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City of Ashes

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Mortal Instruments 2
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City of Ashes 

 Mortal Instruments Book 2 

 Cassandra Clare 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( Prologue  

Smoke and Diamonds 

The formidable glass-and-steel structure rose from its position on Front Street like a glittering needle threading the sky. There were fifty-seven floors to the Metropole, Manhattan's most expensive new downtown condominium tower. The topmost floor, the fifty-seventh, contained the most luxurious apartment of all: the Metropole penthouse, a masterpiece of sleek black-and-white design. Too new to have gathered dust yet, its bare marble floors reflected back the stars visible through the enormous floor-toceiling windows. The window glass was perfectly translucent, providing such a complete illusion that there was nothing between he viewer and the view that it had been known to induce vertigo even in those unafraid of heights. Far below ran the silver ribbon of the East River, braceleted by shining bridges, flecked by boats as small as flyspecks, splitting the shining banks of light that were Manhattan and Brooklyn on either side. On a clear night the illuminated Statue of Liberty was just visible to the south-but there was fog tonight, and Liberty Island was hidden behind a white bank of mist. However spectacular the view, the man standing in front of the window didn't look particularly impressed by it. There was a frown on his narrow, ascetic face as he turned away from 

the glass and strode across the floor, the heels of his boots echoing against the marble floor. "Aren't you ready yet?" he demanded, raking a hand through his salt-white hair. 

"We've been here nearly an hour." The boy kneeling on the floor looked up at him, nervous and petulant. "It's the marble. It's more solid than I thought. 

It's making it hard to draw the pentagram." "So skip the pentagram." Up close it was easier to see that despite his white hair, the man wasn't old. His hard face was severe but;  unlined, his eyes clear and steady. The boy swallowed hard and the membranous black wings protruding from his narrow shoulder blades (he had cut slits in the back of his denim jacket to accommodate them) flapped nervously. "The pentagram is a necessary part of any demon-raising ritual. You know that, sir. Without it..." "We're not protected. I know that, young Elias. 

But get on with it. I've known warlocks who could raise a demon, chat him up, and dispatch him back to hell in the time it's taken you to draw half a five-pointed star." The boy said nothing, only attacked the marble again, this time with renewed urgency. Sweat dripped from his forehead and he pushed his hair back with a hand whose fingers were connected with delicate web like membranes. "Done," he said at last, sitting back on his heels with a gasp. "It's done." "Good." The man sounded pleased. "Let's get started." "My money-" "I told you. You'll get your money after I talk to Agramon, not before." Elias got to his feet and shrugged his jacket off. Despite the holes he'd cut in it, it still compressed his wings uncomfortably; 

freed, they stretched and expanded themselves, wafting a breeze through the unventilated room. His wings were the color of an oil slick: black threaded with a rainbow of dizzying colors. The man looked away from him, as if the wings displeased him, but Elias didn't seem to notice. He began circling the pentagram he'd drawn, circling it counterclockwise and chanting in a demon language that sounded like the crackle of flames. 

With a sound like air being sucked from a tire, the outline of the pentagram suddenly burst 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( into flames. The dozen huge windows cast back a dozen burning reflected five-pointed stars. Something was moving inside the pentagram, something formless and black. