat up quickly, and her head struck something hard.
"Ow! You hit me in the head!" It was a girl's voice. Isabelle. She flicked on the light next to the bed and
regarded Clary resentfully, rubbing at her scalp. She seemed to shimmer in the lamplight-she was wearing a
long silvery skirt and a sequined top, and her nails were painted like glittering coins. Strands of silver beads
were caught in her dark hair. She looked like a moon goddess. Clary hated her.
"Well, nobody told you to lean over me like that. You practically scared me to death." Clary rubbed at her
own head. There was a sore spot just above her eyebrow. "What do you want, anyway?"
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Isabelle indicated the dark night sky outside. "It's almost midnight. We've got to leave for the party, and you're
still not dressed."
"I was just going to wear this," Clary said, indicating her jeans and T-shirt ensemble. "Is that a problem?"
"Is that a problem?" Isabelle looked like she might faint. "Of course it's a problem! No Downworlder would
wear those clothes. And it's a party. You'll stick out like a sore thumb if you dress that...casually," she
finished, looking as if the word she'd wanted to use was a lot worse than "casually."
"I didn't know we were dressing up," Clary said sourly. "I don't have any party clothes with me."
"You'll just have to borrow mine."
"Ohno." Clary thought of the too-big T-shirt and jeans. "I mean, I couldn't. Really."
Isabelle's smile was as glittering as her nails. "I insist."
"I'd really rather wear my own clothes," Clary protested, squirming uncomfortably as Isabelle positioned her
in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom.
"Well, you can't," Isabelle said. "You look about eight years old, and worse, you look like a mundane."
Clary set her jaw rebelliously. "None of your clothes are going to fit me."

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"We'll see about that."
Clary watched Isabelle in the mirror as she rifled through her closet. Her room looked as if a disco ball had
exploded inside it. The walls were black and shimmered with swirls of sponged-on golden paint. Clothes were
strewn everywhere: on the rumpled black bed, hung over the backs of the wooden chairs, spilling out of the
closet and the tall wardrobe propped against one wall. Her vanity table, its mirror rimmed with spangled pink
fur, was covered in glitter, sequins, and pots of blush and powder.
"Nice room," Clary said, thinking longingly of her orange walls at home.
"Thanks. I painted it myself." Isabelle emerged from the closet, holding something black and slinky. She
tossed it at Clary.
Clary held the cloth up, letting it unfold. "It looks awfully small."
"It's stretchy," said Isabelle. "Now go put it on."
Hastily, Clary retreated to the small bathroom, which was painted bright blue. She wriggled the dress on over
her head- it was tight, with tiny spaghetti straps. Trying not to inhale too deeply, she returned to the bedroom,
where Isabelle was sitting on the bed, sliding a set of jeweled toe rings onto her sandaled feet. "You're so
lucky to have such a flat chest," Isabelle said. "I could never wear that without a bra."
Clary scowled. "It's too short."
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"It's not short. It's fine," Isabelle said, toeing around under the bed. She kicked out a pair of boots and some
black fishnet tights. "Here, you can wear these with it. They'll make you look taller."
"Right, because I'm flat-chestedand a midget." Clary tugged the hem of the dress down. It just brushed the
tops of her thighs. She hardly ever wore skirts, much less short ones, so seeing this much of her own legs was
alarming. "If it's this short on me, how short must it be on you?" she mused aloud to Isabelle.
Isabelle grinned. "On me it's a shirt."
Clary flopped down on the bed and pulled the tights and boots on. The shoes were a little loose around the
calves, but didn't slide around on her feet. She laced them to the top and stood up, looking at herself in the
mirror. She had to admit that the combination of short black dress, fishnets, and high boots was fairly badass.
The only thing that spoiled it wasÂ"
Your hair," Isabelle said. "It needs fixing. Desperately. Sit." She pointed imperiously toward the vanity table.
Clary sat, and squinched her eyes shut as Isabelle yanked her hair out of its braids-none too kindly-brushed it
out, and shoved what felt like bobby pins into it. She opened her eyes just as a powder puff smacked her in the
face, releasing a dense cloud of glitter. Clary coughed and glared at Isabelle accusingly.
The other girl laughed. "Don't look at me. Look at yourself."
Glancing in the mirror, Clary saw that Isabelle had pulled her hair up into an elegant swirl on the top of her
head, held in place with sparkling pins. Clary was reminded suddenly of her dream, the heavy hair weighing
her head down, dancing with Simon ... She stirred restlessly.
"Don't get up yet," Isabelle said. "We're not done." She seized an eyeliner pen. "Open your eyes."
Clary widened her eyes, which was good for keeping herself from crying. "Isabelle, can I ask you something?'
"Sure," said Isabelle, wielding the eyeliner expertly.
"Is Alec gay?"
Isabelle's wrist jerked. The eyeliner skidded, inking a long line of black from the corner of Clary's eye to her
hairline. "Oh, hell," Isabelle said, putting the pen down.
"It's all right," Clary began, putting her hand up to her eye.
"No, it isn't." Isabelle sounded near tears as she scrabbled around among the piles of junk on top of the vanity.
Eventually she came up with a cotton ball, which she handed to Clary. "Here. Use this." She sat down on the
edge of the bed, ankle bracelets jingling, and looked at Clary through her hair. "How did you guess?" she said
finally.
"You absolutely can't tell anyone," said Isabelle.
"Not even Jace?"
"Especially not Jace!"
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"All right." Clary heard the stiffness in her own voice. "I guess I didn't realize it was such a big deal." "It

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would be to my parents," said Isabelle quietly. "They would disown him and throw him out of the
Clave-" "What, you can't be gay and a Shadowhunter?" "There's no official rule about it. But people don't like
it. I mean, less with people our age-I think," she
added, uncertainly, and Clary remembered how few other people her age Isabelle had ever really met.
"But the older generation, no. If it happens, you don't talk about it."
"Oh," said Clary, wishing she'd never mentioned it.
"I love my brother," said Isabelle. "I'd do anything for him. But there's nothing I can do."
"At least he has you," said Clary awkwardly, and she thought for a moment of Jace, who thought of love
as something that broke you into pieces. "Do you really think that Jace would ... mind?"
"I don't know," said Isabelle, in a tone that indicated she'd had enough of the topic. "But it's not my
choice to make." "I guess not," Clary said. She leaned in to the mirror, using the cotton Isabelle had given her
to dab away the excess eye makeup. When she sat back, she nearly dropped the cotton ball in surprise: What
had Isabelledone to her? Her cheekbones looked sharp and angular, her eyes deep-set, mysterious, and a
luminous green.
"I look like my mom," she said in surprise.
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. "What? Too middle-aged? Maybe some more glitter-"
"No more glitter," Clary said hastily. "No, it's good. I like it."
"Great." Isabelle bounced up off the bed, her anklets chiming. "Let's go."
"I need to stop by my room and grab something," Clary said, standing up. "Also-do I need any
weapons? Do you?"
"I've got plenty." Isabelle smiled, kicking her feet up so that her anklets jingled like Christmas bells.
"These, for instance. The left one is gold, which is poisonous to demons, and the right one is blessed iron,
in case I run across any unfriendly vampires or even faeries-faeries hate iron. They both have strength
runes carved into them, so I can pack a hell of a kick."
"Demon hunting and fashion," Clary said. "I never would have thought they went together."
Isabelle laughed out loud. "You'd be surprised."
The boys were waiting for them in the entryway. They were wearing black, even Simon, in a slightly too-big
pair of black pants and his own shirt turned inside out to hide the band logo. He was standing
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uncomfortably to the side while Jace and Alec slouched together against the wall, looking bored. Simon
glanced up as Isabelle strode into the entryway, her gold whip coiled around her wrist, her metal ankle chains
chiming like bells. Clary expected him to look stunned-Isabelle did look amazing-but his eyes slid past her to
Clary, where they rested with a look of astonishment.
"Whatis that?" he demanded, straightening up. "That you're wearing, I mean."
Clary looked down at herself. She'd thrown a light jacket on to make her feel less naked and grabbed her
backpack from her room. It was slung over her shoulder, bumping familiarly between her shoulder blades. But
Simon wasn't looking at her backpack; he was looking at her legs as if he'd never seen them before.
"It's a dress, Simon," Clary said dryly. "I know I don't wear them that much, but really."
"It's so short," he said in confusion. Even half in demon hunter clothes, Clary thought, he looked like the sort
of boy who'd come over to your house to pick you up for a date and be polite to your parents and nice to your
pets.
Jace, on the other hand, looked like the sort of boy who'd come over to your house and burn it down for kicks.
"I like the dress," he said, unhitching himself from the wall. His eyes ran up and down her lazily, like the
stroking paws of a cat. "It needs a little something extra, though."
"So now you're a fashion expert?" Her voice came out unevenly-he was standing very close to her, close

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enough that she could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint burned scent of newly applied Marks.
He took something out of his jacket and handed it to her. It was a long thin dagger in a leather sheath. The hilt
of the dagger was set with a single red stone carved in the shape of a rose.
She shook her head. "I wouldn't even know how to use that-"
He pressed it into her hand, curling her fingers around it. "You'd learn." He dropped his voice. "It's in your
blood."
She drew her hand back slowly. "All right."
"I could give you a thigh sheath to put that in," Isabelle offered. "I've got tons."
"CERTAINLY NOT," said Simon.
Clary shot him an irritated look. "Thanks, but I'm not really a thigh sheath kind of girl." She slid the dagger
into the outside pocket on her backpack.
She looked up from closing it to find Jace watching her through hooded eyes. "And one last thing," he said.
He reached over and pulled the sparkling pins out of her hair, so that it fell in warm and heavy curls down her
neck. The sensation of hair tickling her bare skin was unfamiliar and oddly pleasant.
"Much better," he said, and she thought this time that maybe his voice was slightly uneven too.
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12
Dead Man's Party
The directions on the invitation took them to a largely
industrial neighborhood in Brooklyn whose streets were lined with factories and warehouses. Some, Clary
could see, had been converted into lofts and galleries, but there was still something forbidding about their
looming square shapes, boasting only a few windows covered in iron grilles.
They made their way from the subway station, Isabelle navigating with the Sensor, which seemed to have a
sort of mapping system built in. Simon, who loved gadgets, was fascinated-or at least he was pretending it was
the Sensor he was fascinated with. Hoping to avoid them, Clary lagged behind as they crossed through a
scrubby park, its badly kept grass burned brown by the summer heat. To her right the spires of a church
gleamed gray and black against the starless night sky.
"Keep up," said an irritable voice in her ear. It was Jace, who had dropped back to walk beside her. "I don't
want to have to keep looking behind me to make sure nothing's happened to you."
"So don't bother."
"Last time I left you alone, a demon attacked you," he pointed out.
"Well, I'd certainly hate to interrupt your pleasant night stroll with my sudden death."
He blinked. "There is a fine line between sarcasm and outright hostility, and you seem to have crossed it.
What's up?"
She bit her lip. "This morning, weird creepy guys dug around in my brain. Now I'm going to meet the weird
creepy guy who originally dug around in my brain. What if I don't like what he finds?"
"What makes you think you won't?"
Clary pulled her hair away from her sticky skin. "I hate it when you answer a question with a question."
"No you don't, you think it's charming. Anyway, wouldn't you rather know the truth?"
"No. I mean, maybe. I don't know." She sighed. "Would you?"
"This is the right street!" called Isabelle, a quarter of a block ahead. They were on a narrow avenue lined with
old warehouses, though most now bore the signs of human residence: window boxes filled with flowers, lace
curtains blowing in the clammy night breeze, numbered plastic trash cans stacked on the sidewalk. Clary
squinted hard, but there was no way to tell if this was the street she'd seen at the Bone City-in her vision it had
been nearly obliterated with snow.
She felt Jace's fingers brush her shoulder. "Absolutely. Always," he murmured.
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She looked sideways at him, not understanding. "What?"

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"The truth," he said. "I would-"
"Jace!" It was Alec. He was standing on the pavement, not far away; Clary wondered why his voice had
sounded so loud.
Jace turned, his hand falling away from her shoulder. "Yes?"
"Think we're in the right place?" Alec was pointing at something Clary couldn't see; it was hidden behind
the bulk of a large black car. "What's that?" Jace joined Alec; Clary heard him laugh. Coming around the car,
she saw what they were looking at: several motorcycles, sleek and silvery, with low-slung black chassis.
Oily-looking tubes and pipes slithered up and around them, ropy as veins. There was a queasy sense of
something organic about
the bikes, like the bio-creatures in a Giger painting. "Vampires," Jace said. "They look like motorcycles to
me," said Simon, joining them with Isabelle at his side. She frowned at
the bikes. "They are, but they've been altered to run on demon energies," she explained. "Vampires use them-it
lets them get around fast at night. It's not strictly Covenant, but..." "I've heard some of the bikes can fly," said
Alec eagerly. He sounded like Simon with a new video game. "Or go invisible at the flick of a switch. Or
operate under water." Jace had jumped down off the curb and was circling the bikes, examining them. He
reached out a hand
and stroked one of the bikes along the sleek chassis. It had words painted along the side, in silver: nox
invictus. "Victorious night," he translated.
Alec was looking at him strangely. "What are you doing?"
Clary thought she saw Jace slide his hand back inside his jacket. "Nothing."
"Well, hurry up," said Isabelle. "I didn't get this dressed up to watch you mess around in the gutter with a
bunch of motorcycles."
"They are pretty to look at," said Jace, hopping back up on the pavement. "You have to admit that."
"So am I," said Isabelle, who didn't look inclined to admit anything. "Now hurry up."
Jace was looking at Clary. "This building," he said, pointing at the red brick warehouse. "Is this the one?"
Clary exhaled. "I think so," she said uncertainly. "They all look the same."
"One way to find out," said Isabelle, mounting the steps with a determined stride. The rest of them
followed, crowding close to one another in the foul-smelling entryway. A naked bulb hung from a cord
overhead, illuminating a large metal-bound door and a row of apartment buzzers along the left wall. Only
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one had a name written over it: bane.
Isabelle pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. She was about to press it a third time
when Alec caught her wrist. "Don't be rude," he said.
She glared at him. "Alec-"
The door flew open.
A slender man standing in the doorway regarded them curiously. It was Isabelle who recovered herself first,
flashing a brilliant smile. "Magnus? Magnus Bane?"
"That would be me." The man blocking the doorway was as tall and thin as a rail, his hair a crown of dense
black spikes. Clary guessed from the curve of his sleepy eyes and the gold tone of his evenly tanned skin that
he was part Asian. He wore jeans and a black shirt covered with dozens of metal buckles. His eyes were
crusted with a raccoon mask of charcoal glitter, his lips painted a dark shade of blue. He raked a ring-laden
hand through his spiked hair and regarded them thoughtfully. "Children of the Nephilim," he said. "Well, well.
I don't recall inviting you."
Isabelle took out her invitation and waved it like a white flag. "I have an invitation. These"-she indicated the
rest of the group with a grand wave of her arm-"are my friends."
Magnus plucked the invitation out of her hand and looked at it with fastidious distaste. "I must have been
drunk," he said. He threw the door open. "Come in. And try not to murder any of my guests."

