The Mortal Instruments - Complete Collection (9 page)

“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’m
not
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 expression.

Alec stood up. “Fine. We’ll leave you to it.”

“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?”

“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—”

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 say
was
?”

“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?”

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 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?”

“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 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.

T
HE 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.”

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 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.”