City of Ashes (The Mortal Instruments #2)(42)
Author: Cassandra Clare

At that moment Clary’s phone buzzed. It was a text message from Isabelle. Clary frowned. “It’s an address. Down by the waterfront.”

Jace looked over her shoulder. “That’s where we have to go to meet Magnus.” He read the address off to Luke, who executed an irritable U-turn and headed south. “Magnus will get us across the water,” Jace explained. “The ship is surrounded by protection wards. I got onto it before because my father wanted me to get onto it. This time he won’t. We’ll need Magnus to deal with the wardings.”

“I don’t like this.” Luke tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I think I should go and you two should stay with Magnus.”

Jace’s eyes flashed. “No. It has to be me who goes.”

“Why?” Clary asked.

“Because Valentine’s using a fear demon,” Jace explained. “That’s how he was able to kill the Silent Brothers. It’s what slaughtered that warlock, the werewolf in the alley outside the Hunter’s Moon, and probably what killed that fey child in the park. And it’s why the Brothers had those looks on their faces. Those terrified looks. They were literally scared to death.”

“But the blood—”

“He drained the blood later. And in the alley he was interrupted by one of the lycanthropes. That’s why he didn’t have enough time to get the blood he needed. And that’s why he still needs Maia.” Jace raked a hand through his hair. “No one can stand up against the fear demon. It gets in your head and destroys your mind.”

“Agramon,” said Luke. He’d been silent, staring through the windshield. His face looked gray and pinched.

“Yeah, that’s what Valentine called it.”

“He’s not a fear demon. He’s the fear demon. The Demon of Fear. How did Valentine get Agramon to do his bidding? Even a warlock would have trouble binding a Greater Demon, and outside the pentagram—” Luke sucked his breath in. “That’s how the warlock child died, isn’t it? Summoning Agramon?”

Jace nodded assent, and explained quickly the trick that Valentine had played on Elias. “The Mortal Cup,” he finished, “lets him control Agramon. Apparently it gives you some power over demons. Not like the Sword does, though.”

“Now I’m even less inclined to let you go,” Luke said. “It’s a Greater Demon, Jace. It would take this city’s worth of Shadowhunters to deal with it.”

“I know it’s a Greater Demon. But its weapon is fear. If Clary can put the Fearless rune on me, I can take it down. Or at least try.”

“No!” Clary protested. “I don’t want your safety dependent on my stupid rune. What if it doesn’t work?”

“It worked before,” Jace said as they turned off the bridge and headed back into Brooklyn. They were rolling down narrow Van Brunt Street, between high brick factories whose boarded-up windows and padlocked doors betrayed no hint of what lay inside. In the distance, the waterfront glimmered between buildings.

“What if I mess it up this time?”

Jace turned his head toward her, and for a moment their eyes met. His were the gold of distant sunlight. “You won’t,” he said.

“Are you sure this is the address?” asked Luke, bringing the truck to a slow stop. “Magnus isn’t here.”

Clary glanced around. They had drawn up in front of a large factory, which looked as if it had been destroyed by a terrible fire. The hollow brick and plaster walls still stood, but metal struts poked through them, bent and pitted with burns. In the distance Clary could see the financial district of lower Manhattan and the black hump of Governors Island, farther out to sea. “He’ll come,” she said. “If he told Alec he was coming, he’ll do it.”

They got out of the truck. Though the factory stood on a street lined with similar buildings, it was quiet, even for a Sunday. There was no one else around and none of the sounds of commerce—trucks backing up, men shouting—that Clary associated with warehouse districts. Instead there was silence, a cool breeze off the river, and the cries of seabirds. Clary drew her hood up, zipped her jacket, and shivered.

Luke slammed the truck door shut and zipped his flannel jacket closed. Silently, he offered Clary a pair of his thick woolly gloves. She slid them on and wiggled her fingers. They were so big for her that it was like wearing paws. She glanced around. “Wait—where’s Jace?”

Luke pointed. Jace was kneeling down by the waterline, a dark figure whose bright hair was the only spot of color against the blue-gray sky and brown river.

“You think he wants privacy?” she asked.

“In this situation, privacy is a luxury none of us can afford. Come on.” Luke strode off down the driveway, and Clary followed him. The factory itself backed up right onto the waterline, but there was a wide gravelly beach next to it. Shallow waves lapped at the weed-choked rocks. Logs had been placed in a rough square around a black pit where a fire had once burned. There were rusty cans and bottles strewn everywhere. Jace was standing by the edge of the water, his jacket off. As Clary watched, he threw something small and white toward the water; it hit with a splash and vanished.

“What are you doing?” she said.

Jace turned to face them, the wind whipping his fair hair across his face. “Sending a message.”

Over his shoulder Clary thought she saw a shimmering tendril—like a living piece of seaweed—emerge from the gray river water, a bit of white caught in its grip. A moment later it vanished and she was left blinking.

“A message to who?”

Jace scowled. “No one.” He turned away from the water and stalked across the pebbled beach to where he’d spread his jacket out. There were three long blades laid out on it. As he turned, Clary saw the sharpened metal disks threaded through his belt.

Jace stroked his fingers along the blades—they were flat and gray-white, waiting to be named. “I didn’t have a chance to get to the armory, so these are the weapons we have. I thought we might as well get as ready as we can before Magnus gets here.” He lifted the first blade. “Abrariel.” The seraph knife shimmered and changed color as he named it. He held it out to Luke.

“I’m all right,” Luke said, and drew his jacket aside to show the kindjal thrust through his belt.