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Jace edged into the doorway, sizing up Magnus with his eyes. "Even if one of them spills a drink on my new
shoes?"
"Even then." Magnus's hand shot out, so fast it was barely a blur. He plucked the stele out of Jace's
hand-Clary hadn't even realized he was holding it-and held it up. Jace looked faintly abashed. "As for this,"
Magnus said, sliding it into Jace's jeans pocket, "keep it in your pants, Shadowhunter."
Magnus grinned and started up the stairs, leaving a surprised-looking Jace holding the door. "Come on," he
said, waving the rest of them inside. "Before anyone thinks it'smy party."
They pushed past Jace, laughing nervously. Only Isabelle stopped to shake her head. "Try not to piss him off,
please. Then he won't help us."
Jace looked bored. "I know what I'm doing."
"I hope so." Isabelle flounced past him in a swirl of skirts.
Magnus's apartment was at the top of a long flight of rickety stairs. Simon hurried to catch up with Clary, who
was regretting having put her hand on the banister to steady herself. It was sticky with something that glowed
a faint and sickly green.
"Yech," said Simon, and offered her a corner of his T-shirt to wipe her hand on. She did. "Is everything all
right? You seem-distracted."
"He just looks so familiar. Magnus, I mean."
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"You think he goes to St. Xavier's?"
"Very funny." She looked at him sourly.
"You're right. He's too old to be a student. I think I had him for chem last year."
Clary laughed out loud. Immediately Isabelle was beside her, breathing down her neck. "Am I missing
something funny? Simon?"
Simon had the grace to look embarrassed, but said nothing. Clary muttered, "You're not missing anything,"
and dropped behind them. Isabelle's lug-soled boots were starting to hurt her feet. By the time she reached the
top of the stairs she was limping, but she forgot the pain as soon as she walked through Magnus's front door.
The loft was huge and almost totally empty of furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows were smeared with a thick
film of dirt and paint, blocking out most of the ambient light from the street. Big metal pillars wound with
colored lights held up an arched, sooty ceiling. Doors torn off their hinges and laid across dented metal
garbage cans made a makeshift bar at one end of the room. A lilac-skinned woman in a metallic bustier was
ranging drinks along the bar in tall, harshly colored glasses that tinted the fluid inside them: blood red,
cyanosis blue, poison green. Even for a New York bartender she worked with an amazingly speedy
efficiency-probably helped along by the fact that she had a second set of long, graceful arms to go with the
first. Clary was reminded of Luke's Indian goddess statue.
The rest of the crowd was just as strange. A good-looking boy with wet green-black hair grinned at her over a
platter of what looked like raw fish. His teeth were sharp and serrated, like a shark's. Beside him stood a girl
with long dirty-blond hair, braided with flowers. Under the skirt of her short green dress, her feet were webbed
like a frog's. A group of young women so pale Clary wondered if they were wearing white stage makeup
sipped scarlet liquid too thick to be wine from fluted crystal glasses. The center of the room was packed with
bodies dancing to the pounding beat that bounced off the walls, though Clary couldn't see a band anywhere.
"You like the party?"
She turned to see Magnus lounging against one of the pillars. His eyes shone in the darkness. Glancing
around, she saw that Jace and the others were gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
She tried to smile. "Is it in honor of anything?"
"My cat's birthday."
"Oh." She glanced around. "Where's your cat?"
He unhitched himself from the pillar, looking solemn. "I don't know. He ran away."
Clary was spared responding to this by the reappearance of Jace and Alec. Alec looked sullen as usual. Jace
was wearing a strand of tiny glowing flowers around his neck and seemed pleased with himself. "Where are
Simon and Isabelle?" Clary said.
"On the dance floor." He pointed. She could just see them on the edge of the packed square of bodies. Simon

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was doing what he usually did in lieu of dancing, which was to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet,
looking uncomfortable. Isabelle was slinking in a circle around him, sinuous as a snake, trailing
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her fingers across his chest. She was looking at him as if she were planning to drag him off into a corner to
have sex. Clary hugged her arms around herself, her bracelets clanking together.If they dance any closer
together, they won't have to go off in a corner to have sex.
"Look," Jace said, turning to Magnus, "we really need to talk to-"
"MAGNUS BANE!" The deep, booming voice belonged to a surprisingly short man who looked to be in his
early thirties. He was compactly muscular, with a bald head shaved smooth and a pointed goatee. He leveled a
trembling finger at Magnus."Someone just poured holy water into the gas tank on my bike. It's ruined.
Destroyed. All the pipes are melted."
"Melted?" murmured Magnus. "How dreadful."
"I want to know who did it." The man bared his teeth, showing long pointed canines. Clary stared in
fascination. They didn't look at all the way she'd imagined vampire fangs: These were as thin and sharp as
needles. "I thought you swore there'd be no wolf-men here tonight,Bane."
"I invited none of the Moon's Children," Magnus said, examining his glittery nails. "Precisely because of your
stupid little feud. If any of them decided to sabotage your bike, they weren't a guest of mine, and are therefore
..." He offered a winsome smile. "Not my responsibility."
The vampire roared with rage, jabbing his finger toward Magnus. "Are you trying to tell me that-"
Magnus's glitter-coated index finger twitched just a fraction, so slightly that Clary almost thought he hadn't
moved at all. Mid-roar the vampire gagged and clutched at his throat. His mouth worked, but no sound came
out.
"You've worn out your welcome," Magnus said lazily, opening his eyes very wide. Clary saw, with a jolt of
surprise, that they had vertical slit pupils, like a cat's. "Now go." He splayed the fingers of his hand, and the
vampire turned as smartly as if someone had grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. He marched back
into the crowd, heading toward the door.
Jace whistled under his breath. "That was impressive."
"You mean that little hissy fit?" Magnus cast his eyes toward the ceiling. "I know. Whatis her problem?"
Alec made a choking noise. After a moment Clary recognized it as laughter. Heought to do that more often.
"We put the holy water in his gas tank, you know," he said.
"ALEC," said Jace. "Shut up."
"I assumed that," said Magnus, looking amused. "Vindictive little bastards, aren't you? You know their bikes
run on demon energies. I doubt he'll be able to repair it."
"One less leech with a fancy ride," said Jace. "My heart bleeds."
"I heard some of them can make their bikes fly," put in Alec, who looked animated for once. He was almost
smiling.
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"Merely an old witches' tale," said Magnus, his cat's eyes glittering. "So is that why you wanted to crash my
party? Just to wreck some bloodsucker bikes?"
"No." Jace was all business again. "We need to talk to you. Preferably somewhere private."
Magnus raised an eyebrow.Damn, Clary thought,another one. "Am I in trouble with the Clave?"
"No," said Jace.
"Probably not," said Alec. "Ow!" He glared at Jace, who had kicked him sharply in the ankle.
"No," Jace repeated. "We can talk to you under the seal of the Covenant. If you help us, anything you say will
be confidential."
"And if I don't help you?"
Jace spread his hands wide. The rune tattoos on his palms stood out stark and black. "Maybe nothing. Maybe
a visit from the Silent City."
Magnus's voice was honey poured over shards of ice. "That's quite a choice you're offering me, little
Shadowhunter."
"It's no choice at all," said Jace.

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"Yes," said the warlock. "That's exactly what I meant."
Magnus's bedroom was a riot of color: canary-yellow sheets and bedspread draped over a mattress on the
floor, electric-blue vanity table strewn with more pots of paint and makeup than Isabelle's. Rainbow velvet
curtains hid the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a tangled wool rug covered the floor.
"Nice place," said Jace, drawing aside a heavy swag of curtain. "Guess it pays well, being the High Warlock
of Brooklyn?"
"It pays," Magnus said. "Not much of a benefit package, though. No dental." He shut the door behind him and
leaned against it. When he crossed his arms, his T-shirt rode up, showing a strip of flat golden stomach
unmarked by a navel."So," he said. "What's on your devious little minds?"
"It's not them, actually," Clary said, finding her voice before Jace could reply. "I'm the one who wanted to
talk to you."
Magnus turned his inhuman eyes on her. "You are not one of them," he said. "Not of the Clave. But you can
see the Invisible World."
"My mother was one of the Clave," Clary said. It was the first time she had said it out loud and known it to be
true. "But she never told me. She kept it a secret. I don't know why."
"So ask her."
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"I can't. She's ..." Clary hesitated. "She's gone."
"And your father?"
"He died before I was born."
Magnus exhaled irritably. "As Oscar Wilde once said, 'To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune.
To lose both looks like carelessness.'"
Clary heard Jace make a small hissing sound, like air being sucked through his teeth. She said, "I didn't lose
my mother. She was taken from me. By Valentine."
"I don't know any Valentine," said Magnus, but his eyes flickered like wavering candle flames, and Clary
knew he was lying. "I'm sorry for your tragic circumstances, but I fail to see what any of this has to do with
me. If you could tell me-"
"She can't tell you, because she doesn't remember," Jace said sharply. "Someone erased her memories. So we
went to the Silent City to see what the Brothers could pull out of her head. They got two words. I think you
can guess what they were."
There was a short silence. Finally, Magnus let his mouth turn up at the corner. His smile was bitter. "My
signature," he said. "I knew it was folly when I did it. An act of hubris ..."
"Yousigned my mind?" Clary said in disbelief.
Magnus raised his hand, tracing the fiery outlines of letters against the air. When he dropped his hand, they
hung there, hot and golden, making the painted lines of his eyes and mouth burn with reflected light, magnus
bane.
"I was proud of my work on you," he said slowly, looking at Clary. "So clean. So perfect. What you saw you
would forget, even as you saw it. No image of pixie or goblin or long-legged beastie would remain to trouble
your blameless mortal sleep. It was the way she wanted it."
Clary's voice was thin with tension. "The waywho wanted it?"
Magnus sighed, and at the touch of his breath, the fire-letters sifted away to glowing ash. Finally he
spoke-and though she was not surprised, though she had known exactly what he was going to say, still she felt
the words like a blow against her heart.
"Your mother," he said.
13
The Memory of Whiteness
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"Mymother did this to me?" Clary demanded, but
her surprised outrage didn't sound convincing, even to her own ears. Looking around, she saw pity in Jace's

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eyes, in Alec's-even Alec had guessed and felt sorry for her. "Why?"
"I don't know." Magnus spread his long white hands. "It's not my job to ask questions. I do what I get paid to
do."
"Within the bounds of the Covenant," Jace reminded him, his voice soft as cat's fur.
Magnus inclined his head. "Within the bounds of the Covenant, of course."
"So the Covenant's all right with this-this mind-rape?" Clary asked bitterly. When no one answered, she sank
down on the edge of Magnus's bed. "Was it only once? Was there something specific she wanted me to forget?
Do you know what it was?"
Magnus paced restlessly to the window. "I don't think you understand. The first time I ever saw you, you must
have been about two years old. I was watching out this window"-he tapped the glass, freeing a shower of dust
and paint chips- "and I saw her hurrying up the street, holding something wrapped in a blanket. I was surprised
when she stopped at my door. She lookedso ordinary, so young."
The moonlight touched his hawkish profile with silver. "She unwrapped the blanket when she came in my
door. You were inside it. She set you down on the floor and you started ranging around, picking things up,
pulling my cat's tail-you screamed like a banshee when the cat scratched you, so I asked your mother if
youwere part banshee. She didn't laugh." He paused. They were all watching him intently now, even Alec.
"She told me she was a Shadowhunter. There was no point in her lying about it; Covenant Marks show up,
even when they've faded with time, like faint silver scars against the skin. They flickered when she moved."
He rubbed at the glitter makeup around his eyes. "She told me she'd hoped you'd been born with a blind Inner
Eye-some Shadowhunters have to be taught to see the Shadow World. But she'd caught you that afternoon,
teasing a pixie trapped in a hedge. She knew you couldsee. So she asked me if it was possible to blind you of
the Sight."
Clary made a little noise, a pained exhalation of breath, but Magnus went on remorselessly.
"I told her that crippling that part of your mind might leave you damaged, possibly insane. She didn't cry. She
wasn't the sort of woman who weeps easily, your mother. She asked me if there was another way, and I told
her you could be made to forget those parts of the Shadow World that you could see, even as you saw them.
The only caveat was that she'd have to come to me every two years as the results of the spell began to fade."
"And did she?" asked Clary.
Magnus nodded. "I've seen you every two years since that first time-I've watched you grow up. You're the
only child I have ever watched grow up that way, you know. In my business one isn't generally that welcome
around human children."
"So you recognized Clary when we walked in," Jace said. "You must have."
"Of course I did." Magnus sounded exasperated. "And it was a shock, too. But what would you have done?
She didn't know me. She wasn't supposed to know me. Just the fact that she was here meant the
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spell had started to fade-and in fact, we were due for another visit about a month ago. I even came by your
house when I got back from Tanzania, but Jocelyn said that you two had had a fight and you'd run off. She
said she'd call on me when you came back, but"-an elegant shrug-"she never did."
A cold wash of memory prickled Clary's skin. She remembered standing in the foyer next to Simon, straining
to remember something that danced just at the edge of her vision ...I thought I saw Dorothea's cat, but it was
just a trick of the light.
But Dorothea didn't have a cat. "You were there, that day," Clary said. "I saw you coming out of Dorothea's
apartment. I remember your eyes."
Magnus looked as if he might purr. "I'm memorable, it's true," he gloated. Then he shook his head. "You
shouldn't remember me," he said. "I threw up a glamour as hard as a wall as soon as I saw you. You should
have run right into it face-first-psychically speaking."
If you run into a psychic wall face-first, do you wind up with psychic bruises?
Clary said, "If you take the spell off me, will I be able to remember all the things I've forgotten? All the
memories you stole?"
"I can't take it off you." Magnus looked uncomfortable.
"What?" Jace sounded furious. "Why not? The Clave requires you-"

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Magnus looked at him coldly. "I don't like being told what to do, little Shadowhunter."
Clary could see how much Jace disliked being referred to as "little," but before he could snap out a reply,
Alec spoke. His voice was soft, thoughtful. "Don't you know how to reverse it?" he asked. "The spell, I mean."
Magnus sighed. "Undoing a spell is a great deal more difficult than creating it in the first place. The intricacy
of this one, the care I put into weaving it-if I made even the smallest mistake in unraveling it, her mind could
be damaged forever. Besides," he added, "it's already begun to fade. The effects will vanish over time on their
own."
Clary looked at him sharply. "Will I get all my memories back then? Whatever was taken out of my head?"
"I don't know. They might come back all at once, or in stages. Or you might never remember what you've
forgotten over the years. What your mother asked me to do was unique, in my experience. I've no idea what
will happen."
"But I don't want to wait." Clary folded her hands tightly in her lap, her fingers clamped together so hard that
the tips turned white. "All my life I've felt like there was something wrong with me. Something missing or
damaged. Now I know-"
"I didn't damage you." It was Magnus's turn to interrupt, his lips curled back angrily to show sharp white
teeth. "Every teenager in the world feels like that, feels broken or out of place, different somehow, royalty
mistakenly born into a family of peasants. The difference in your case is that it's true. Youare different. Maybe
not better-but different. And it's no picnic being different. You want to know what it's like when your parents
are good churchgoing folk and you happen to be born with the devil's mark?" He pointed at his eyes, fingers
splayed. "When your father flinches at the sight of you and your mother hangs herself in
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the barn, driven mad by what she's done? When I was ten, my father tried to drown me in the creek. I lashed
out at him with everything I had-burned him where he stood. I went to the fathers of the church eventually, for
sanctuary. They hid me. They say that pity's a bitter thing, but it's better than hate. When I found out what I
was really, only half a human being, I hated myself. Anything's better than that."
There was silence when Magnus was done speaking. To Clary's surprise, it was Alec who broke it. "It wasn't
your fault," he said. "You can't help how you're born."
Magnus's expression was closed. "I'm over it," he said. "I think you get my point. Different isn't better,
Clarissa. Your mother was trying to protect you. Don't throw it back in her face."
Clary's hands relaxed their grip on each other. "I don't care if I'm different," she said. "I just want to be who I
really am."
Magnus swore, in a language she didn't know. It sounded like crackling flames. "All right. Listen. I can't undo
what I've done, but I can give you something else. A piece of what would have been yours if you'd been raised
a true child of the Nephilim." He stalked across the room to the bookcase and dragged down a heavy volume
bound in rotting green velvet. He flipped through the pages, shedding dust and bits of blackened cloth. The
pages were thin, almost translucent eggshell parchment, each marked with a stark black rune. Jace's eyebrows
went up.
"Is that a copy of the Gray Book?" Magnus, feverishly flipping pages, said nothing.
"Hodge has one," Alec observed. "He showed it to me once."
"It's not gray," Clary felt compelled to point out. "It's green."
"If there was such a thing as terminal literalism, you'd have died in childhood," said Jace, brushing dust off
the windowsill and eyeing it as if considering whether it was clean enough to sit on. "Gray is short for
'Gramarye.' It means 'magic, hidden wisdom.' In it is copied every rune the Angel Raziel wrote in the original
Book of the Covenant. There aren't many copies because each one has to be specially made. Some of the runes
are so powerful they'd burn through regular pages."
Alec looked impressed. "I didn't know all that."
Jace hopped up on the windowsill and swung his legs. "Not all of us sleep through history lessons."
"I do not-"
"Oh, yes you do, and drool on the desk besides."
"Shut up," said Magnus, but he said it quite mildly. He hooked his finger between two pages of the book and
came over to Clary, setting it carefully in her lap. "Now, when I open the book, I want you to study the page.

