The Mortal Instruments - Complete Collection (233 page)

“You mean you haven’t been going on romantic dates with Sebastian while you’ve been away from me?”

“I tried,” Jace said, “but no matter how liquored up you get him, he just won’t put out.”

Clary reached for her glass of wine. She was starting to get used to the taste of it. She could feel it burning a path down her throat, heating her veins, adding a dreamlike quality to the night. She was in Italy, with her beautiful boyfriend,
on a beautiful night, eating delicious food that melted in her mouth. These were the kinds of moments that you remembered all your life. But it felt like touching only the edge of happiness; every time she looked at Jace, happiness slipped away from her. How could he be Jace and not-Jace, all at once? How could you be heartbroken and happy at the same time?

They lay in the narrow twin bed that was meant for only one person, wrapped together tightly under Jordan’s flannel sheet. Maia lay with her head in the crook of his arm, the sun from the window warming her face and shoulders. Jordan was propped on his arm, leaning over her, his free hand running through her hair, pulling her curls out to their full length and letting them slide back through his fingers.

“I missed your hair,” he said, and dropped a kiss onto her forehead.

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her, that sort of laughter that came with the giddiness of infatuation. “Just my hair?”

“No.” He was grinning, his hazel eyes lit with green, his brown hair thoroughly rumpled. “Your eyes.” He kissed them, one after another. “Your mouth.” He kissed that, too, and she hooked her fingers through the chain against his bare chest that held the Praetor Lupus pendant. “Everything about you.”

She twisted the chain around her fingers. “Jordan… I’m sorry about before. About snapping at you about the money, and Stanford. It was just a lot to take in.”

His eyes darkened, and he ducked his head. “It’s not like I don’t know how independent you are. I just… I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know you worry about me needing you, but I shouldn’t be with you because I need you. I should be with you because I love you.”

His eyes lit up—incredulous, hopeful. “You—I mean, you think it’s possible you could feel that way about me again?”

“I never stopped loving you, Jordan,” she said, and he caught her against him with a kiss so intense it was bruising. She moved closer to him, and things might have proceeded as they had in the shower if a sharp knock hadn’t come at the door.

“Praetor Kyle!” a voice shouted through the door. “Wake up! Praetor Scott wishes to see you downstairs in his office.”

Jordan, his arms around Maia, swore softly. Laughing, Maia ran her hand slowly up his back, tangling her fingers in his hair. “You think Praetor Scott can wait?” she whispered.

“I think he has a key to this room and he’ll use it if he feels like it.”

“That’s all right,” she said, brushing her lips against his ear. “We have lots of time, right? All the time we’ll ever need.”

Chairman Meow lay on the table in front of Simon, completely asleep, his four legs sticking straight into the air. This, Simon felt, was something of an achievement. Since he had become a vampire, animals tended not to like him; they avoided him if they could, and hissed or barked if he came too close. For Simon, who had always been an animal lover, it was a hard loss. But he supposed if you were already the pet of a warlock, perhaps you’d learned to accept weird creatures in your life.

Magnus, as it turned out, hadn’t been joking about the candles. Simon was taking a moment to rest and drink some
coffee; it stayed down well, and the caffeine took the edge off the beginning prickles of hunger. All afternoon, they had been helping Magnus set the scene for raising Azazel. They had raided local bodegas for tea lights and prayer candles, which they had placed in a careful circle. Isabelle and Alec were scattering the floorboards outside the circle with a mixture of salt and dried belladonna as Magnus instructed them, reading aloud from
Forbidden Rites, A Necromancer’s Manual of the Fifteenth Century
.

“What have you done to my cat?” Magnus demanded, returning to the living room carrying a pot of coffee, with a circle of mugs floating around his head like a model of the planets rotating around the sun. “You drank his blood, didn’t you? You
said
you weren’t hungry!”

Simon was indignant. “I did not drink his blood. He’s fine!” He poked the Chairman in the stomach. The cat yawned. “Second, you asked me if I was hungry when you were ordering pizza, so I said no, because I can’t eat pizza. I was being polite.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to eat my cat.”

“Your cat is fine!” Simon reached to pick up the tabby, who jumped indignantly to his feet and stalked off the table. “See?”

