The Mortal Instruments - Complete Collection (276 page)

Herons. Clary laid the clothes carefully on the bed. She could see, in her mind’s eye, Amatis wearing these clothes when Stephen Herondale had died. Putting them on carefully, smoothing down the fabric, buttoning the jacket close, all to mourn a man to whom she’d no longer been married. Widow’s clothes for someone who had not been able to call herself a widow.

“Clary?” It was her mother, leaning in the doorway, watching her. “What are those—Oh.” She crossed the room, touched the fabric of the dress, and sighed. “Oh, Amatis.”

“She never did get over Stephen, did she?” asked Clary.

“Sometimes people don’t.” Jocelyn’s hand moved from the dress to Clary’s hair, tucked it back with quick motherly precision. “And Nephilim—we do tend to love very overwhelmingly. To fall in love only once, to die of grief over love—my old tutor used to say that the hearts of Nephilim were like the hearts of angels: They felt every human pain, and never healed.”

“But you did. You loved Valentine, but now you love Luke.”

“I know.” Jocelyn’s look was faraway. “It wasn’t until I spent more time in the mundane world that I started to realize that it wasn’t how most human beings thought of love. I realized that you might have it more than once, that your heart could heal, that you could love over and over again. And I always loved Luke. I might not have known it, but I always did love him.” Jocelyn pointed at the clothes on the bed. “You should wear the mourning jacket,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

Startled, Clary said, “To the meeting?”

“Shadowhunters have died and been turned Dark,” said Jocelyn. “Every Shadowhunter lost is someone’s son, brother, sister, cousin. Nephilim are a family. A dysfunctional family,
but . . .” She touched her daughter’s face, her own expression hidden in the shadows. “Get some sleep, Clary,” she said. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

After the door shut behind her mother, Clary put on her nightgown and then clambered obediently into bed. She shut her eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Images kept bursting behind her eyelids like fireworks: angels falling from the sky; golden blood; Ithuriel in his chains, with his blinded eyes, telling her of the images of runes he had given her through her life, the visions and dreams of the future. She remembered her dreams of her brother with black wings that spilled blood, walking across a frozen lake. . . .

She threw the coverlet off. She felt hot and itchy, too strung-up to sleep. After getting out of bed, she padded downstairs in search of a glass of water. The living room was half-lit, dim witchlight spilling down the corridor. Murmurs came from beyond the door. Someone was awake, and talking in the kitchen. Clary moved down the corridor warily, until soft overheard whispers began to take on shape and familiarity. She recognized her mother’s voice first, taut with distress. “But I just don’t understand how it could have been in the cupboard,” she was saying. “I haven’t seen it since—since Valentine took everything we owned, back in New York.”

Luke spoke: “Didn’t Clary say that Jonathan had it?”

“Yes, but then it would have been destroyed with that foul apartment, wouldn’t it?” Jocelyn’s voice rose as Clary moved to stand in the doorway of the kitchen. “The one with all the clothes Valentine bought for me. As if I were coming back.”

Clary stood very still. Her mother and Luke were sitting at the kitchen table; her mother had her head down on one
hand, and Luke was rubbing her back. Clary had told her mother everything about the apartment, about how Valentine had maintained it with all Jocelyn’s things there, determined that one day his wife would come back and live with him. Her mother had listened calmly, but clearly the story had upset her much more than Clary had realized.

“He’s gone now, Jocelyn,” said Luke. “I know it might seem half-impossible. Valentine was always such a huge presence, even when he was in hiding. But he really is dead.”

“My son isn’t, though,” said Jocelyn. “You know, I used to take this box out and cry over it, every year, on his birthday? I dream sometimes, of a boy with green eyes, a boy who was never poisoned with demon blood, a boy who could laugh and love and be human, and that is the boy I wept over, but that boy never existed.”
Take it out and cry over it,
Clary thought—she knew what box her mother meant. A box that was a memorial to a child that had died, though he still lived. The box had contained locks of his baby hair, photographs, and a tiny shoe. The last time Clary had seen it, it had been in her brother’s possession. Valentine must have given it to him, though she could never understand why Sebastian had kept it. He was hardly the sentimental sort.