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Look at it until you feel something change inside your mind."
"Will it hurt?" Clary asked nervously.
"All knowledge hurts," he replied, and stood up, letting the book fall open in her lap. Clary stared down at the
clean white page with the black rune Mark spilled across it. It looked something like a winged spiral, until she
tilted her head, and then it seemed like a staff wound around with vines. The mutable corners of the pattern
tickled her mind like feathers brushed against sensitive skin. She felt the shivery
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flicker of reaction, making her want to close her eyes, but she held them open until they stung and
blurred. She was about to blink when she felt it: a click inside her head, like a key turning in a lock.
The rune on the page seemed to spring into sharp focus, and she thought, involuntarily,Remember. If the rune
were a word, it would have been that one, but there was more meaning to it than any word she could imagine.
It was a child's first memory of light falling through crib bars, the recollected scent of rain and city streets, the
pain of unforgotten loss, the sting of remembered humiliation, and the cruel forgetfulness of old age, when the
most ancient of memories stand out with agonizingly clear precision and the nearest of incidents are lost
beyond recall.
With a little sigh she turned to the next page, and the next, letting the images and sensations flow over
her.Sorrow. Thought. Strength. Protection. Grace -and then cried out in reproachful surprise as Magnus
snatched the book off her lap.
"That's enough," he said, sliding it back onto its shelf. He dusted his hands off on his colorful pants, leaving
streaks of gray. "If you read all the runes at once, you'll give yourself a headache."
"But-"
"Most Shadowhunter children grow up learning one rune at a time over a period of years," said Jace. "The
Gray Book contains runes even I don't know."
"Imagine that," said Magnus.
Jace ignored him. "Magnus showed you the rune for understanding and remembrance. It opens your mind up
to reading and recognizing the rest of the Marks."
"It also may serve as a trigger to activate dormant memories," said Magnus. "They could return to you
more quickly than they would otherwise. It's the best I can do."
Clary looked down at her lap. "I still don't remember anything about the Mortal Cup."
"Isthat what this is about?" Magnus sounded actually astonished. "You're after the Angel's Cup? Look,
I've been through your memories. There was nothing in them about the Mortal Instruments."
"Mortal Instruments?" Clary echoed, bewildered. "I thought-"
"The Angel gave three items to the first Shadowhunters. A cup, a sword, and a mirror. The Silent
Brothers have the sword; the cup and the mirror were in Idris, at least until Valentine came along."
"Nobody knows where the mirror is," said Alec. "Nobody's known for ages."
"It's the Cup that concerns us," said Jace. "Valentine's looking for it."
"And you want to get to it before he does?" Magnus asked, his eyebrows winging upward.
"I thought you said you didn't know who Valentine was?" Clary pointed out.
"I lied," Magnus admitted candidly. "I'm not one of the fey, you know. I'm not required to be truthful.
And only a fool would get between Valentine and his revenge."
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"Is that what you think he's after? Revenge?" said Jace.
"I would guess so. He suffered a grave defeat, and he hardly seemed-seems-the type of man to suffer
defeat gracefully."
Alec looked harder at Magnus. "Were you at the Uprising?"
Magnus's eyes locked with Alec's. "I was. I killed a number of your folk."
"Circle members," said Jace quickly. "Not ours-"
"If you insist on disavowing that which is ugly about what you do," said Magnus, still looking at Alec,
"you will never learn from your mistakes." Alec, plucking at the coverlet with one hand, flushed an unhappy
red. "You don't seem surprised to hear
that Valentine's still alive," he said, avoiding Magnus's gaze.

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Magnus spread his hands wide. "Are you?"
Jace opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked actually baffled. Eventually, he said, "So you
won't help us find the Mortal Cup?" "I wouldn't if I could," said Magnus, "which, by the way, I can't. I've no
idea where it is, and I don't care
to know. Only a fool, as I said."
Alec sat up straighter. "But without the Cup, we can't-"
"Make more of you. I know," said Magnus. "Perhaps not everyone regards that as quite the disaster that you
do. Mind you," he added, "if I had to choose between the Clave and Valentine, I would choose the Clave. At
least they're not actually sworn to wipe out my kind. But nothing the Clave has done has earned my
unswerving loyalty either. So no, I'll sit this one out. Now if we're done here, I'd like to get back to my party
before any of the guests eat each other."
Jace, who was clenching and unclenching his hands, looked like he was about to say something furious, but
Alec, standing up, put a hand on his shoulder. Clary couldn't quite tell in the dimness, but it looked as if Alec
was squeezing rather hard. "Is that likely?" he asked.
Magnus was looking at him with some amusement. "It's happened before."
Jace muttered something to Alec, who let go. Detaching himself, he came over to Clary. "Are you all right?"
he asked in a low voice.
"I think so. I don't feel any different..."
Magnus, standing by the door, snapped his fingers impatiently. "Move it along, teenagers. The only
person who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self."
"Canoodle?" repeated Clary, never having heard the word before.
"Magnificent?" repeated Jace, who was just being nasty. Magnus growled. The growl sounded like "Get
out."
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They got, Magnus trailing behind them as he paused to lock the bedroom door. The tenor of the party seemed
subtly different to Clary. Perhaps it was just her slightly altered vision: Everything seemed clearer, crystalline
edges sharply defined. She watched a group of musicians take the small stage at the center of the room. They
wore flowing garments in deep colors of gold, purple, and green, and their high voices were sharp and
ethereal.
"I hate faerie bands," Magnus muttered as the musicians segued into another haunting song, the melody as
delicate and translucent as rock crystal. "All they ever play is mopey ballads."
Jace, glancing around the room, laughed. "Where's Isabelle?"
A rush of guilty concern hit Clary. She'd forgotten about Simon. She spun around, looking for the familiar
skinny shoulders and shock of dark hair. "I don't see him. Them, I mean."
"There she is." Alec spotted his sister and waved her over, looking relieved. "Over here. And watch out
for the phouka."
"Watch out for the phouka?" Jace repeated, glancing toward a thin brown-skinned man in a green paisley vest
who eyed Isabelle thoughtfully as she walked by.
"He pinched me when I passed him earlier," Alec said stiffly. "In a highly personal area."
"I hate to break it to you, but if he's interested in your highly personal areas, he probably isn't interested in
your sister's."
"Not necessarily," said Magnus. "Faeries aren't particular."
Jace curled his lip scornfully in the warlock's direction. "You still here?"
Before Magnus could reply, Isabelle was on top of them, looking pink-faced and blotchy and smelling
strongly of alcohol. "Jace! Alec! Where have you been? I've been looking all over-"
"Where's Simon?" Clary interrupted.
Isabelle wobbled. "He's a rat," she said darkly.
"Did he do something to you?" Alec was full of brotherly concern. "Did he touch you? If he tried
anything-"
"No, Alec," Isabelle said irritably. "Not like that. He's arat."
"She's drunk," said Jace, beginning to turn away in disgust.

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"I'm not," Isabelle said indignantly. "Well, maybe a little, but that's not the point. The point is, Simon
drank one of those blue drinks-I told him not to, but he didn't listen-and heturned into a rat."
"Arat?" Clary repeated incredulously. "You don't mean..."
"I mean a rat," Isabelle said. "Little. Brown. Scaly tail."
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"The Clave isn't going to like this," said Alec dubiously. "I'm pretty sure turning mundanes into rats is against
the Law."
"Technically she didn't turn him into a rat," Jace pointed out. "The worst she could be accused of is
negligence."
"Whocares about the stupid Law?" Clary screamed, grabbing hold of Isabelle's wrist. "My best friend is a
rat!"
"Ouch!" Isabelle tried to pull her wrist back. "Let go of me!"
"Not until you tell me where he is." She'd never wanted to smack anyone as much as she wanted to smack
Isabelle right at that moment. "I can't believe you just left him-he's probably terrified-"
"If he hasn't been stepped on," Jace pointed out unhelpfully.
"I didn't leave him. He ran under the bar," Isabelle protested, pointing. "Let go! You're denting my bracelet."
"Bitch," Clary said savagely, and flung a surprised-looking Isabelle's hand back at her, hard. She didn't stop
for a reaction; she was running toward the bar. Dropping to her knees, she peered into the dark space under it.
In the moldy-smelling gloom, she thought she could just detect a pair of glinting, beady eyes.
"Simon?" she said, her voice choked. "Is that you?"
Simon-the-rat crept forward slightly, his whiskers trembling. She could see the shape of his small rounded
ears, flat against his head, and the sharp point of his nose. She fought down a feeling of revulsion-she'd never
liked rats, with their yellowy squared-off teeth all ready to bite. She wished he'd been turned into a hamster.
"It's me, Clary," she said slowly. "Are you okay?"
Jace and the others arrived behind her, Isabelle looking more annoyed now than tearful. "Is he under there?"
Jace asked curiously.
Clary, still on her hands and knees, nodded. "Shh. You'll frighten him off." She pushed her fingers gingerly
under the edge of the bar, and wiggled them. "Please come out, Simon. We'll get Magnus to reverse the spell.
It'll be okay."
She heard a squeak, and the rat's pink nose poked out from beneath the bar. With an exclamation of relief,
Clary seized the rat in her hands. "Simon! You understood me!"
The rat, huddled in the hollow of her palms, squeaked glumly. Delighted, she hugged him to her chest. "Oh,
poor baby," she crooned, almost as if he really were a pet. "Poor Simon, it'll be fine, I promise-"
"I wouldn't feel too sorry for him," Jace said. "That's probably the closest he's ever gotten to second base."
"Shut up!" Clary glared at Jace furiously, but she did loosen her grip on the rat. His whiskers were trembling,
whether in anger or agitation or simple terror, she couldn't tell. "Get Magnus," she said sharply.
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"We have to turn him back."
"Let's not be hasty." Jace was actually grinning, the bastard. He reached toward Simon as if he meant to pet
him. "He's cute like that. Look at his little pink nose."
Simon bared long yellow teeth at Jace and made a snapping motion. Jace pulled his outstretched hand back.
"Izzy, go fetch our magnificent host."
"Why me?" Isabelle looked petulant.
"Because it's your fault the mundane's a rat, idiot," he said, and Clary was struck by how rarely any of
them, other than Isabelle, ever said Simon's actual name. "And we can't leave him here."
"You'd be happy to leave him if it weren't forher," Isabelle said, managing to inject the single syllable word
with enough venom to poison an elephant. She stalked off, her skirt flouncing around her hips.
"I can't believe she let you drink that blue drink," Clary said to rat-Simon. "Now you see what you get for
being so shallow."
Simon squeaked irritably. Clary heard someone chuckle and glanced up to see Magnus leaning over her.
Isabelle stood behind him, her expression furious."Rattus norvegicus," said Magnus, peering at Simon.

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"A common brown rat, nothing exotic."
"I don't care what kind of rat he is," Clary said crossly. "I want him turned back."
Magnus scratched his head thoughtfully, shedding glitter. "No point," he said.
"That's what I said." Jace looked pleased.
"NO POINT?" Clary shouted, so loudly that Simon hid his head under her thumb. "HOW CAN YOU
SAY THERE'S NO POINT?"
"Because he'll turn back on his own in a few hours," said Magnus. "The effect of the cocktails is temporary.
No point working up a transformation spell; it'll just traumatize him. Too much magic is hard on mundanes,
their systems aren't used to it."
"I doubt his system is used to being a rat, either," Clary pointed out. "You're a warlock, can't you just
reverse the spell?"
Magnus considered. "No," he said.
"You mean you won't."
"Not for free, darling, and you can't afford me."
"I can't take a rat home on the subway either," Clary said plaintively. "I'll drop him, or one of the MTA
police will arrest me for transporting pests on the transit system." Simon chirped his annoyance. "Not that
you're a pest, of course."
A girl who had been shouting by the door was now joined by six or seven others. The sound of angry voices
rose above the hum of the party and the strains of the music. Magnus rolled his eyes. "Excuse me,"
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he said, backing into the crowd, which closed behind him instantly.
Isabelle, wobbling on her sandals, expelled a gusty sigh. "So much forhis help."
"You know," Alec said, "you could always put the rat in your backpack."
Clary looked at him hard, but couldn't find anything wrong with the idea. It wasn't as if she had a pocket she
could have tucked him in. Isabelle's clothes didn't allow for pockets; they were too tight. Clary was amazed
they allowed for Isabelle.
Shrugging off her pack, she found a hiding place for the small brown rat that had once been Simon, nestled
between her rolled-up sweater and her sketchpad. He curled up atop her wallet, looking reproachful. "I'm
sorry," she said miserably.
"Don't bother," Jace said. "Why mundanes always insist on taking responsibility for things that aren't their
fault is a mystery to me. You didn't force that cocktail down his idiotic throat."
"If it weren't for me, he wouldn't have been here at all," Clary said in a small voice.
"Don't flatter yourself. He came because of Isabelle."
Angrily Clary jerked the top of the bag closed and stood up. "Let's get out of here. I'm sick of this place."
The tight knot of shouting people by the door turned out to be more vampires, easily recognizable by the
pallor of their skin and the dead blackness of their hair.They must dye it, Clary thought, they couldn't possibly
all be naturally dark-haired, and besides, some of them had blond eyebrows. They were loudly complaining
about their vandalized motorbikes and the fact that some of their friends were missing and unaccounted for.
"They're probably drunk and passed out somewhere," Magnus said, waving long white fingers in a bored
manner. "You know how you lot tend to turn into bats and piles of dust when you've downed a few too many
Bloody Marys."
"They mix their vodka with real blood," Jace said in Clary's ear.
The pressure of his breath made her shiver. "Yes, I got that, thanks."
"We can't go around picking up every pile of dust in the place just in case it turns out to be Gregor in the
morning," said a girl with a sulky mouth and painted-on eyebrows.
"Gregor will be fine. I rarely sweep," soothed Magnus. "I'm happy to send any stragglers back to the hotel
come tomorrow-in a car with blacked-out windows, of course."
"But what about our motorbikes?" said a thin boy whose blond roots showed under his bad dye job. A gold
earring in the shape of a stake hung from his left earlobe. "It'll take hours to fix them."
"You've got until sunrise," said Magnus, temper visibly fraying. "I suggest you get started." He raised his
voice. "All right, that's IT! Party's over! Everybody out!" He waved his arms, shedding glitter.