“Whatever.” Magnus threw himself down in the seat at the head of the table; the mugs banged into place as Alec and Izzy straightened up, done with their task. Magnus clapped his hands. “Everyone! Gather around. It’s time for a meeting. I’m going to teach you how to summon a demon.”

Praetor Scott was waiting for them in the library, still in the same swivel chair, a small bronze box on the desk between
them. Maia and Jordan sat down across from him, and Maia couldn’t help wondering if it was written all over her face, what she and Jordan had been doing. Not that the Praetor was looking at them with much interest.

He pushed the box toward Jordan. “It’s a salve,” he said. “If applied to Garroway’s wound, it should filter the poison from his blood and allow the demon steel to work its way free. He should heal in a few days.”

Maia’s heart leaped—finally some good news. She reached for the box before Jordan could, and opened it. It was indeed filled with a dark waxy salve that smelled sharply herbal, like crushed bay leaves.

“I—,” Praetor Scott began, his eyes flicking to Jordan.

“She should take it,” said Jordan. “She’s close to Garroway and is part of the pack. They trust her.”

“Are you saying they don’t trust the Praetor?”

“Half of them think the Praetor is a fairy tale,” Maia said, adding “sir” as an afterthought.

Praetor Scott looked annoyed, but before he could say anything, the phone on his desk rang. He seemed to hesitate, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Scott here,” he said, and then, after a moment, “Yes—yes, I think so.” He hung up, his mouth curving into a not entirely pleasant smile. “Praetor Kyle,” he said. “I’m glad you dropped in on us today of all days. Stay a moment. This matter somewhat concerns you.”

Maia was startled at this pronouncement, but not as startled as she was a moment later when a corner of the room began to shimmer and a figure appeared, slowly developing—it was like watching images appear on film in a darkroom—and the figure of a young boy took shape. His hair was dark brown, short and
straight, and a gold necklace gleamed against the brown skin of his throat. He looked slight and ethereal, like a choirboy, but there was something in his eyes that made him seem much older than that.

“Raphael,” she said, recognizing him. He was ever so slightly transparent—a Projection, she realized. She’d heard of them but had never seen one up close.

Praetor Scott looked at her in surprise. “You know the head of the New York vampire clan?”

“We met once, in Brocelind Woods,” said Raphael, looking her over without much interest. “She is a friend of the Daylighter, Simon.”

“Your assignment,” Praetor Scott said to Jordan, as if Jordan could have forgotten.

Jordan’s forehead creased. “Has something happened to him?” he asked. “Is he all right?”

“This is not about him,” said Raphael. “It is about the rogue vampire, Maureen Brown.”

“Maureen?” Maia exclaimed. “But she’s only, what, thirteen?”

“A rogue vampire is a rogue vampire,” said Raphael. “And Maureen has been cutting quite a swath for herself through TriBeCa and the Lower East Side. Multiple injured and at least six kills. We’ve managed to cover them up, but…”

“She’s Nick’s assignment,” said Praetor Scott with a frown. “But he hasn’t been able to find a trace of her. We may need to send in someone with more experience.”

“I urge you to do so,” said Raphael. “If the Shadowhunters were not so concerned with their own… emergency at this juncture, they would surely have involved themselves by now.
And the last thing the clan needs after the affair with Camille is a censuring by the Shadowhunters.”

“I take it Camille is still missing as well?” said Jordan. “Simon told us everything that happened the night Jace disappeared, and Maureen seemed to be doing Camille’s bidding.”

“Camille is not new-made and is therefore not our concern,” said Scott.

“I know, but—find her, and you may find Maureen, that’s all I’m saying,” said Jordan.

“If she were with Camille, she would not be killing at the rate she is,” said Raphael. “Camille would prevent her. She is bloodthirsty but she knows the Conclave, and the Law. She would keep Maureen and her activities out of their line of sight. No, Maureen’s behavior has all the hallmarks of a vampire gone feral.”

“Then, I think you’re right.” Jordan sat back. “Nick should have backup in dealing with her, or—”

“Or something might happen to him? If it does, perhaps it will help you focus more in future,” said Praetor Scott. “On your
own
assignment.”

