City of Fallen Angels (32 page)

She’d kept her jewelry simple—very simple.

She put her hand up and touched the Morgenstern ring on its chain around her throat. She had put it on again, for the first time in days, that morning. She felt as if it were a silent gesture of confidence in Jace, a way of signaling her loyalty, whether he knew about it or not. She had decided she would wear it until she saw him again.

“Clarissa Morgenstern?” said a soft voice at her shoulder.

Clary turned in surprise. The voice wasn’t familiar. Standing there was a slim tall girl who looked about twenty. Her skin was milk-pale, threaded with veins the clear green of sap, and her blond hair had the same greenish tint. Her eyes were solid blue, like marbles, and she wore a slip of a blue dress, so thin that Clary thought she had to be freezing. Memory swam up slowly from the depths.

“Kaelie,” Clary said slowly, recognizing the faerie waitress from Taki’s who had served her and the Lightwoods more than once. A flicker reminded her that there had been some intimation that Kaelie and Jace had once had a fling, but the fact seemed so minor in the face of everything else that she couldn’t bring herself to mind it. “I didn’t realize—do you know Luke?”

“Do not mistake me for a guest at this occasion,” said Kaelie, her thin hand tracing a casually indifferent gesture on the air. “My lady sent me here to find you—not to attend the festivities.” She glanced curiously over her shoulder, her all-blue eyes shining. “Though I had not realized that your mother was marrying a werewolf.”

Clary raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Kaelie looked her up and down with some amusement. “My lady said you were quite flinty, despite your small size. In the Court you would be looked down on for having such short stature.”

“We’re not in the Court,” said Clary. “And we’re not in Taki’s, which means
you
came to
me
, which means you have five seconds to tell me what the Seelie Queen wants. I don’t like her much, and I’m not in the mood for her games.”

Kaelie pointed a thin green-nailed finger at Clary’s throat. “My lady said to ask you,” she said, “why you wear the Morgenstern ring. Is it to acknowledge your father?”

Clary’s hand stole to her throat. “It’s for Jace—because Jace gave it to me,” she said before she could help herself, and then cursed herself quietly. It wasn’t smart to tell the Seelie Queen more than you had to.

“But he is not a Morgenstern,” said Kaelie, “but a Herondale, and they have their own ring. A pattern of herons, rather than morning stars. And does that not suit him better, a soul that soars like a bird in flight, rather than falling like Lucifer?”

“Kaelie,” Clary ground out between her teeth.
“What does the Seelie Queen want?”

The faerie girl laughed. “Why,” she said, “only to give you this.” She held out something in her hand, a tiny silver bell pendant, with a loop at the end of the handle so that it could be strung on a chain. As Kaelie moved her hand forward, the bell chimed, light and as sweet as rain.

Clary shrank back. “I do not want the gifts of your lady,” she said, “for they come freighted with lies and expectations. I will not owe the Queen anything.”

“It is not a gift,” Kaelie said impatiently. “It is a means of summoning. The Queen forgives you for your earlier stubbornness. She expects there is a time soon in which you will want her help. She is willing to offer it to you, should you choose to ask. Simply ring that bell, and a servant of the Court will come and bring you to her.”

Clary shook her head. “I will not ring it.”

Kaelie shrugged. “Then it should cost you nothing to take it.”

As if in a dream Clary saw her own hand reach out, her fingers hover over the bell.

“You would do anything to save him,” said Kaelie, her voice thin and as sweet as the bell’s ring, “whatever it cost you, whatever you might owe to Hell or Heaven, would you not?”

Remembered voices chimed in Clary’s head.
Did you ever stop to wonder what untruths might have been in the tale your mother told you, that served her purpose in telling it? Do you truly think you know each and every secret of your past
?

Madame Dorothea told Jace he would fall in love with the wrong person
.

He is not beyond saving. But it will be difficult.

The bell clanged as Clary took it, folding it into her palm. Kaelie smiled, her blue eyes shining like glass beads. “A wise choice.”

Clary hesitated. But before she could thrust the bell back at the faerie girl, she heard someone call her name, and turned to see her mother making her way through the crowd toward her. She turned back hastily, but was not surprised to see that Kaelie was gone, having melted away into the crowd like mist burning away in the morning sun.