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With a single loud twang the band ceased playing. A drone of loud complaint rose from the partygoers, but
they moved obediently toward the doorway. None of them stopped to thank Magnus for the party.
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"Come on." Jace pushed Clary toward the exit. The crowd was dense. She held her backpack in front of her,
hands wrapped protectively around it. Someone bumped her shoulder, hard, and she yelped and moved
sideways, away from Jace. A hand brushed her backpack. She looked up and saw the vampire with the stake
earring grinning at her. "Hey, pretty thing," he said. "What's in the bag?"
"Holy water," said Jace, reappearing beside her as if he'd been conjured up like a genie. A sarcastic blond
genie with a bad attitude.
"Oooh, aShadowhunter," said the vampire. "Scary." With a wink he melted back into the crowd.
"Vampires aresuch prima donnas," Magnus sighed from the doorway. "Honestly, I don't know why I have
these parties."
"Because of your cat," Clary reminded him.
Magnus perked up. "That's true. Chairman Meow deserves my every effort." He glanced at her and the tight
knot of Shadowhunters just behind her. "You on your way out?"
Jace nodded. "Don't want to overstay our welcome."
"What welcome?" Magnus asked. "I'd say it was a pleasure to meet you, but it wasn't. Not that you aren't all
fairly charming, and as for you-" He dropped a glittery wink at Alec, who looked astounded. "Call me?"
Alec blushed and stuttered and probably would have stood there all night if Jace hadn't grasped his elbow and
hauled him toward the door, Isabelle at their heels. Clary was about to follow when she felt a light tap on her
arm; it was Magnus. "I have a message for you," he said. "From your mother."
Clary wasso surprised she nearly dropped the pack. "From my mother? You mean, she asked you to tell me
something?"
"Not exactly," Magnus said. His feline eyes, slit by their single vertical pupils like fissures in a green-gold
wall, were serious for once. "But I knew her in a way that you didn't. She did what she did to keep you out of a
world that she hated. Her whole existence, the running, the hiding-the lies, as you called them-were to keep
you safe. Don't waste her sacrifices by risking your life. She wouldn't want that."
"She wouldn't want me to save her?"
"Not if it meant putting yourself in danger."
"But I'm the only person who cares what happens to her-"
"No," Magnus said. "You aren't."
Clary blinked. "I don't understand. Is there-Magnus, if you know something-"
He cut her off with brutal precision. "And one last thing." His eyes flicked toward the door, through which
Jace, Alec, and Isabelle had disappeared. "Keep in mind that when your mother fled from the Shadow World,
it wasn't the monsters she was hiding from. Not the warlocks, the wolf-men, the Fair Folk, not even the
demons themselves. It wasthem. It was the Shadowhunters."
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They were waiting for her outside the warehouse. Jace, hands in pockets, was leaning against the stairway
railing and watching as the vampires stalked around their broken motorcycles, cursing and swearing. He had a
faint smile on his face. Alec and Isabelle stood a little way off. Isabelle was wiping at her eyes, and Clary felt
a wave of irrational anger-Isabelle barely knew Simon. This wasn'ther disaster. Clary was the one who had the
right to be carrying on, not the Shadowhunter girl.
Jace unhitched himself from the railing as Clary emerged. He fell into step beside her, not speaking. He
seemed lost in thought. Isabelle and Alec, hurrying ahead, sounded like they were arguing with each other.
Clary stepped up her pace a little, craning her neck to hear them better.
"It's not your fault," Alec was saying. He sounded weary, as if he'd been through this sort of thing with his
sister before. Clary wondered how many boyfriends she'd turned into rats by accident. "But it ought to teach
you not to go to so many Downworld parties," he added. "They're always more trouble than they're worth."
Isabelle sniffed loudly. "If anything had happened to him, I-I don't know what I would have done."
"Probably whatever it is you did before," said Alec in a bored voice. "It's not like you knew him all that well."
"That doesn't mean that I don't-"

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"What? Love him?" Alec scoffed, raising his voice. "You need toknow someone to love them."
"But that's not all it is." Isabelle sounded almost sad. "Didn't you have any fun at the party, Alec?"
"No."
"I thought you might like Magnus. He's nice, isn't he?"
"Nice?" Alec looked at her as if she were insane. "Kittens are nice. Warlocks are-" He hesitated. "Not," he
finished, lamely.
"I thought you might hit it off." Isabelle's eye makeup glittered as bright as tears as she glanced over at her
brother. "Get to be friends."
"I have friends," Alec said, and looked over his shoulder, almost as if he couldn't help it, at Jace.
But Jace, his golden head down, lost in thought, didn't notice.
On impulse Clary reached to open the pack and glance into it-and frowned. The pack was open. She flashed
back to the party-she'd lifted the pack, pulled the zipper closed. She was sure of it. She yanked the bag open,
her heart pounding.
She remembered the time she'd had her wallet stolen on the subway. She remembered opening her bag, not
seeing it there, her mouth drying up in surprise-Did I drop it? Have I lost it?And realizing:It's gone. This was
like that, only a thousand times worse. Mouth dry as bone, Clary pawed through the pack, shoving aside
clothes and sketchpad, her fingernails gathering grit. Nothing.
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She'd stopped walking. Jace was hovering just ahead of her, looking impatient, Alec and Isabelle already a
block ahead. "What's wrong?" Jace asked, and she could tell he was about to add something sarcastic. He must
have seen the look on her face, though, because he didn't. "Clary?"
"He's gone," she whispered. "Simon. He was in my backpack-"
"Did he climb out?"
It wasn't an unreasonable question, but Clary, exhausted and panic-stricken, reacted unreasonably."Of
course he didn't!" she screamed. "What, you think he wants to get smashed under someone's car, killed by a
cat-"
"Clary-"
"Shut up!" she screamed, swinging the pack at him. "You were the one who said not to bother changing
him back-"
Deftly he caught the pack as she swung it. Taking it out of her hand, he examined it. "The zipper's torn," he
said. "From the outside. Someone ripped this bag open."
Shaking her head numbly, Clary could only whisper, "I didn't..."
"I know." His voice was gentle. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Alec! Isabelle! You go on
ahead! We'll catch up."
The two figures, already far ahead, paused; Alec hesitated, but his sister caught hold of his arm and pushed
him firmly toward the subway entrance. Something pressed against Clary's back: It was Jace's hand, turning
her gently around. She let him lead her forward, stumbling over the cracks in the sidewalk, until they were
back in the entryway of Magnus's building. The stench of stale alcohol and the sweet, uncanny smell Clary
had come to associate with Downworlders filled the tiny space. Taking his hand away from her back, Jace
pressed the buzzer over Magnus's name.
"Jace," she said.
He looked down at her. "What?"
She searched for words. "Do you think he's all right?"
"Simon?" He hesitated then, and she thought of Isabelle's words:Don't ask him a question unless you
know you can stand the answer. Instead of saying anything, he pressed the buzzer again, harder this
time. This time Magnus answered it, his voice booming through the tiny entryway. "WHO DARES DISTURB

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MY REST?"
Jace looked almost nervous. "Jace Wayland. Remember? I'm from the Clave."
"Oh, yes." Magnus seemed to have perked up. "Are you the one with the blue eyes?"
"He means Alec," Clary said helpfully.
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"No. My eyes are usually described as golden," Jace told the intercom. "And luminous."
"Oh, you'rethat one." Magnus sounded disappointed. If Clary hadn't been so upset, she would have
laughed. "I suppose you'd better come up."
The warlock answered his door wearing a silk kimono printed with dragons, a gold turban, and an
expression of barely controlled annoyance.
"I was sleeping," he said loftily.
Jace looked as if he were about to say something rude, possibly about the turban, so Clary interrupted
him. "Sorry to bother you-"
Something small and white peered around the warlock's ankles. It had zigzag gray stripes and tufted pink ears
that made it look more like a large mouse than a small cat. "Chairman Meow?" Clary guessed. Magnus
nodded. "He has returned." Jace regarded the small tabby kitten with some scorn. "That's not a cat," he
observed. "It's the size of a
hamster." "I am kindly going to forget you said that," said Magnus, using his foot to nudge Chairman Meow
behind
him. "Now, exactly what did you come here for?" Clary held out the torn pack. "It's Simon. He's missing."
"Ah," said Magnus, delicately, "missing what, exactly?"
"Missing,"
Jace repeated, "as in gone, absent, notable for his lack of presence, disappeared."
"Maybe he's gone and hidden under something," Magnus suggested. "It can't be easy getting used to
being a rat, especially for someone so dim-witted in the first place."
"Simon's not dim-witted," Clary protested angrily.
"It's true," Jace agreed. "He justlooks dim-witted. Really his intelligence is quite average." His tone was
light but his shoulders were tense as he turned to Magnus. "When we were leaving, one of your guests brushed
up against Clary. I think he tore her bag open and took the rat. Simon, I mean."
Magnus looked at him. "And?"
"And I need to find out who it was," said Jace steadily. "I'm guessing you know. Youare the High
Warlock of Brooklyn. I'm thinking not much happens in your own apartment that you don't know about."
Magnus inspected a glittery nail. "You're not wrong."
"Please tell us," Clary said. Jace's hand tightened on her wrist. She knew he wanted her to be quiet, but
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that was impossible. "Please."
Magnus dropped his hand with a sigh. "Fine. I saw one of the vampire bike kids from the uptown lair
leave with a brown rat in his hands. Honestly, I figured it was one of their own. Sometimes the Night
Children turn into rats or bats when they get drunk."
Clary's hands were shaking. "But now you think it wasSimon?"
"It's just a guess, but it seems likely."
"There's one more thing." Jace spoke calmly enough, but he was on alert now, the way he had been in

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the apartment before they'd found the Forsaken. "Where's their lair?"
"Their what?"
"The vampires' lair. That's where they went, isn't it?"
"I would imagine so." Magnus looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else.
"I need you to tell me where it is."
Magnus shook his turbaned head. "I'm not setting myself on the bad side of the Night Children for a
mundane I don't even know."
"Wait," Clary interrupted. "What would they want with Simon? I thought they weren't allowed to hurt
people..."
"My guess?" said Magnus, not unkindly. "They assumed he was a tame rat and thought it would be funny
to kill a Shadowhunter's pet. They don't like you much, whatever the Accords might say-and there's nothing in
the Covenant about not killing animals." "They're going to kill him?" Clary said, staring. "Not necessarily,"
said Magnus hastily. "They might have thought he was one of their own." "In which case, what'll happen to
him?" Clary said. "Well, when he turns back into a human, they'llstill kill him. But you might have a few more
hours."
"Then you have to help us," Clary said to the warlock. "Otherwise Simon will die."
Magnus looked her up and down with a sort of clinical sympathy. "They all die, dear," he said. "You
might as well get used to it."
He began to shut the door. Jace stuck out a foot, wedging it open. Magnus sighed. "What now?"
"You still haven't told us where the lair is," Jace said.
"And I'm not going to. I told you-"
It was Clary who cut him off, pushing herself in front of Jace. "You messed with my brain," she said.
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"Took my memories. Can't you do this one thing for me?" Magnus narrowed his gleaming cat's eyes.
Somewhere in the distance Chairman Meow was crying. Slowly the warlock lowered his head and struck it
once, none too gently, against the wall. "The old Hotel
Dumont," he said. "Uptown." "I know where that is." Jace looked pleased. "We need to get there right away.
Do you have a Portal?" Clary demanded, addressing Magnus. "No." He looked annoyed. "Portals are quite
difficult to construct and pose no small risk to their owner.
Nasty things can come through them if they're not warded properly. The only ones I know of in New York are
the one at Dorothea's and the one at Renwick's, but they're both too far away to be worth the bother of trying
to get there, even if you were sure their owners would let you use them, which they probably wouldn't. Got
that? Now go away." Magnus stared pointedly at Jace's foot, still blocking the door. Jace didn't move.
"One more thing," Jace said. "Is there a holy place around here?"
"Good idea. If you're going to take on a lair of vampires by yourself, you'd better pray first."
"We need weapons," Jace said tersely. "More than what we've got on us."
Magnus pointed. "There's a Catholic church down on Diamond Street. Will that do?"
Jace nodded, stepping back. "That's-"
The door slammed in their faces. Clary, breathing as if she'd been running, stared at it until Jace took her
arm and steered her down the steps and into the night.
14

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The Hotel Dumort
At night the Diamond Street church looked spectral, its Gothic
arched windows reflecting the moonlight like silvery mirrors. A wrought iron fence surrounded the building
and was painted a matte black. Clary rattled the front gate, but a sturdy padlock held it closed. "It's locked,"
she said, glancing at Jace over her shoulder.
He brandished his stele. "Let me at it."
She watched him as he worked at the lock, watched the lean curve of his back, the swell of muscles under the
short sleeves of his T-shirt. The moonlight washed the color out of his hair, turning it more silver
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than gold.
The padlock hit the ground with a clang, a twisted lump of metal. Jace looked pleased with himself. "As
usual," he said, "I'm amazingly good at that."
Clary felt suddenly annoyed. "When the self-congratulatory part of the evening is over, maybe we could get
back to saving my best friend from being exsanguinated to death?"
"Exsanguinated," said Jace, impressed. "That's a big word."
"And you're a big-"
"Tsk tsk," he interrupted. "No swearing in church."
"We're notin the church yet," Clary muttered, following him up the stone path to the double front doors. The
stone arch above the doors was beautifully carved, an angel looking down from its highest point. Sharply
pointed spires were silhouetted black against the night sky, and Clary realized that this was the church she had
glimpsed earlier that night from McCarren Park. She bit her lip. "It seems wrong to pick the lock on a church
door, somehow."
Jace's profile in the moonlight was serene. "We're not going to," he said, sliding his stele into his pocket. He
placed a thin brown hand, marked all over with delicate white scars like a veiling of lace, against the wood of
the door, just above the latch. "In the name of the Clave," he said, "I ask entry to this holy place. In the name
of the Battle That Never Ends, I ask the use of your weapons. And in the name of the Angel Raziel, I ask your
blessings on my mission against the darkness." Clary stared at him. He didn't move, though the night wind
blew his hair into his eyes; he blinked, and just as she was about to speak, the door opened with a click and a
creak of hinges. It swung inward smoothly before them, opening onto a cool dark empty space, lit by points of
fire. Jace stepped back. "After you."
When Clary stepped inside, a wave of cool air enveloped her, along with the smell of stone and candle wax.
Dim rows of pews stretched toward the altar, and a bank of candles glowed like a bed of sparks against the far
wall. She realized that, apart from the Institute, which didn't really count, she'd never actually been inside a
church before. She'd seen pictures, and seen the insides of churches in movies and in anime shows, where they
turned up regularly. A scene in one of her favorite anime series took place in a church with a monstrous
vampire priest. You were supposed to feel safe inside a church, but she didn't. Strange shapes seemed to loom
up at her out of the shadows. She shivered.
"The stone walls keep out the heat," said Jace, noticing.
"It's not that," she said. "You know, I've never been in a church before."
"You've been in the Institute."
"I mean in a real church. For services. That sort of thing."
"Really. Well, this is the nave, where the pews are. It's where people sit during services." They moved
forward, their voices echoing off the stone walls. "Up here is the apse. That's where we're standing. And this is
the altar, where the priest performs the Eucharist. It's always at the east side of the church." He knelt down in
front of the altar, and she thought for a moment that he was praying. The altar itself was high, made of a dark
granite, and draped with a red cloth. Behind it loomed an ornate gold screen, etched with the figures of saints
and martyrs, each with a flat gold disk behind his head representing a
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halo.
"Jace," she whispered. "What are you doing?"