“You’re going to have to tell the Clave,” Luke said. “If it’s something that has to do with Sebastian, they’ll want to know.”

Clary felt her stomach go cold.

“I wish I didn’t have to,” Jocelyn said. “I wish I could throw the whole thing into the fire. I hate that this is my fault,” she burst out. “And all I’ve ever wanted was to protect Clary. But the thing that frightens me most for her, for all of us, is someone who wouldn’t even be alive if it weren’t for me.” Jocelyn’s
voice had gone flat and bitter. “I should have killed him when he was a baby,” she said, and leaned back, away from Luke, so that Clary saw what was on the surface of the kitchen table. It was the silver box, just as she remembered it. Heavy, with a simple lid, and the initials
J.C.
carved into the side.

The morning sun sparkled off the new gates in front of the Gard. The old ones, Clary guessed, had been destroyed in the battle that had wrecked much of the Gard and scorched the trees along the hillside. Past the gates she could see Alicante below, shimmering water in the canals, the demon towers reaching up to where sunlight made them glitter like mica sparkling in stone.

The Gard itself had been restored. Fire had not destroyed the stone walls or towers. A wall still ran around it, and the new gates were made of the hard, clear
adamas
that formed the demon towers. They seemed to have been hand-wrought, their lines curving in to circle around the symbol of the Council—four
C
s in a square, standing for Council, Covenant, Clave, and Consul. The curvature of each
C
held a symbol of one of the branches of Downworlders. A crescent moon for the wolves, a spell book for the warlocks, an elf arrow for the Fair Folk, and for the vampires, a star.

A star. She hadn’t been able to think of anything that symbolized vampires, herself. Blood? Fangs? But there was something simple and elegant about the star. It was bright in the darkness, a darkness that would never be illuminated, and it was lonely the way only things that could never die were lonely.

Clary missed Simon with a sharp pain. She was exhausted after a night of little sleep, and her emotional resources were low. It didn’t help that she felt as if she were the center of a
hundred hostile stares. There were dozens of Shadowhunters milling around the gates, most of them unfamiliar to her. Many were shooting Jocelyn and Luke covert glances; a few were coming up to greet them, while others stood back looking curious. Jocelyn seemed to be keeping her calm with a certain amount of effort.

More Shadowhunters were coming up the path along the Gard Hill. With relief Clary recognized the Lightwoods—Maryse in front, with Robert beside her; Isabelle, Alec, and Jace following. They were wearing white mourning clothes. Maryse looked especially somber. Clary couldn’t help but notice that she and Robert were walking side by side but apart, not even their hands touching.

Jace broke away from the group and moved over toward her. Gazes followed him as he went, though he seemed not to notice. He was famous in a strange sort of way among the Nephilim—Valentine’s son, who had not really been his son. Kidnapped by Sebastian, rescued by the blade of Heaven. Clary knew the story well, as did everyone else close to Jace, but the rumors had grown like coral, adding layers and colors of story.

“. . . angel blood . . .”

“. . . special powers . . .”

“. . . heard that Valentine taught him tricks . . .”

“. . . fire in his blood . . .”

“. . . not right for Nephilim . . .”

She could hear the whispers, even as Jace moved among them.

It was a bright winter day, cold but sunny, and the light picked the gold and silver threads out of his hair and made her squint as he came up to her at the gate. “Mourning clothes?” he said, touching the sleeve of her jacket.

“You’re wearing them,” she pointed out.

“I didn’t think you had any.”

“Amatis’s,” she said. “Listen—I have to tell you something.”

He let her draw him aside. Clary described the conversation she had overheard between her mother and Luke about the box. “It’s definitely the box I remember. It’s the one my mother had when I was growing up, and the one that was in Sebastian’s apartment when I was there.”