“Clary,” Jocelyn said, reaching her, “I was looking for you, and then Luke pointed you out, just standing over here by yourself. Is everything okay?”

Just standing over here by yourself
. Clary wondered what kind of glamour Kaelie had been using; her mother ought to be able to see through most. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“Where’s Simon? I thought he was coming.”

Of course she would think of Simon first, Clary thought, not Jace. Even though Jace had been supposed to come, and as Clary’s boyfriend, he probably ought to even have been there early. “Mom,” she said, and then paused. “Do you think you’ll ever like Jace?”

Jocelyn’s green eyes softened. “I
did
notice he wasn’t here, Clary. I just didn’t know if you’d want to talk about it.”

“I mean,” Clary went on doggedly, “do you think there’s something he could do to
make
you like him?”

“Yes,” Jocelyn said. “He could make you happy.” She touched Clary’s face lightly, and Clary clenched her own hand, feeling the bell press into her skin.

“He does make me happy,” Clary said. “But he can’t control everything in the world, Mom. Other things happen—” She fumbled for words. How could she explain that it wasn’t
Jace
making her unhappy, but what was happening to him, without revealing what that was?

“You love him so much,” Jocelyn said gently. “It scares me. I’ve always wanted to keep you protected.”

“And look how that worked out,” Clary began, and then softened her voice. This wasn’t the time to blame her mother or fight with her, not now. Not with Luke looking over at them from the doorway, his face alight with love and anxiety. “If you just knew him,” she said, a little hopelessly. “But I guess everyone says that about their boyfriend.”

“You’re right,” Jocelyn said, surprising her. “I don’t know him, not really. I see him, and he reminds me a little of his mother somehow. I don’t know why—he doesn’t look like her, except that she was also beautiful, and she had that terrible vulnerability that he has—”

“Vulnerability?” Clary was astonished. She had never thought anyone but herself thought of Jace as vulnerable.

“Oh, yes,” said Jocelyn. “I wanted to hate her for taking Stephen away from Amatis, but you just couldn’t help wanting to protect Céline. Jace has a little of that.” She sounded lost in thought. “Or maybe it’s just that beautiful things are so easily broken by the world.” She lowered her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I have my memories to contend with, but they’re
my
memories. Jace shouldn’t bear the weight of them. I will tell you one thing, though. If he didn’t love you like he does—and it’s written all over his face whenever he looks at you—I wouldn’t tolerate him for even a moment. So keep that in mind when you’re being angry with me.”

She waved off Clary’s protestation that she wasn’t angry with a smile and a pat on the cheek, and headed back toward Luke with a last appeal for Clary to get out among the crowd and mingle. Clary nodded and said nothing, looking after her mother as she went, and feeling the bell sear against the inside of her hand where she clutched it, like the tip of a burning match.

The area around the Ironworks was mostly warehouses and art galleries, the kind of neighborhood that emptied out at night, so it didn’t take too long for Jordan and Simon to find a parking space. Simon jumped down out of the truck, only to find Jordan already on the sidewalk, looking at him critically.

Simon hadn’t packed any nice clothes when he’d left his house—he didn’t have anything on him fancier than a bomber jacket that had once belonged to his dad—so he and Jordan had spent the afternoon prowling the East Village for a decent outfit for him to wear. They’d finally found an old Zegna suit in a consignment shop called Love Saves the Day that mostly sold glitter platform boots and sixties Pucci scarves. Simon suspected it was where Magnus got most of his clothes.

“What?” he said now, self-consciously pulling down the sleeves of his suit jacket. It was a little too small for him, though Jordan had opined that if he never buttoned it, no one would notice. “How bad do I look?”

Jordan shrugged. “You won’t crack any mirrors,” he said. “I was just wondering if you were armed. You want anything? Dagger, maybe?” He opened his own suit jacket just a bit, and Simon saw something long and metallic glinting against the inside lining.

“No wonder you and Jace like each other so much. You’re both crazy walking arsenals.” Simon shook his head in weariness and turned to head toward the Ironworks entrance. It was across the street, a wide gold awning shadowing a rectangle of sidewalk that had been decorated with a dark red carpet with the gold image of a wolf stamped into it. Simon couldn’t help being slightly amused.