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He had placed his hands on the stone floor and was moving them back and forth rapidly, as if searching for
something, his fingertips stirring up dust. "Looking for weapons."
"Here?"
"They'd be hidden, usually around the altar. Kept for our use in case of emergencies."
"And this is what, some kind of deal you have with the Catholic Church?"
"Not specifically. Demons have been on Earth as long as we have. They're all over the world, in their
different forms-Greek daemons, Persiandaevas, Hinduasuras, Japaneseoni. Most belief systems have some
method of incorporating both their existence and the fight against them. Shadowhunters cleave to no single
religion, and in turn all religions assist us in our battle. I could as easily have gone for help to a Jewish
synagogue or a Shinto temple, or-Ah. Here it is." He brushed dust aside as she knelt down beside him. Carved
into one of the octagonal stones before the altar was a rune. Clary recognized it, almost as easily as if she were
reading a word in English. It was the rune that meant "Nephilim."
Jace took out his stele and touched it to the stone. With a grinding noise it moved back, revealing a dark
compartment underneath. Inside the compartment was a long wooden box; Jace lifted the lid, and regarded the
neatly arranged objects inside with satisfaction.
"What are all these?" Clary asked.
"Vials of holy water, blessed knives, steel and silver blades," Jace said, piling the weapons on the floor beside
him, "electrum wire-not much use at the moment, but it's always good to have spare-silver bullets, charms of
protection, crucifixes, stars of David-"
"Jesus," said Clary.
"I doubt he'd fit."
"Jace."
Clary was appalled. "What?"
"I don't know, it seems wrong to make jokes like that in a church."
He shrugged. "I'm not really a believer."
Clary looked at him in surprise. "You're not?"
He shook his head. Hair fell over his face, but he was examining a vial of clear liquid and didn't reach up to
push it back. Clary's fingers itched with the desire to do it for him. "You thought I was religious?" he said.
"Well." She hesitated. "If there are demons, then there must be..."
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"Must be what?" Jace slid the vial into his pocket. "Ah," he said. "You mean if there's this"-and he pointed
down, toward the floor-"there must be this." He pointed up, toward the ceiling.
"It stands to reason. Doesn't it?"
Jace lowered his hand and picked up a blade, examining the hilt. "I'll tell you," he said. "I've been killing
demons for a third of my life. I must have sent five hundred of them back to whatever hellish dimension they
crawled out of. And in all that time-inall that time-I've never seen an angel. Never even heard of anyone who
has."
"But it was an angel who created Shadowhunters in the first place," Clary said. "That's what Hodge said."
"It makes a nice story." Jace looked at her through eyes slitted like a cat's. "My father believed in God," he
said. "I don't."
"At all?" She wasn't sure why she was needling him-she'd never given any thought to whether she believed in
God and angels and so forth herself, and if asked, would have said she didn't. There was something about Jace,
though, that made her want to push him, crack that shell of cynicism and make him admit he believed
insomething, felt something, cared about anything at all.
"Let me put it this way," he said, sliding a pair of knives into his belt. The faint light that filtered through the
stained-glass windows threw squares of color across his face. "My father believed in a righteous God.Deus
volt, that was his motto- 'because God wills it.' It was the Crusaders' motto, and they went out to battle and
were slaughtered, just like my father. And when I saw him lying dead in a pool of his own blood, I knew then
that I hadn't stopped believing in God. I'd just stopped believing God cared. There might be a God, Clary, and
there might not, but I don't think it matters. Either way, we're on our own."
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about Simon. Every once in a while Jace would look over at her as if he were about to say something, before
lapsing back into an uncharacteristic silence.
When they climbed out of the subway, the streets were deserted, the air heavy and metal-tasting, the bodegas
and Laundromats and check-cashing centers silent behind their nighttime doors of corrugated steel. They
found the hotel, finally, after an hour of looking, on a side street off 116th. They'd walked past it twice,
thinking it was just another abandoned apartment building, before Clary saw the sign. It had come loose from
a nail and it dangled hidden behind a stunted tree, hotel dumont, it should have said, but someone had painted
out the N and replaced it with anR.
"Hotel Dumort," Jace said when she pointed it out to him. "Cute."
Clary had only had two years of French, but it was enough to get the joke."Du mort," she said. "Of death."
Jace nodded. He had gone alert all over, like a cat whosees a mouse whisking behind a sofa.
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"But it can't be the hotel," Clary said. "The windows are all boarded up, and the door's been bricked over-Oh,"
she finished, catching his look. "Right. Vampires. But how do they get inside?"
"They fly," Jace said, and indicated the upper floors of the building. It had once, clearly, been a graceful and
luxurious hotel. The stone façade was elegantly decorated with carved curlicues and fleur-de-lis, dark and
eroded from years of exposure to polluted air and acid rain.
"We don't fly," Clary felt impelled to point out.
"No," Jace agreed. "We don't fly. We break and enter." He started across the street toward the hotel.
"Flying sounds like more fun," Clary said, hurrying to catch up with him.
"Right now everything sounds like more fun." She wondered if he meant it. There was an excitement about
him, an anticipation of the hunt that didn't look to her as if he were as unhappy as he claimed.He's killed more
demons than anyone else his age. You didn't kill that many demons by hanging back reluctantly from a fight.
A hot wind had come up, stirring the leaves on the stunted trees outside the hotel, sending the trash in the
gutters and on the sidewalk skittering across the cracked pavement. The area was oddly deserted, Clary
thought-usually, in Manhattan, there was always someone else on the street, even at four in the morning.
Several of the streetlights lining the sidewalk were out, though the one closest to the hotel cast a dim yellow
glow across the cracked pathway that led up to what had once been the front door.
"Stay out of the light," Jace said, pulling her toward him by her sleeve. "They might be watching from the
windows. And don't look up," he added, but it was too late. Clary had already glanced up at the shattered
windows of the higher floors. For a moment she half-thought she glimpsed a flicker of movement at one of the
windows, a flash of whiteness that could have been a face, or a hand drawing back a heavy drapeÂ"
Comeon." Jace drew her with him to melt into the shadows closer to the hotel. She felt her heightened
nervousness in her spine, in the pulse in her wrists, in the hard beat of blood in her ears. The faint drone of
distant cars seemed very far away, the only sound the crunch of her own shoes on the garbage-strewn
pavement. She wished she could walk soundlessly, like a Shadowhunter. Maybe someday she'd ask Jace to
teach her.
They slipped around the corner of the hotel into an alley that had probably once been a service lane for
deliveries. It was narrow, choked with garbage: moldy cardboard boxes, empty glass bottles, shredded plastic,
scattered things that Clary thought at first were toothpicks, but up close looked likeÂ"
Bones," Jace said flatly. "Dog bones, cat bones. Don't look too closely; going through vampires' trash is
rarely a pretty picture."
She swallowed down her nausea. "Well," she said, "at least we know we're in the right place," and was
rewarded by the glint of respect that showed, briefly, in Jace's eyes.
"Oh, we're in the right place," he said. "Now we just have to figure out how to get inside."
There had clearly been windows here once, now bricked up. There was no door and no sign of a fire escape.
"When this was a hotel," Jace said slowly, "they must have gotten their deliveries here. I mean, they wouldn't
have brought things through the front door, and there's no place else for trucks to pull up.
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So there must be a way in."
Clary thought of the little shops and bodegas near her house in Brooklyn. She'd seen them get their deliveries,

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early in the morning while she was walking to school, seen the Korean deli owners opening the metal doors
set into the pavement outside their front doors, so they could carry boxes of paper towels and cat food into
their supply cellars. "I bet the doors are in the ground. Probably buried under all this garbage."
Jace, a beat behind her, nodded. "That's what I was thinking." He sighed. "I guess we'd better move the trash.
We can start with the Dumpster." He pointed at it, looking distinctly unenthusiastic.
"You'd rather face a ravening horde of demons, wouldn't you?" Clary said.
"At least they wouldn't be crawling with maggots. Well," he added thoughtfully, "not most of them, anyway.
There was this one demon, once, that I tracked down to the sewers under Grand Central-"
"Don't." Clary raised a warning hand. "I'm not really in the mood right now."
"That's got to be the first time a girl's ever said that to me," Jace mused.
"Stick with me and it won't be the last."
The corner of Jace's mouth twitched. "This is hardly the time for idle banter. We have garbage to haul." He
stalked over to the Dumpster and took hold of one side of it. "You get the other. We'll tip it."
"Tipping it will make too much noise," Clary argued, taking up her station on the other side of the huge
container. It was a standard city trash bin, painted dark green, splotched with strange stains. It stank, even
more than most Dumpsters, of garbage and something else, something thick and sweet that filled her throat
and made her want to gag. "We should push it."
"Now, look-," Jace began, when a voice spoke, suddenly, out of the shadows behind them.
"Do you really think you should be doing that?" it asked.
Clary froze, staring into the shadows at the mouth of the alley. For a panicked moment she wondered if she'd
imagined the voice, but Jace was frozen too, astonishment on his face. It was rare that anything surprised him,
rarer that anyone snuck up on him. He stepped away from the Dumpster, his hand sliding toward his belt, his
voice flat. "Is there someone there?"
"Dios mÃo."
The voice was male, amused, speaking a liquid Spanish. "You're not from this neighborhood, are you?"
He stepped forward, out of the thickest of the shadows. The shape of him evolved slowly: a boy, not much
older than Jace and probably six inches shorter. He was thin-boned, with the big dark eyes and honey-colored
skin of a Diego Rivera painting. He wore black slacks and an open-necked white shirt, and a gold chain
around his neck that sparked faintly as he moved closer to the light.
"You could say that," Jace said carefully, not moving his hand away from his belt.
"You shouldn't be here." The boy raked a hand through the thick black curls that spilled over his forehead.
"This place is dangerous."
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He means it's a bad neighborhood. Clary
almost wanted to laugh, even though it wasn't at all funny. "We know," she said. "We just got a little lost,
that's all."
The boy gestured to the Dumpster. "What were you doing with that?"
I'm no good at lying on the spot,
Clary thought, and looked at Jace, who, she hoped, would be excellent at it.
He disappointed her immediately. "We were trying to get into the hotel. We thought there might be a cellar
door behind the trash bin."
The boy's eyes widened in disbelief."Puta madre -why would you want to do something like that?"
Jace shrugged. "For a prank, you know. Just a little fun."
"You don't understand. This place is haunted, cursed. Bad luck." He shook his head vigorously and said
several things in Spanish that Clary suspected had to do with the stupidity of spoiled white kids in general and
their stupidity in particular. "Walk with me, I'll take you to the subway."
"We know where the subway is," said Jace.
The boy laughed a soft, vibrant laugh."Claro. Of course you do, but if you go with me, no one will bother
you. You do not want trouble, do you?"
"That depends," Jace said, and moved so that his jacket opened slightly, showing the glint of the weapons
thrust through his belt. "How much are they paying you to keep people away from the hotel?"

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The boy glanced behind him, and Clary's nerves twanged as she imagined the narrow alley mouth filling up
with other shadowy figures, white-faced, red-mouthed, the glint of fangs as sudden as metal striking sparks
from pavement. When he looked back at Jace, his mouth was a thin line. "How much are who paying
me,chico?"
"The vampires. How much are they paying you? Or is it something else-did they tell you they'd make you one
of them, offer you eternal life, no pain, no sickness, you get to live forever? Because it's not worth it. Life
stretches out very long when you never see the sunlight,chico," said Jace.
The boy was expressionless. "My name is Raphael. Notchico."
"But you know what we're talking about. You know about the vampires?" Clary said.
Raphael turned his face to the side and spit. When he looked back at them, his eyes were full of a glittering
hate."Los vampiros, sÃ,
the blood-drinking animals. Even before the hotel was boarded up, there were
stories, the laughter late at night, the small animals disappearing, the sounds-" He stopped, shaking his head.
"Everyone in the neighborhood knows to stay away, but what can you do? You cannot call the police and tell
them your problem is vampires."
"Have you ever seen them?" Jace asked. "Or known anyone who has?"
Raphael spoke slowly. "There were some boys, once, a group of friends. They thought they had a good
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idea, to go into the hotel and kill the monsters inside. They took guns with them, knives too, all blessed by a
priest. They never came out. My aunt, she found their clothes later, in front of the house."
"Your aunt's house?" said Jace.
"SÃ.
One of the boys was my brother," said Raphael flatly. "So now you know why I walk by here in the
middle of the night sometimes, on the way home from my aunt's house, and why I warned you away. If you go
in there, you will not come out again."
"My friend is in there," said Clary. "We came to get him."
"Ah," said Raphael, "then perhaps I cannot warn you away."
"No," Jace said. "But don't worry. What happened to your friends won't happen to us." He took one of the
angel blades from his belt and held it up, the faint light emanating from it lit the hollows under his
cheekbones, shadowed his eyes. "I've killed plenty of vampires before. Their hearts don't beat, but they can
still die."
Raphael inhaled sharply and said something in Spanish too low and rapid for Clary to understand. He came
toward them, almost stumbling over a pile of crumpled plastic wrappers in his haste. "I know what you are-I
have heard about your kind, from the old padre at St. Cecilia's. I thought that was just a story."
"All the stories are true," Clary said, but so quietly that he didn't seem to hear her. He was looking at Jace, his
fists clenched.
"I want to go with you," he said.
Jace shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."
"I can show you how to get inside," Raphael said.
Jace wavered, temptation plain on his face. "We can't bring you."
"Fine." Raphael stalked by him and kicked aside a heap of trash piled against a wall. There was a metal
grating there, thin bars filmed with a brownish red coating of rust. He knelt down, took hold of the bars, and
lifted the grating away. "This is how my brother and his friends got in. It goes down to the basement, I think."
He looked up as Jace and Clary joined him. Clary half-held her breath; the smell of the garbage was
overwhelming, and even in the darkness she could see the darting shapes of cockroaches crawling over the
piles.
A thin smile had formed, just at the corners of Jace's mouth. He still had the angel blade in his hand. The
witchlight that came from it lent his face a ghostly cast, reminding her of the way Simon had held a flashlight
under his chin while telling her horror stories when they were both eleven. "Thanks," he said to Raphael. "This
will work just fine."
The other boy's face was pale. "You go in there and do for your friend what I could not do for my brother."
Jace slipped the seraph blade back into his belt and glanced at Clary. "Follow me," he said, and slid through
the grating in a single smooth move, feet first. She held her breath, waiting for a shout of agony or amazement,