Jordan’s mouth opened. “Simon wasn’t responsible for Turning Maureen,” he said. “I told you—”

Praetor Scott waved away his words. “Yes, I know,” he said, “or you would have been pulled from your assignment, Kyle. But your subject did bite her, and under your watch as well. And it was her association with the Daylighter, however distant, that led to her eventual Turning.”

“The Daylighter is dangerous,” said Raphael, his eyes shining. “It is what I have been saying all along.”

“He is not dangerous,” Maia said fiercely. “He has a good
heart.” She saw Jordan glance at her a little, sidelong, so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.

“Yap, yap, yap,” said Raphael dismissively. “You werewolves cannot focus on the matter at hand. I trusted you, Praetor, for new-fledged Downworlders are your department. But allowing Maureen to run wild reflects badly on my clan. If you do not find her soon, I will call up every vampire at my disposal. After all”—he smiled, and his delicate incisors shone—“in the end she is ours to kill.”

When the meal was over, Clary and Jace walked back to the apartment through a mist-shrouded evening. The streets were deserted and the canal water shone like glass. Rounding a corner, they found themselves beside a quiet canal, lined with shuttered houses. Boats bobbed gently on the curving water, each a half-moon of black.

Jace laughed softly and moved forward, his hand pulling out of Clary’s. His eyes were wide and golden in the lamplight. He knelt by the side of the canal, and she saw a flash of white-silver—a stele—and then one of the boats sprang free of its mooring chain and began to drift toward the center of the canal. Jace slid the stele back into his belt and leaped, landing lightly on the wooden seat at the front of the boat. He held his hand out to Clary. “Come on.”

She looked from him to the boat and shook her head. It was only a little bigger than a canoe, painted black, though the paint was damp and splintering. It looked as light and fragile as a toy. She imagined upending it and both of them being dumped into the ice-green canal. “I can’t. I’ll knock it over.”

Jace shook his head impatiently. “You can do it,” he said. “I
trained you.” To demonstrate he took a step back. Now he was standing on the thin edge of the boat, just beside the oarlock. He looked at her, his mouth crooked in a half smile. By all the laws of physics, she thought, the boat, unbalanced, ought to have been toppling sideways into the water. But Jace balanced lightly there, back straight, as if he were made of nothing more than smoke. Behind him was the backdrop of water and stone, canal and bridges, not a single modern edifice in sight. With his bright hair and the way he carried himself, he could have been some Renaissance prince.

He held out a hand to her again. “Remember. You’re as light as you want to be.”

She remembered. Hours of training in how to fall, to balance, how to land like Jace did, as if you were a piece of ash sifting gently downward. She sucked her breath in and leaped, the green water flying by beneath her. She alighted in the bow of the boat, wobbling on the wooden seat, but steady.

She let out her breath in a whoosh of relief and heard Jace laugh as he leaped down to the flat bottom of the boat. It was leaky. A thin layer of water covered the wood. He was also nine inches taller than she was, so that with her standing on the seat in the bow, their heads were on a level.

He put his hands on her waist. “So,” he said. “Where do you want to go now?”

She looked around. They had drifted far away from the bank of the canal. “Are we stealing this boat?”

“‘Stealing’ is such an ugly word,” he mused.

“What do you want to call it?”

He picked her up and swung her around before putting her down. “An extreme case of window-shopping.”

He pulled her closer, and she stiffened. Her feet skidded out from under her, and the two of them slid to the curved floor of the boat, which was flat and damp and smelled like water and wet wood.

Clary found herself resting on top of Jace, her knees on either side of his hips. Water was soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t seem to mind. He threw his hands behind his head, folding them, his shirt pulling up. “You literally knocked me down with the strength of your passion,” he observed. “Nice work, Fray.”

“You only fell because you wanted to. I know you,” she said. The moon shone down on them like a spotlight, like they were the only people under it. “You never slip.”

He touched her face. “I may not slip,” he said, “but I fall.”

Her heart pounded, and she had to swallow before she could reply lightly, as if he were joking. “That may be your worst line of all time.”

“Who says it’s a line?”

The boat rocked, and she leaned forward, balancing her hands on his chest. Her hips pressed against his, and she watched his eyes as they widened, going from wickedly sparkling gold to dark, the pupil swallowing the iris. She could see herself and the night sky in them.