Leaning against one of the poles holding up the awning was Isabelle. She had her hair up and was wearing a long red dress, slit up the side to show most of her leg. Loops of gold laddered her right arm. They looked like bracelets, but Simon knew they were really her electrum whip. She was covered in Marks. They twined her arms, threaded their way up her thigh, necklaced her throat, and decorated her chest, a great deal of which was visible, thanks to the plunging neckline of her dress. Simon tried not to stare.

“Hey, Isabelle,” he said.

Beside him Jordan was also trying not to stare. “Um,” he said. “Hi. I’m Jordan.”

“We met,” Isabelle said coldly, ignoring his proffered hand. “Maia was trying to rip your face off. Quite rightly, too.”

Jordan looked worried. “Is she here? Is she okay?”

“She’s here,” said Isabelle. “Not that how she feels is any of your business…”

“I feel a sense of responsibility,” said Jordan.

“And where is this feeling located? In your pants, perhaps?”

Jordan looked indignant.

Isabelle waved a slim decorated hand. “Look, whatever you did in the past, it’s past. I know you’re Praetor Lupus now, and I told Maia what that means. She’s willing to accept that you’re here and ignore you. But that’s all you get. Don’t bother her, don’t try to talk to her, don’t even look at her, or I’ll fold you in half so many times you’ll look like a tiny little origami werewolf.”

Simon snorted.

“Laugh away.” Isabelle pointed at him. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, either. So despite the fact that she looks totally babelicious tonight—and if I were into chicks I would completely go for her—neither of you are allowed to talk to her. Got it?”

They nodded, looking at their shoes like middle schoolers who’d just been handed detention slips.

Isabelle unpeeled herself from the pole. “Great. Let’s go on in.”

The inside of the Ironworks was alive with ropes
of shimmering multicolored lights. Quite a few guests were already sitting, but just as many were milling around, carrying champagne glasses full of pale, fizzing liquid. Waiters—who were also werewolves, Simon noted; the whole event seemed to be staffed by members of Luke’s pack—moved among the guests, handing out champagne flutes. Simon declined one. Ever since his experience at Magnus’s party, he hadn’t felt safe drinking anything that he hadn’t prepared himself, and besides, he never knew which non-blood liquids were going to stay down and which would make him sick.

Maia was standing over by one of the brick pillars, talking to two other werewolves and laughing. She wore a brilliant orange satin sheath dress that set off her dark skin, and her hair was a wild halo of brown-gold curls around her face. She caught sight of Simon and Jordan and deliberately turned away. The back of her dress was a low V that showed a lot of bare skin, including a tattoo of a butterfly across her lower spine.

“I don’t think she had that when I knew her,” Jordan said. “That tattoo, I mean.”

Simon looked at Jordan. He was goggling at his ex-girlfriend with the sort of obvious longing that, Simon suspected, was going to get him punched in the face by Isabelle if he wasn’t careful. “Come on,” he said, putting his hand against Jordan’s back and shoving lightly. “Let’s go see where we’re sitting.”

Isabelle, who had been watching them over her shoulder, smiled a catlike smile. “Good idea.”

They made their way through the crowd to the area where the tables were, only to find that their table was already half-occupied. Clary sat in one of the seats, looking down into a champagne glass full of what was most likely ginger ale. Next to her were Alec and Magnus, both in the dark suits they’d worn when they’d come from Vienna. Magnus seemed to be playing with the fringed edges of his long white scarf. Alec, his arms crossed over his chest, was staring ferociously into the distance.

Clary, on seeing Simon and Jordan, bounced to her feet, relief evident on her face. She came around the table to greet Simon, and he saw that she was wearing a very plain gold silk dress and low gold sandals. Without heels to give her height, she looked tiny. The Morgenstern ring was around her neck, its silver glinting against the chain that held it. She reached up to hug him and muttered, “I think Alec and Magnus are fighting.”

“Looks like it,” he muttered back. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

At that, she detached her arms from his neck. “He got held up at the Institute.” She turned. “Hey, Kyle.”

He smiled a little awkwardly. “It’s Jordan, actually.”

“So I’ve heard.” Clary gestured toward the table. “Well, we might as well sit. I think pretty soon there’s going to be toasting and stuff. And then, hopefully, food.”