Jace handed Abrariel to Clary, who took the weapon silently. It was warm in her hand, as if a secret life vibrated inside it.

“Camael,” Jace said to the next blade, making it shudder and glow. “Telantes,” he said to the third.

“Do you ever use Raziel’s name?” Clary asked as Jace slid the blades into his belt and shrugged his jacket back on, getting to his feet.

“Never,” Luke said. “That’s not done.” His gaze scanned the road behind Clary, looking for Magnus. She could sense his anxiety, but before she could say anything else, her phone buzzed. She flipped it open and handed it wordlessly to Jace. He read the text message, his eyebrows lifting.

“It looks like the Inquisitor gave Valentine until sunset to decide whether he wants me or the Mortal Instruments more,” he said. “She and Maryse have been fighting for hours, so she hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet.”

He handed Clary back her phone. Their fingers brushed and Clary jerked her hand back, despite the thick woolly glove that covered her skin. She saw a shadow pass over his features, but he said nothing to her. Instead, he turned to Luke and demanded, with surprising abruptness, “Did the Inquisitor’s son die? Is that why she’s like this?”

Luke sighed and thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. “How did you figure that out?”

“The way she reacts when someone says his name. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her show any human feelings.”

Luke expelled a breath. He had pushed his glasses up and his eyes were squinted against the harsh wind off the river. “The Inquisitor is the way she is for many reasons. Stephen is only one of them.”

“It’s weird,” Jace said. “She doesn’t seem like someone who even likes kids.”

“Not other people’s,” said Luke. “It was different with her own. Stephen was her golden boy. In fact, he was everyone’s … everyone who knew him. He was one of those people who was good at everything, unfailingly nice without being boring, handsome without everyone hating him. Well, maybe we hated him a little.”

“He went to school with you?” Clary said. “And my mother—and Valentine? Is that how you knew him?”

“The Herondales were in charge of running the London Institute, and Stephen went to school there. I saw him more after we all graduated, when he moved back to Alicante. And there was a time when I saw him very often indeed.” Luke’s eyes had gone distant, the same blue-gray as the river. “After he was married.”

“So he was in the Circle?” Clary asked.

“Not then,” Luke said. “He joined the Circle after I—well, after what happened to me. Valentine needed a new second in command and he wanted Stephen. Imogen, who was utterly loyal to the Clave, was hysterical—she begged Stephen to reconsider—but he cut her off. Wouldn’t speak to her, or his father. He was absolutely in thrall to Valentine. Went everywhere trailing after him like a shadow.” Luke paused. “The thing is, Valentine didn’t think Stephen’s wife was suitable for him. Not for someone who was going to be second in command of the Circle. She had—undesirable family connections.” The pain in Luke’s voice surprised Clary. Had he cared that much about these people? “Valentine forced Stephen to divorce Amatis and remarry—his second wife was a very young girl, only eighteen years old, named Céline. She, too, was utterly under Valentine’s influence, did everything he told her to, no matter how bizarre. Then Stephen was killed in a Circle raid on a vampire nest. Céline killed herself when she found out. She was eight months pregnant at the time. And Stephen’s father died, too, of heartbreak. So that was Imogen’s whole family, all gone. They couldn’t even bury her daughter-in-law and grandchild’s ashes in the Bone City, because Céline was a suicide. She was buried at a crossroads outside Alicante. Imogen survived, but—she turned to ice. When the Inquisitor was killed in the Uprising, Imogen was offered his job. She returned from London to Idris—but never, as far as I heard, spoke about Stephen again. But it does explain why she hates Valentine as much as she does.”

“Because my father poisons everything he touches?” Jace said bitterly.

“Because your father, for all his sins, still has a son, and she doesn’t. And because she blames him for Stephen’s death.”

“And she’s right,” said Jace. “It was his fault.”

“Not entirely,” said Luke. “He offered Stephen a choice, and Stephen chose. Whatever else his faults were, Valentine never blackmailed or threatened anyone into joining the Circle. He wanted only willing followers. The responsibility for Stephen’s choices rests with him.”

“Free will,” said Clary.

“There’s nothing free about it,” said Jace. “Valentine—”

“Offered you a choice, didn’t he?” Luke said. “When you went to see him. He wanted you to stay, didn’t he? Stay and join up with him?”

“Yes.” Jace looked out across the water toward Governors Island. “He did.” Clary could see the river reflected in his eyes; they looked steely, as if the gray water had drowned all their gold.

“And you said no,” said Luke.

Jace glared. “I wish people would stop guessing that. It’s making me feel predictable.”

Luke turned away as if to hide a smile, and paused. “Someone’s coming.”

Someone was indeed coming, someone very tall with black hair that blew in the wind. “Magnus,” Clary said. “But he looks … different.”

As he drew closer, she saw that his hair, normally spiked up and glittered like a disco ball, hung cleanly past his ears like a sheet of black silk. The rainbow leather pants had been replaced by a neat, old-fashioned dark suit and a black frock coat with glimmering silver buttons. His cat’s eyes glowed amber and green. “You look surprised to see me,” he said.

Jace glanced at his watch. “We did wonder if you were coming.”

“I said I would come, so I came. I just needed time to prepare. This isn’t some hat trick, Shadowhunter. This is going to take some serious magic.” He turned to Luke. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine. Thank you.” Luke was always polite.

“That’s your truck parked up by the factory, isn’t it?” Magnus pointed. “It’s awfully butch for a bookseller.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Luke. “All that lugging around heavy book boxes, climbing stacks, hard-core alphabetizing…”