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but there was only the soft thump of feet landing on solid ground. "It's fine," he called up, his
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voice muffled. "Jump down and I'll catch you."
She looked at Raphael. "Thanks for your help."
He said nothing, only held out his hand. She used it to steady herself while she maneuvered into position. His
fingers were cold. He let go as she dropped down through the grating. It was only a second's fall and Jace
caught her, her dress rucking up around her thighs and his hand grazing her legs as she slid into his arms. He
let her go almost immediately. "You all right?"
She pulled her dress down, glad he couldn't see her in the dark. "I'm fine."
Jace pulled the dimly glowing angel blade out of his belt and lifted it, letting its growing illumination wash
over their surroundings. They were standing in a shallow, low-ceilinged space with a cracked concrete floor.
Squares of dirt showed where the floor was broken, and Clary could see that black vines had begun to twine
up the walls. A doorway, missing its door, opened onto another room.
A loud thump made her start, and she turned to see Raphael landing, knees bent, just a few feet from her. He
had followed them through the grating. He straightened up and grinned manically.
Jace looked furious. "I told you-"
"And I heard you." Raphael waved a dismissive hand. "What are you going to do about it? I can't get back out
the way we came in, and you can't just leave me here for the dead to find ... can you?"
"I'm thinking about it," Jace said. He looked tired, Clary saw with some surprise, the shadows under his eyes
more pronounced.
Raphael pointed. "We must go that way, toward the stairs. They are up on the higher floors of the hotel. You
will see." He pushed past Jace and through the narrow doorway. Jace looked after him, shaking his head.
"I'm really starting to hate mundanes," he said.
The lower floor of the hotel was a warren of mazelike corridors opening onto empty storage rooms, a deserted
laundry-moldy stacks of linen towels piled high in rotted wicker baskets-even a ghostly kitchen, banks of
stainless steel counters stretching away into the shadows. Most of the staircases leading upstairs were gone;
not rotted but deliberately chopped away, reduced to stacks of kindling shoved against walls, bits of
once-luxurious Persian carpet clinging to them like blossoms of furry mold.
The missing stairs baffled Clary. What did vampires have against stairs? They finally found an unharmed set,
tucked away behind the laundry. Maids must have used it to carry linens up and down the stairs in the days
before elevators. Dust lay thick on the steps now, like a layer of powdery gray snow that made Clary cough.
"Shh," hissed Raphael. "They will hear you. We are close to where they sleep."
"How doyou know?" she whispered back. He wasn't even supposed tobe there. What gave him the right to
lecture her about noise?
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"I can feel it." The corner of his eye twitched, and she saw that he was as scared as she was. "Can't you?"
She shook her head. She felt nothing, other than strangely cold; after the stifling heat of the night outside, the
chill inside the hotel was intense.
At the top of the stairs was a door on which the painted word "Lobby" was barely legible beneath years of
accumulated dirt. The door sprayed rust when Jace pushed it open. Clary braced herselfÂBut
the room beyond was empty. They were in a large foyer, its rotting carpeting torn back to show the
splintered floorboards beneath. Once the centerpiece of this room had been a grand staircase, gracefully
curving, lined with gilt banisters and richly carpeted in gold and scarlet. Now all that remained were the higher
steps, leading up into blackness. The remainder of the staircase ended just above their heads, in midair. The
sight was as surreal as one of the abstract Magritte paintings Jocelyn had loved. This one, Clary thought,
would be calledThe Stairs to Nowhere.
Her voice sounded as dry as the dust that coated everything. "What do vampires have against stairs?"
"Nothing," said Jace. "They just don't need to use them."
"It is a way of showing that this place is one oftheirs." Raphael's eyes were bright. He seemed almost excited.
Jace glanced at him sideways.
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Raphael glanced at him almost absently. "I know what they look like. They are paler, thinner than human
beings, but very strong. They walk like cats and spring with the swiftness of serpents. They are beautiful and
terrible. Like this hotel."
"You think it's beautiful?" Clary asked, surprised.
"You can see where it was, years ago. Like an old woman who was once beautiful, but time has taken her
beauty away. You must imagine this staircase the way it was once, with the gas lamps burning all up and
down the steps, like fireflies in the dark, and the balconies full of people. Not the way it is now, so-" He broke
off, searching for a word.
"Truncated?" Jace suggested dryly.
Raphael looked almost startled, as if Jace had broken him out of a reverie. He laughed shakily and turned
away.
Clary turned to Jace. "Where are they, anyway? The vampires, I mean."
"Upstairs, probably. They like to be high up when they sleep, like bats. And it's nearly sunrise."
Like puppets with their heads attached to strings, Clary and Raphael both looked up at the same time. There
was nothing above them but the frescoed ceiling, cracked and black in places as if it had been burned in a fire.
An archway to their left led farther into darkness; the pillars on either side were engraved with a motif of
leaves and flowers. As Raphael glanced back down, a scar at the base of his throat, very white against his
brown skin, flashed like a winking eye. She wondered how he'd gotten it.
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"I think we should go back to the servants' stairs," she whispered. "I feel too exposed out here."
Jace nodded. "You realize, once we get there, you'll have to call out for Simon and hope he can hear you?"
She wondered if the fear she felt showed on her face. "I-"
Her words were cut short by a bloodcurdling scream. Clary whirled.
Raphael.
He was gone, no marks in the dust showing where he might have walked-or been dragged. She reached for
Jace, reflexively, but he was already moving, running toward the gaping arch in the far wall and the shadows
beyond. She couldn't see him but followed the darting witchlight he carried, like a traveler being led through a
swamp by a treacherous will-o'-the-wisp.
Beyond the arch was what had once been a grand ballroom. The ruined floor was white marble, now so badly
cracked that it resembled a sea of floating arctic ice. Curved balconies ran along the walls, their railings veiled
in rust. Gold-framed mirrors hung at intervals between them, each crowned with a gilded cupid's head.
Spiderwebs drifted in the clammy air like ancient wedding veils.
Raphael was standing in the center of the room, his arms at his sides. Clary ran to him, Jace following more
slowly behind her. "Are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.
He nodded slowly. "I thought I saw a movement in the shadows. It was nothing."
"We've decided to head back to the servants' stairs," Jace said. "There's nothing on this floor."
Raphael nodded. "Good idea."
He headed for the door, not looking to see if they followed. He had gotten only a few steps when Jace said,
"Raphael?"
Raphael turned, eyes widening inquisitively, and Jace threw his knife.
Raphael's reflexes were quick, but not quick enough. The blade struck home, the force of the impact knocking
him over. His feet went out from under him and he fell heavily to the cracked marble floor. In the dim
witchlight his blood looked black.
"Jace,"
Clary hissed in disbelief, shock pounding through her. He'd said he hated mundanes, but he'd never-
As she turned to go to Raphael, Jace shoved her brutally aside. He flung himself on the other boy and grabbed
for the knife sticking out of Raphael's chest.
But Raphael was faster. He seized the knife, then screamed as his hand came in contact with the cross-shaped
hilt. It clattered to the marble floor, blade smeared black. Jace had one hand fisted in the material of Raphael's
shirt, Sanvi in the other. It was glowing with such a bright light that Clary could see colors again: the peeling
royal blue of the wallpaper, the gold flecks in the marble floor, the red stain spreading across Raphael's chest.

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But Raphael was laughing. "You missed," he said, and grinned for the first time, showing pointed white
incisors. "You missed my heart." Jace tightened his grip. "You moved at the last minute," he said. "That was
very inconsiderate." Raphael frowned and spat, red. Clary stepped back, staring in dawning horror. "When did
you figure it out?" he demanded. His accent had faded, his words more precise and clipped
now. "I guessed in the alley," Jace said. "But I figured you'd get us inside the hotel, then turn on us. Once we'd
trespassed, we'd have been out of the protection of the Covenant. Fair game. When you didn't, I thought I
might have been wrong. Then I saw that scar on your throat." He sat back a little, still holding the blade at
Raphael's throat. "I thought when I first saw that chain that it looked like the sort you'd hang a cross from. And
you did, didn't you, when you went out to see your family? What's the scar of a little burn when your kind heal
so quickly?"
Raphael laughed. "Was that all? My scar?"
"When you left the foyer, your feet didn't leave marks in the dust. Then I knew."
"It wasn't your brother who went in here looking for monsters and never came out, was it?" Clary said,
realizing. "It was you."
"You are both very clever," Raphael said. "Although not quite clever enough. Look up," he said, and
lifted a hand to point at the ceiling.
Jace knocked the hand away without moving his glance from Raphael. "Clary. What do you see?"
She raised her head slowly, dread curdling in the pit of her stomach.
You must imagine this staircase the way it was once, with the gas lamps burning all up and down the steps,
like fireflies in the dark, and the balconies full of people.
They were filled with people now, row on row of vampires with their dead-white faces, their red stretched
mouths, staring bemusedly downward.
Jace was still looking at Raphael. "You called them. Didn't you?" Raphael was still grinning. The blood had
stopped spreading from the wound in his chest. "Does it matter? There are too many of them, even for you,
Wayland."
Jace said nothing. Though he hadn't moved, he was breathing in short quick pants, and Clary could almost
feel the strength of his desire to kill the vampire boy, to shove the knife through his heart and wipe that grin
off his face forever. "Jace," she said warningly. "Don't kill him."
"Why not?"
"Maybe we can use him as a hostage."
Jace's eyes widened. "Ahostage?"
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She could see them, more of them, filling the arched doorway, moving as silently as the Brothers of the Bone
City. But the Brothers had not had skin so white and colorless, nor hands that curled into claws at the tips...
Clary licked her dry lips. "I know what I'm doing. Get him on his feet, Jace."
Jace looked at her, then shrugged. "All right."
Raphael snapped, "This isn't funny."
"That's why no one's laughing." Jace stood, hauling Raphael upright, jamming the tip of his knife between
Raphael's shoulder blades. "I can pierce your heart just as easily through your back," he said. "I wouldn't
move if I were you." Clary turned away from them to face the oncoming dark shapes. She flung out a hand.
"Stop right there," she said. "Or he'll put that blade through Raphael's heart."
A sort of murmur ran through the crowd that could have been whispering or laughter."Stop," Clary said
again, and this time Jace did something, she didn't see what, that made Raphael cry out in surprised pain. One
of the vampires flung an arm out to hold back his companions. Clary recognized him as the thin blond boy

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with the earring that she'd seen at Magnus's party. "She means it," he said. "They are Shadowhunters."
Another vampire pushed her way through the crowd to stand at his side-a pretty blue-haired Asian girl in a
silver foil skirt. Clary wondered if there were any ugly vampires, or maybe any fat ones. Maybe they didn't
make vampires out of ugly people. Or maybe ugly people just didn't want to live forever. "Shadowhunters
trespassing on our territory," she said. "They are out of the protection of the Covenant. I say we kill them-they
have killed enough of ours."
"Which of you is the master of this place?" Jace said, his voice very flat. "Let him step forward."
The girl bared her pointed teeth. "Do not use Clave language on us, Shadowhunter. You have broken your
precious Covenant, coming in here. The Law will not protect you." "That's enough, Lily," said the blond boy
sharply. "Our master is not here. She is in Idris." "Someone must rule you in her stead," Jace observed. There
was a silence. The vampires up in the balconies were hanging off the railings, leaning down to hear
what was being said. Finally, "Raphael leads us," said the blond vampire. The blue-haired girl, Lily, let out a
hiss of disapproval. "Jacob-" "I propose a trade," Clary said quickly, cutting off Lily's tirade and Jacob's retort.
"By now you must
know you took home too many people from the party tonight. One of them was my friend Simon." Jacob
raised his eyebrows. "You're friends with a vampire?" "He's not a vampire. And not a Shadowhunter, either,"
she added, seeing Lily's pale eyes narrow. "Just
an ordinary human boy."
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"We didn't take any human boys home with us from Magnus's party. That would have been a violation
of the Covenant." "He'd been transformed into a rat. A small brown rat," said Clary. "Someone might have
thought he was a pet, or ..."
Her voice trailed off. They were staring at her as if she were insane. Cold despair seeped into her bones.
"Let me get this straight," Lily said. "You're offering to trade Raphael's life for arat?"
Clarylooked helplessly back at Jace. He gave her a look that said,This was your idea. You're on your
own.
"Yes," she said, turning back to the vampires. "That's the trade we're offering."
They stared at her, white faces nearly expressionless. In another context Clary would have said that they
looked baffled.
She couldfeel Jace standing behind her, hear the rasp of his breathing. She wondered if he was racking
his brain trying to figure out why he'd let her drag them both here in the first place. She wondered if he
was starting to hate her.
"Do you mean this rat?"
Clary blinked. Another vampire, a thin black boy with dreadlocks, had pushed his way to the front of
the crowd. He was holding something in his hands, something brown that squirmed feebly. "Simon?" she
whispered. The rat squeaked and started to thrash wildly in the boy's grip. He looked down at the captive
rodent with an expression of distaste. "Man, I thought he was Zeke. I wondered why he was copping such an
attitude." He shook his head, dreadlocks bouncing. "I say she can have him, dude. He's already bitten me five
times."
Clary reached out for Simon, her hands aching to hold him. But Lily stepped in front of her before she could
take more than a step in his direction. "Wait," Lily said. "How do we know you won't just take the rat and kill
Raphael anyway?"
"We'll give our word," Clary said immediately, then tensed, waiting for them to laugh.
Nobody laughed. Raphael swore softly in Spanish. Lily looked curiously at Jace.
"Clary," he said. There was an undercurrent of exasperated desperation in his voice. "Is this really a-"
"No oath, no trade," said Lily immediately, seizing on his uncertain tone. "Elliott, hold on to that rat."
The dreadlocked boy tightened his grip on Simon, who sank his teeth savagely into Elliott's hand. "Man,"

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he said glumly. "That hurt."
Clary took the opportunity to whisper to Jace. "Just swear! What can it hurt?"
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"Swearing for us isn't like it is for you mundanes," he snapped back angrily. "I'll be bound forever to any
oath I make."
"Oh, yeah? What would happen if you broke it?"
"Iwouldn't break it, that's the point-"
"Lily is right," said Jacob. "An oath is required. Swear that you won't hurt Raphael. Even if we give you
the rat back."
"I won't hurt Raphael," Clary said immediately. "No matter what."
Lily smiled at her tolerantly. "It isn't you we're worried about." She shot a pointed look at Jace, who was
holding Raphael so tightly that his knuckles were white. A patch of sweat darkened the cloth of his shirt, just
between his shoulder blades. He said, "All right. I swear it." "Speak the oath," Lily said swiftly. "Swear on the
Angel. Say it all." Jace shook his head. "You swear first." His words fell into the silence like stones, sending a
rippling murmur through the crowd. Jacob looked
concerned; Lily furious. "Not a chance, Shadowhunter."
"We have your leader." The tip of Jace's knife dug farther into Raphael's throat. "And what have you got
there? A rat." Simon, pinned in Elliott's hands, squeaked furiously. Clary longed to snatch him up, but held
herself
back. "Jace-" Lily looked toward Raphael. "Master?" Raphael had his head down, his dark curls falling to hide
his face. Blood stained the collar of his shirt,
trickled down the bare brown skin underneath. "A pretty important rat," he said, "for you to come all the
way here for him. It is you, Shadowhunter, I think, who will swear first." Jace's grip on him tightened
convulsively. Clary saw the swell of the muscles under his skin, the whitening of his fingers and at the sides of
his mouth as he fought his anger. "The rat's a mundane," he said sharply. "If you kill him, you'll be subject to
the Law-"
"He is on our territory. Trespassers are not protected by the Covenant, you know that-"
"Youbrought him here," Clary interjected. "He didn't trespass."
"Technicalities," said Raphael, grinning at her despite the knife at his throat. "Besides. You think we do
not hear the rumors, the news that is running through Downworld like blood through veins? Valentine is
back. There will be no Accords and no Covenant soon enough."
Jace's head jerked up. "Where did you hear that?"
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Raphael frowned scornfully. "All Downworld knows it. He paid a warlock to raise a pack of Raveners only a
week ago. He has brought his Forsaken to seek the Mortal Cup. When he finds it, there will be no more false
peace between us, only war. No Law will prevent me from tearing your heart out on the street,
Shadowhunter-"
That was enough for Clary. She dove for Simon, shouldering Lily aside, and snatched the rat out of Elliott's
hands. Simon scrabbled up her arm, gripping her sleeve with frantic paws.
"It's okay," she whispered, "it's okay." Though she knew it wasn't. She turned to run, and felt hands catch at
her jacket, holding her. She struggled, but her efforts to tear herself free of the hands that held her-Lily's,
narrow and bony with black fingernails-were hampered by her fear of dislodging Simon, who clung to her
jacket with paws and teeth. "Let go!" she screamed, kicking out at the vampire girl. Her booted toe connected,
hard, and Lily shouted in pain and rage. She whipped her hand forward, striking Clary's cheek with enough