Jace raked a hand through the light strands of his hair. “I thought there was something,” he said. “Maryse got a message from your mother this morning.” His gaze was inward. “Sebastian Turned Luke’s sister,” he added. “He did it on purpose, to hurt Luke and hurt your mother through Luke. He hates her. He must have come to Alicante to get Amatis, that night we fought at the Burren. He as much as told me he was going to do it, back when we were bound. He said he was going to kidnap a Shadowhunter from Alicante, just not which one.”

Clary nodded. It was always strange to hear Jace talk about the self he had been, the Jace who had been Sebastian’s friend—more than his friend, his ally. The Jace who had worn her Jace’s skin and face but had been someone else entirely.

“He must have brought the box with him then, left it in her house,” Jace added. “He would have known that your family would find it one day. He would have thought of it as a message, or a signature.”

“Is that what the Clave thinks?” Clary asked.

“It’s what I think,” Jace said, focusing on her. “And you know we both can read Sebastian better than they can, or ever will. They don’t understand him at all.”

“Aren’t they lucky.” The sound of a bell echoed through
the air, and the gates slid open. Clary and Jace joined the Lightwoods, Luke, and Jocelyn in the tide of Shadowhunters pouring through. They passed through the gardens outside the fortress, up a set of stairs, then through another set of doors into a long corridor that ended at the Council chamber.

Jia Penhallow, in Consul robes, stood at the entrance to the chamber as Shadowhunter after Shadowhunter came through. It was built like an amphitheater: a half circle of tiered benches facing a rectangular raised dais in the front of the room. There were two lecterns on the dais, one for the Consul and one for the Inquisitor, and behind the lecterns two windows, massive rectangles, looked out over Alicante.

Clary moved to sit with the Lightwoods and her mother, while Robert Lightwood broke away from them and headed down the center aisle to take up the place of the Inquisitor. On the dais, behind the lecterns, were four tall chairs, the back of each inscribed with a symbol: spell book, moon, arrow, star. The seats for the Downworlders of the Council. Luke eyed his but seated himself next to Jocelyn. This was not a full Council meeting, with Downworlder attendance. Luke wasn’t here in an official capacity. In front of the seats a table had been erected, draped with blue velvet. Atop the velvet lay something long and sharp, something that glimmered in the light from the windows. The Mortal Sword.

Clary glanced around. The flood of Shadowhunters had slowed to a trickle; the room was nearly filled to its echoing roof. There had once been more entrances than through the Gard. Westminster Abbey had had one, she knew, as had the Sagrada Família and Saint Basil the Blessed, but they had been sealed when Portals were invented. She couldn’t help but
wonder if some kind of magic kept the Council room from overflowing. It was as full as she had ever seen it, but there were still empty seats when Jia Penhallow stepped up onto the stage and clapped her hands sharply.

“Will the Council please come to attention,” she said.

Silence fell quickly; many of the Shadowhunters were straining forward. Rumors had been flying around like panicked birds, and there was an electricity in the room, the crackling current of people desperate for information.

“Bangkok, Buenos Aires, Oslo, Berlin, Moscow, Los Angeles,” said Jia. “Attacked in quick succession, before the attacks could be reported. Before warnings could be given. Every Conclave in these cities has had its Shadowhunters captured and Turned. A few—pitifully few, the very old or very young—were simply killed, their bodies left for us to burn, to add to the voices of lost Shadowhunters in the Silent City.”

A voice spoke from one of the front rows. A woman with black hair, the tattooed silver design of a koi fish standing out on the dark skin of her cheek. Clary rarely saw Shadowhunters with tattoos that weren’t Marks, but it wasn’t unheard of. “You say ‘Turned,’ ” she said. “But do you not mean ‘slain’?”

Jia’s mouth tightened. “I do not mean ‘slain,’ ” she said. “I mean ‘Turned.’ We speak of the Endarkened, the ones Jonathan Morgenstern—or as he prefers to be known, Sebastian—Turned from their purpose as Nephilim using the Infernal Cup. Every Institute was issued reports of what happened at the Burren. The existence of the Endarkened is something we have known of now for some time, even if there were perhaps those who did not want to believe it.”