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force to rock her head back.
Clary staggered and nearly fell. She heard Jace shout her name, and turned to see that he had let go of
Raphael and was racing toward her. Clary tried to go to him, but her shoulders were gripped by Jacob, his
fingers digging into her skin.
Clary cried out-and the noise was lost in a larger shriek as Jace, snatching one of the glass vials from his
jacket, flung its contents toward her. She felt cool wetness splash her face, and heard Jacob scream as the
water touched his skin. Smoke rose from his fingers and he released Clary, howling a high animal howl. Lily
darted toward him, crying out his name, and in the pandemonium, Clary felt someone seize her wrist. She
struggled to yank herself away.
"Stop it-you idiot-it's me," Jace panted in her ear.
"Oh!" She relaxed momentarily, then tensed again, seeing a familiar shape loom up behind Jace. She cried out
and Jace ducked and spun just as Raphael leaped at him, teeth bared, quick as a cat. His fangs caught Jace's
shirt near the shoulder and tore the fabric lengthwise as Jace staggered. Raphael clung on like a gripping
spider, teeth snapping at Jace's throat. Clary fumbled in her pack for the dagger Jace had given herÂA
small brown shape streaked across the floor, shot between Clary's feet, and launched itself at Raphael.
Raphael screamed. Simon hung grimly from his forearm, his sharp rat-teeth sunk deep into the flesh. Raphael
let go of Jace, flailing backward, blood spurting as a stream of Spanish obscenities poured from his mouth.
Jace gaped, his mouth open. "Son of a-"
Regaining his balance, Raphael tore the rat free from his arm and flung him to the marble floor. Simon
squeaked once in pain, then dashed over to Clary. She bent down and snatched him up, holding him against
her chest as tightly as she could without hurting him. She could feel the hammering beat of his tiny heart
against her fingers. "Simon," she whispered. "Simon-"
"There's no time for that. Hold on to him." Jace had caught at her right arm, gripping with painful force. In the
other hand he held a glowing seraph blade. "Move."
He began to half-pull her, half-push her, to the edge of the crowd. The vampires winced away from the
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light of the seraph blade as it swept over them, all of them hissing like scalded cats.
"Enough standing around!" It was Raphael. His arm was streaming blood, his lips curled back from his
pointed incisors. He glared at the teeming mass of vampires milling in confusion. "Seize the trespassers," he
shouted. "Kill themboth -the rat as well!"
The vampires started toward Jace and Clary, some of them walking, others gliding, others swooping down
from the balconies above like flapping black bats. Jace increased his pace as they broke free of the crowd,
heading toward the far wall. Clary squirmed, half-turning to look up at him. "Shouldn't we stand back to back
or something?"
"What? Why?"
"I don't know. In movies that's what they do in this kind of... situation."
She felt him shake. Was he frightened? No, he was laughing. "You," he breathed. "You are the most-"
"The most what?" she demanded indignantly. They were still backing up, stepping carefully to avoid the
broken bits of furniture and smashed marble that littered the floor. Jace held the angel blade high above both
their heads. She could see how the vampires circled around the edges of the glimmering circle it cast. She
wondered how long it would hold them off.
"Nothing," he said. "This isn't a situation, okay? I save that word for when things get really bad."
"Really
bad? This isn't really bad? What do you want, a nuclear-"
She broke off with a scream as Lily, braving the light, launched herself at Jace, her teeth bared in a searing
snarl. Jace seized the second blade from his belt and hurled it through the air; Lily fell back screeching, a long
gash sizzling down her arm. As she staggered, the other vampires surged forward around her. There were so
many of them, Clary thought, so manyÂShe
fumbled at her belt, her fingers closing around the hilt of the dagger. It felt cold and foreign in her hand.
She didn't know how to use a knife. She'd never hit anyone, let alone stabbed them. She'd even skipped gym
class the day they'd learned how to ward off muggers and rapists with ordinary objects like car keys and

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pencils. She pulled the knife free, raised it in a shaking handÂThe
windows exploded inward in a shower of broken glass. She heard herself cry out, saw the vampires-barely
an arm's length from her and Jace-whirl in astonishment, shock mingling with terror on their faces. Through
the shattered windows came dozens of sleek shapes, four-footed and low to the ground, their coats scattering
moonlight and broken bits of glass. Their eyes were blue fire, and from their throats came a combined low
growl that sounded like the roiling crash of a waterfall.
Wolves.
"Nowthis," said Jace, "is a situation."
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15
High and Dry
The wolves crouched, low and snarling, and the vampires,
looking stunned, backed away. Only Raphael held his ground. He still clutched his wounded arm, his shirt a
smeared mess of blood and dirt."Los Niños de la Luna," he hissed. Even Clary, whose Spanish was almost
nonexistent, knew what he had said. The Moon's Children-werewolves. "I thought they hated each other," she
whispered to Jace. "Vampires and werewolves."
"They do. They never come to each other's lairs. Never. The Covenant forbids it." He sounded almost
indignant. "Something must have happened. This is bad. Very bad."
"How can it be worse than it was before?"
"Because," he said, "we're about to be in the middle of a war."
"HOW DARE YOU ENTER OUR PLACE?" Raphael screamed. His face was scarlet, suffused with
blood.
The largest of the wolves, a brindled gray monster with teeth like a shark's, gave a panting doglike chuckle.
As he moved forward, between one step and the next he seemed to shift and change like a wave rising and
curling. Now he was a tall heavily muscled man with long hair that hung in gray rope-like tangles. He wore
jeans and a thick leather jacket, and there was still something wolfish in the cast of his lean, weathered face.
"We didn't come for a blooding," he said. "We came for the girl."
Raphael managed to look furious and astounded at once. "Who?"
"The human girl." The werewolf flung out a stiff arm, pointing at Clary.
She was too shocked to move. Simon, who had been squirming in her grasp, went still. Behind her Jace
muttered something that sounded distinctly blasphemous. "You didn't tell me you knew any werewolves." She
could hear the slight catch under his flat tone-he was as surprised as she was. "I don't," she said. "This is bad,"
said Jace. "You said that before." "It seemed worth repeating."
"Well, it wasn't." Clary shrank back against him."Jace. They're all looking at me."
Every face was turned to her; most looked astonished. Raphael's eyes were narrowed. He turned back
to the werewolf, slowly. "You can't have her," he said. "She trespassed on our ground; therefore she's
ours."
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The werewolf laughed. "I'm so glad you said that," he said, and launched himself forward. In midair his body
rippled, and he was again a wolf, coat bristling, jaws gaping, ready to tear. He struck Raphael square in the
chest, and the two went over in a writhing, snarling tangle. With answering howls of rage, the vampires
charged the werewolves, who met them head-on in the center of the ballroom.
The noise was like nothing Clary had ever heard. If Bosch's paintings of hell had come with a soundtrack,
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Jace whistled. "Raphael is really having an exceptionally bad night."
"So what?" Clary had no sympathy for the vampire. "What arewe going to do?"
He glanced around. They were pinned in a corner by the churning mass of bodies; though they were being
ignored for now, it wouldn't be for long. Before Clary could voice this thought, Simon suddenly squirmed
violently free of her grasp and leaped to the floor. "Simon!" she screamed as he dashed for the corner and a
moldering pile of rotted velvet drapes. "Simon, stop!"
Jace's eyebrows made quizzical peaks. "What is he-" He grabbed for her arm, jerking her back. "Clary, don't
chase the rat. He's fleeing. That's what rats do."
She shot him a furious look. "He's not a rat. He's Simon. And he bit Raphael for you, you ungrateful cretin."
She yanked her arm free and dashed after Simon, who was crouched in the folds of the drapes, chittering
excitedly and pawing at them. Belatedly realizing what he was trying to tell her, she yanked the drapes aside.
They were slimy with mold, but behind them wasÂ"
A door," she breathed. "You genius rat."
Simon squeaked modestly as she snatched him up. Jace was right behind her. "A door, eh? Well, does it
open?"
She grabbed for the knob and turned to him, crestfallen. "It's locked. Or stuck."
Jace threw himself against the door. It didn't budge. He cursed. "My shoulder will never be the same. I expect
you to nurse me back to health."
"Just break the door down, will you?"
He looked past her with wide eyes. "Clary-"
She turned. A huge wolf had broken away from the melee and was racing toward her, ears flattened to its
narrow head. It was huge, gray-black and brindled, with a long lolling red tongue. Clary screamed. Jace threw
himself against the door again, still cursing. She reached for her belt, grabbed the dagger, and threw it.
She'd never thrown a weapon before, never even thought of throwing one. The closest she'd come to
weaponry before this week was drawing pictures of them, so Clary was more surprised than anyone else, she
suspected, when the dagger flew, wobbly but true, and sank into the werewolf's side.
It yelped, slowing, but three of its comrades were already racing toward them. One paused at the side of the
wounded wolf, but the others charged for the door. Clary screamed again as Jace hurled his body
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against the door a third time. It gave with an explosive shriek of grinding rust and tearing wood. "Three times
the charm," he panted, holding his shoulder. He ducked into the dark space that gaped beyond the broken door,
and turned to hold out an impatient hand. "Clary, comeon."
With a gasp she darted after him and flung the door shut, just as two heavy bodies thudded against it. She
fumbled for the bolt, but it was gone, torn away where Jace had broken through it.
"Duck," he said, and as she did, the stele whipped over her head, slicing dark lines into the moldering wood of
the door. She craned her neck to see what he'd carved: a curve like a sickle, three parallel lines, a rayed star:To
hold against pursuit.
"I lost your dagger," she confessed. "I'm sorry."
"It happens." He pocketed the stele. She could hear the faint thuds as the wolves hurled themselves against the
door again and again, but it held. "The rune will keep them back, but not for long. We'd better hurry."
She looked up. They were in a dank passageway; a narrow set of stairs led up into darkness. The steps were
wood, the banisters filmy with dust. Simon thrust his nose out of her jacket pocket, his black button eyes
glittering in the dim light. "All right," she nodded at Jace. "You go first."
Jace looked as if he wanted to grin but was too tired. "You know how I like to be first. But slowly," he added.
"I'm not sure the stairs can hold our weight."
Clary wasn't sure either. The steps creaked and groaned as they ascended, like an old woman complaining
about her aches and pains. Clary gripped the banister for balance, and a chunk of it snapped off in her hand,
making her squeak and wringing an exhausted chuckle out of Jace. He took her hand. "Here. Steady."
Simon made a sound that, for a rat, sounded a lot like a snort. Jace didn't seem to hear it. They were stumbling
up the steps as rapidly as they dared. The flight rose in a high spiral, up through the building. They passed
landing after landing, but no doors. They had reached the fourth featureless turn when a muffled explosion

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rocked the stairwell, and a cloud of dust billowed upward.
"They've gotten past the door," Jace said grimly. "Damn-I thought it would hold for longer."
"Do we run now?" Clary inquired.
"Now
we run," he said, and they thundered up the stairs, which shrieked and wailed under their weight, nails
popping like gunfire. They were at the fifth landing now-she could hear the softthud-thud of the wolves' paws
on the steps far below, or perhaps it was just her imagination. She knew there wasn't really hot breath on the
back of her neck, but the snarls and howls, getting louder as they came closer, were real and terrifying.
The sixth landing rose in front of them and they half-flung themselves onto it. Clary was gasping, her breath
sawing painfully in her lungs, but she managed a weak cheer when she saw the door. It was heavy steel,
riveted with nails, and propped open with a brick. She barely had time to wonder why when Jace kicked it
open, pushed her though, and, following, slammed it shut. She heard a definitive click as it locked behind
them.Thank God, she thought.
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Then she turned around.
The night sky wheeled above her, scattered with stars like a handful of loose diamonds. It was not black but a
clear dark blue, the color of oncoming dawn. They were standing on a bare slate roof turreted with brick
chimneys. An old water tower, black with neglect, stood on a raised platform at one end; a heavy tarpaulin
concealed a lumpy pile of lumber at the other. "This must be how they get in and out," Jace said, glancing
back at the door. Clary could see him properly now in the pale light, the lines of strain around his eyes like
shallow cuts. The blood on his clothes, mostly Raphael's, looked black. "They fly up here. Not that that does
us much good."
"There might be a fire escape," Clary suggested. Together they picked their way gingerly to the edge of the
roof. Clary had never liked heights, and the ten-floor drop to the street made her stomach spin. So did the sight
of the fire escape, a twisted, unusable hunk of metal still clinging to the side of the hotel's stone façade. "Or
not," she said. She glanced back at the door they had emerged from. It was set into a cabinlike structure in the
center of the roof. It was vibrating, the knob jerking wildly. It would only hold for a few more minutes,
perhaps less.
Jace pressed the backs of his hands against his eyes. The leaden air bore down on them, making the back of
Clary's neck prickle. She could see the sweat trickling into his collar. She wished, irrelevantly, that it would
rain. Rain would burst this heat bubble like a pricked blister.
Jace was muttering to himself. "Think, Wayland, think-"
Something began to take shape in the back of Clary's mind. A rune danced against the backs of her eyelids:
two downward triangles, joined by a single bar-a rune like a pair of wings...
"That'sit," Jace breathed, dropping his hands, and for a startled moment Clary wondered if he had read her
mind. He looked feverish, his gold-flecked eyes very bright. "I can't believe I didn't think of it before." He
dashed to the far end of the roof, then paused and looked back at her. She was still standing dazed, her
thoughts full of glimmering shapes. "Comeon, Clary."
She followed him, pushing thoughts of runes from her mind. He had reached the tarpaulin and was tugging at
the edge of it. It came away, revealing not junk but sparkling chrome, tooled leather, and gleaming
paint."Motorcycles?"
Jace reached for the nearest one, an enormous dark red Harley with gold flames on the tank and fenders. He
swung a leg over it and looked over his shoulder at her. "Get on."
Clary stared. "Are you kidding? Do you even know how to drive that thing? Do you havekeys?"
"I don't need keys," he explained with infinite patience. "It runs on demon energies. Now, are you going to get
on, or do you want to ride your own?"
Numbly Clary slid onto the bike behind him. Somewhere, in some part of her brain, a tiny voice was
screaming about what a bad idea this was.
"Good," Jace said. "Now put your arms around me." She did, feeling the hard muscles of his abdomen
contract as he leaned forward and jammed the point of the stele into the ignition. To her amazement she felt
the motorcycle thrum to life under her. In her pocket Simon squeaked loudly.

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"Everything's okay," she said, as soothingly as she could. "Jace!" she shouted, over the sound of the
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motorcycle's engine. "What are you doing?"
He yelled back something that sounded like "Pushing in the choke!"
Clary blinked. "Well, hurry it up! The door-"
On cue, the roof door burst open with a crash, torn from its hinges. Wolves poured through the gap, racing
across the roof straight at them. Above them flew the vampires, hissing and screeching, filling the night with
predatory cries.
She felt Jace's arm jerk back and the motorcycle lurch forward, sending her stomach slamming into her spine.
She clutched convulsively at Jace's belt as they shot forward, tires skidding along the slates, scattering the
wolves, who yelped as they leaped aside. She heard Jace shout something, his words torn away by the noise of
wheels and wind and engine. The edge of the roof was coming up fast, so fast, and Clary wanted to shut her
eyes but something held them wide open as the motorcycle hurtled over the parapet and plummeted like a rock
toward the ground, ten stories down.
If Clary screamed, she didn't remember it later. It was like the first drop on a roller coaster, where the track
falls away and you feel yourself hurtling through space, your hands waving uselessly in the air and your
stomach jammed up around your ears. When the cycle righted itself with a sputter and a jerk, she almost
wasn't surprised. Instead of plunging downward they were now hurtling up toward the diamond-littered sky.
Clary glanced back and saw a cluster of vampires standing on the roof of the hotel, surrounded by wolves.
She looked away-if she never saw that hotel again, it'd be too soon.
Jace was yelling, loud whooping shrieks of delight and relief. Clary leaned forward, her arms tight around
him. "My mother always told me if I rode a motorcycle with a boy, she'd kill me," she called over the noise of
the wind whipping past her ears and the deafening rumble of the engine.
She couldn't hear him laugh, but she felt his body shake. "She wouldn't say that if she knew me," he called
back to her confidently. "I'm an excellent driver."
Belatedly, Clary recollected something. "I thought you guys said onlysome of the vampire bikes could fly?"
Deftly, Jace steered them around a stoplight in the process of turning from red to green. Below, Clary could
hear cars honking, ambulance sirens wailing, and buses puffing to their stops, but she didn't dare look down.
"Only some of them can!"
"How did you know this was one of them?"
"I didn't!" he shouted gleefully, and did something that made the bike rise almost vertically into the air. Clary
shrieked and grabbed for his belt again.
"You should look down!" Jace shouted. "It's awesome!"
Sheer curiosity forced its way past terror and vertigo. Swallowing hard, Clary opened her eyes.
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They were higher than she had realized, and for a moment the earth swung dizzily beneath her, a blurring
landscape of shadow and light. They were flying east, away from the park, toward the highway that snaked
along the right bank of the city.
There was a numbness in Clary's hands, a hard pressure in her chest. It was lovely, she could see that: the city
rising up beside her like a towering forest of silver and glass, the dull gray shimmer of the East River, slicing
between Manhattan and the boroughs like a scar. The wind was cool in her hair, on her skin, delicious after so
many days of heat and stickiness. Still, she'd never flown, not even in an airplane, and the vast empty space
between them and the ground terrified her. She couldn't keep from squinching her eyes almost shut as they
shot out over the river. Just below the Queensboro Bridge, Jace turned the bike south and headed to the foot of
the island. The sky had begun to lighten, and in the distance Clary could see the glittering arch of the Brooklyn
Bridge, and beyond that, a smudge on the horizon, the Statue of Liberty.
"Are you all right?" Jace shouted.
Clary said nothing, just clutched him more tightly. He banked the cycle, and then they were sailing toward the
bridge, and Clary could see stars through the suspension cables. An early morning train was rattling over it-the
Q, carrying a load of sleepy dawn commuters. She thought how often she'd been on that train. A wave of
vertigo swamped her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, gasping with nausea.

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"Clary?" Jace called. "Clary, are you all right?"
She shook her head, eyes still shut, alone in the dark and the tearing wind with just the pounding of her heart.
Something sharp scratched against her chest. She ignored it until it came again, more insistent. Barely opening
an eye, she saw that it was Simon, his head poking out of her pocket, tugging her jacket with an urgent paw.
"It's all right, Simon," she said with an effort, not looking down. "It was just the bridge-"
He scratched her again, then pointed an urgent paw toward the waterfront of Brooklyn, rising up on their left.
Dizzy and sick, she looked and saw, beyond the outlines of the warehouses and factories, a sliver of golden
sunrise just visible, like the edge of a pale gilt coin. "Yes, very pretty," Clary said, closing her eyes again.
"Nice sunrise."
Jace went rigid all over, as if he'd been shot. "Sunrise?" he yelled, then jerked the cycle savagely to the right.
Clary's eyes flew open as they plunged toward the water, which had begun to shimmer with the blue of
oncoming dawn.
Clary leaned as close to Jace as she could get without squashing Simon between them. "What's so bad about
sunrise?"
"I told you! The bike runs on demon energies!" He pulled back so that they were level with the river, just
skimming along the surface with the wheels kicking up spray. River water splashed into Clary's face. "As soon
as the sun comes up-"
The bike began to sputter. Jace swore colorfully, slamming his fist into the accelerator. The bike lunged
forward once, then choked, jerking under them like a bucking horse. Jace was still swearing as the sun peeked
over the crumbling wharves of Brooklyn, lighting the world with devastating clarity. Clary could see every
rock, every pebble under them as they cleared the river and hurtled over the narrow bank. Below them was the
highway, already streaming with early traffic. They only just cleared it, the wheels
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grazing the roof of a passing truck. Beyond was the trash-strewn parking lot of an enormous supermarket.
"Hang on to me!" Jace was shouting, as the bike jerked and sputtered underneath them. "Hang on to me,
Clary, anddo not let -"
The bike tilted and struck the asphalt of the parking lot, front wheel first. It shot forward, wobbling violently,
and went into a long skid, bouncing and slamming over the uneven ground, whipping Clary's head back and
forth with neck-cracking force. The air stank of burned rubber. But the bike was slowing, skidding to a
halt-and then it struck a concrete parking barrier with such force that she was lifted into the air and hurled
sideways, her hand tearing free of Jace's belt. She barely had time to curl herself into a protective ball, holding
her arms as rigid as possible and praying Simon wouldn't be crushed, when they struck the ground.
She hit hard, agony screaming up her arm. Something splashed up in her face, and she was coughing as she
flipped over, rolling onto her back. She grabbed for her pocket. It was empty. She tried to say Simon's name,
but the breath had been knocked out of her. She wheezed as she gasped in air. Her face was wet and dampness
was running down into her collar.
Is
that blood? She opened her eyes hazily. Her face felt like one big bruise, her arms, aching and stinging, like
raw meat. She had rolled onto her side and was lying half-in and half-out of a puddle of filthy water. Dawn
had truly come-she could see the remains of the bike, subsiding into a heap of unrecognizable ash as the sun's
rays struck it.
And there was Jace, getting painfully to his feet. He started to hurry toward her, then slowed as he approached.
The sleeve of his shirt had been torn away and there was a long bloody graze along his left arm. His face,
under the cap of dark gold curls matted with sweat, dust, and blood, was white as a sheet. She wondered why
he looked like that. Was her torn-off leg lying across the parking lot somewhere in a pool of blood?
She started to struggle up and felt a hand on her shoulder. "Clary?"
"Simon!"
He was kneeling next to her, blinking as if he couldn't quite believe it either. His clothes were crumpled and
grimy, and he had lost his glasses somewhere, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. Without the glasses he
looked younger, defenseless, and a little dazed. He reached to touch her face, but she flinched back. "Ow!"
"Are you okay? You look great," he said, with a catch in his voice. "The best thing I've ever seen-"

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"That's because you don't have your glasses on," she said weakly, but if she'd expected a smart-aleck
response, she didn't get one. Instead he threw his arms around her, holding her tightly to him. His clothes
smelled of blood and sweat and dirt, and his heart was beating a mile a minute and he was pressing on her
bruises, but it was a relief nevertheless to be held by him and to know, really know, that he was all right.
"Clary," he said roughly. "I thought-I thought you-"
"Wouldn't come back for you? But of course I did," she said. "Of course I did."
She put her arms around him. Everything about him was familiar, from the overwashed fabric of his T-shirt to
the sharp angle of the collarbone that rested just under her chin. He said her name, and she stroked his back
reassuringly. When she glanced back just for a moment, she saw Jace turning away as if
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the brightness of the rising sun hurt his eyes.
16
Falling Angels
Hodge was enraged. He had been standing in the foyer,
Isabelle and Alec lurking behind him, when Clary and the boys limped in, filthy and covered in blood, and
had immediately launched into a lecture that would have done Clary's mother proud. He didn't forget to
include the part about lying to him about where they were going-which Jace, apparently, had- or the part about
never trusting Jace again, and even added extra embellishments, like some bits about breaking the Law,
getting tossed out of the Clave, and bringing shame on the proud and ancient name of Wayland. Winding
down, he fixed Jace with a glare. "You've endangered other people with your willfulness. This is one incident
I will not allow you to shrug off!"
"I wasn't planning to," Jace said. "I can't shrug anything off. My shoulder's dislocated."
"If only I thought physical pain was actually a deterrent for you," said Hodge with grim fury. "But you'll just
spend the next few days in the infirmary with Alec and Isabelle fussing around you. You'll probably evenenjoy
it."
Hodge had been two-thirds right: Jace and Simon both wound up in the infirmary, but only Isabelle was
fussing over either of them when Clary-who'd gone to clean herself up- came in a few hours later. Hodge had
fixed the swelling bruise on her arm, and twenty minutes in the shower had gotten most of the ground-in
asphalt out of her skin, but she still felt raw and aching.
Alec, sitting on the windowsill and looking like a thundercloud, scowled as the door shut behind her. "Oh. It's
you."
She ignored him. "Hodge says he's on his way and he hopes you can both manage to cling to your flickering
sparks of life until he gets here," she told Simon and Jace. "Or something like that."
"I wish he'd hurry," Jace said crossly. He was sitting up in bed against a pair of fluffed white pillows, still
wearing his filthy clothes.
"Why? Does it hurt?" Clary asked.
"No. I have a high pain threshold. In fact, it's less of a threshold and more of a large and tastefully decorated
foyer. But I do get easily bored." He squinted at her. "Do you remember back at the hotel when you promised
that if we lived, you'd get dressed up in a nurse's outfit and give me a sponge bath?"
"Actually, I think you misheard," Clary said. "It was Simon who promised you the sponge bath."
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Jace looked involuntarily over at Simon, who smiled at him widely. "As soon as I'm back on my feet,
handsome."
"I knew we should have left you a rat," said Jace.
Clary laughed and went over to Simon, who seemed acutely uncomfortable surrounded by dozens of pillows
and with blankets heaped over his legs.
Clary sat down on the edge of Simon's bed. "How are you feeling?"

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"Like someone massaged me with a cheese grater," Simon said, wincing as he pulled his legs up. "I
broke a bone in my foot. It was so swollen, Isabelle had to cut my shoe off."
"Glad she's taking good care of you." Clary let a small amount of acid creep into her voice.
Simon leaned forward, not taking his eyes off Clary. "I want to talk to you."
Clary nodded in half-reluctant agreement. "I'm going to my room. Come and see me after Hodge fixes
you up, okay?"
"Sure." To her surprise he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It was a butterfly kiss, a quick brush of
lips on skin, but as she pulled away, she knew she was blushing. Probably, she thought, standing up, because
of the way everyone else was staring at them.
Out in the hallway, she touched her cheek in bemusement. A peck on the cheek didn't mean much, but it was
so out of character for Simon. Maybe he was trying to make a point to Isabelle? Men, Clary
thought, they were so baffling. And Jace, doing his wounded-prince routine. She'd left before he could start
complaining about the thread count of the sheets.
"Clary!"
She turned around in surprise. Alec was loping down the hall after her, hurrying to catch up. He stopped
when she did. "I need to talk to you."
She looked at him in surprise. "What about?"
He hesitated. With his pale skin and dark blue eyes he was as striking as his sister, but unlike Isabelle he did
everything he could to downplay his looks. The frayed sweaters and the hair that looked as if he had cut it
himself in the dark were only part of it. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin. "I think you should leave.
Go home," he said.
She'd known he didn't like her, but it still felt like a slap. "Alec, the last time I was home, it was infested with
Forsaken. And Raveners. With fangs. Nobody wants to go home more than I do, but-"
"You must have relatives you can stay with?" There was a tinge of desperation in his voice.
"No. Besides, Hodge wants me to stay," she said shortly.
"He can't possibly. I mean, not after what you've done-"
"What I've done?"
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He swallowed hard. "You almost got Jace killed."
"I almost-What are youtalking about?"
"Running off after your friend like that-do you know how much danger you put him in? Do you know-"
"Him? You mean Jace?" Clary cut him off in midsentence. "For your information the whole thing was his
idea.He asked Magnus where the lair was. He went to the church to get weapons. If I hadn't come with him, he
would have gone anyway."
"You don't understand," Alec said. "You don't know him. I know him. He thinks he has to save the world;
he'd be glad to kill himself trying. Sometimes I think he even wants to die, but that doesn't mean you should
encourage him to do it."
"I don't get it," she said. "Jace is a Nephilim. This is what youdo, you rescue people, you kill demons, you put
yourselves in danger. How was last night any different?"
Alec's control shattered. "Because heleft me behind!" he shouted. "Normally I'd be with him, covering him,
watching his back, keeping him safe. But you-you're dead weight, amundane." He spit the word out as if it
were an obscenity.
"No," Clary said. "I'm not. I'm Nephilim-just like you."
His lip curled up at the corner. "Maybe," he said. "But with no training, no nothing, you're still not much use,
are you? Your mother brought you up in the mundane world, and that's where you belong. Not here, making
Jace act like-like he isn't one of us. Making him break his oath to the Clave, making him break the Law-"
"News flash," Clary snapped. "I don'tmake Jace do anything. He does what he wants. You ought to know
that."
He looked at her as if she were an especially disgusting kind of demon he'd never seen before. "You
mundanes are completely selfish, aren't you? Have you no idea what he's done for you, what kind of personal
risks he's taken? I'm not just talking about his safety. He could lose everything. He already lost his father and

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mother; do you want to make sure he loses the family he's got left as well?"
Clary recoiled. Rage rose up in her like a black wave-rage against Alec, because he was partly right, and rage
against everything and everyone else: against the icy road that had taken her father away from her before she
was born, against Simon for nearly getting himself killed, against Jace for being a martyr and for not caring
whether he lived or died. Against Luke for pretending he cared about her when it was all a lie. And against her
mother for not being the boring, normal, haphazard mother she'd always pretended to be, but someone else
entirely: someone heroic and spectacular and brave whom Clary didn't know at all. Someone who wasn't there
now, when Clary needed her desperately.
"You should talk about selfish," she hissed, so viciously that he took a step back. "You couldn't care less
about anyone in this world except yourself, Alec Lightwood. No wonder you've never killed a single demon,
because you're too afraid."
Alec looked stunned. "Who told you that?"
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"Jace."
He looked as if she'd slapped him. "He wouldn't. He wouldn't say that."
"He did." She could see how she was hurting him, and it made her glad. Someone else ought to be in pain for
a change. "You can rant all you want about honor and honesty and how mundanes don't have any of either, but
ifyou were honest, you'd admit this tantrum is just because you're in love with him. It doesn't have anything to
do with-"
Alec moved, blindingly fast. A sharp crack resounded through her head. He had shoved her against the wall
so hard that the back of her skull had struck the wood paneling. His face was inches from hers, eyes huge and
black. "Don't youever," he whispered, mouth a blanched line, "ever, say anything like that to him or I'll kill
you. I swear on the Angel, I'll kill you."
The pain in her arms where he gripped her was intense. Against her will she gasped. He blinked-as if he were
waking up out of a dream-and let her go, jerking his hands away like her skin had burned him. Without a word
he spun and hurried back toward the infirmary. He was lurching as he walked, like someone drunk or dizzy.
Clary rubbed her sore arms, staring after him, appalled at what she'd done.Good job, Clary. Now you've really
made him hate you.
She should have fallen instantly into bed, but despite her exhaustion, sleep remained out of reach. Eventually
she pulled her sketchpad out of her backpack and started drawing, propping the tablet against her knees. Idle
scribbles at first-a detail from the crumbling façade of the vampire hotel: a fanged gargoyle with bulging
eyes. An empty street, a single lamppost casting a yellow pool of illumination, a shadowy figure poised at the
edge of the light. She drew Raphael in his bloody white shirt with the scar of the cross on his throat. And then
she drew Jace standing on the roof, looking down at the ten-story drop below. Not afraid, but as if the fall
challenged him-as if there were no empty space he could not fill with his belief in his own invincibility. As in
her dream, she drew him with wings that curved out behind his shoulders in an arc like the wings of the angel
statue in the Bone City.
She tried to draw her mother, last. She had told Jace she didn't feel any different after reading the Gray Book,
and it was mostly true. Now, though, as she tried to visualize her mother's face, she realized there was one
thing that was different in her memories of Jocelyn: She could see her mother's scars, the tiny white marks that
covered her back and shoulders as if she had been standing in a snowfall.
It hurt, knowing that the way she'd always seen her mother, all her life, had been a lie. She slid the sketchpad
under her pillow, eyes burning.
There was a tap on the door-soft, hesitant. She scrubbed hastily at her eyes. "Come in."
It was Simon. She hadn't really focused on what a mess he was. He hadn't showered, and his clothes were torn
and stained, his hair tangled. He hesitated in the doorway, oddly formal.
She scooted sideways, making room for him on the bed. There was nothing strange about sitting in bed with
Simon; they'd slept over at each other's houses for years, made tents and forts with the blankets when they
were small, stayed up reading comics when they were older.
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"You found your glasses," she said. One lens was cracked.

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"They were in my pocket. They came through better than I would have expected. I'll have to write a nice note
to LensCrafters." He settled beside her gingerly
"Did Hodge fix you up?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I still feel like I've been worked over with a tire iron, but nothing's broken-not anymore."
He turned to look at her. His eyes behind the ruined glasses were the eyes she remembered: dark and serious,
ringed by the kind of lashes boys didn't care about and girls would kill for. "Clary, that you came for me-that
you would risk all that-"
"Don't." She held up a hand awkwardly. "You would have done it for me."
"Of course," he said, without arrogance or pretension, "but I always thought that was the way things
were, with us. You know."
She scrambled around to face him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Simon, as if he were surprised to find himself explaining something that should have been
obvious, "I've always been the one who needed you more than you needed me."
"That'snot true." Clary was appalled.
"It is," Simon said with the same unnerving calm. "You've never seemed to really need anyone, Clary. You've
always been so... contained. All you've ever needed is your pencils and your imaginary worlds. So many times
I've had to say things six, seven times before you'd even respond, you were so far away. And then you'd turn
to me and smile that funny smile, and I'd know you'd forgotten all about me and just remembered-but I was
never mad at you. Half of your attention is better than all of anyone else's."
She tried to catch at his hand, but got his wrist. She could feel the pulse under his skin. "I only ever loved
three people in my life," she said. "My mom and Luke, and you. And I've lost all of them except you. Don't
ever imagine you aren't important to me-don't even think it."
"My mom says you only need three people you can rely on in order to achieve self-actualization," said Simon.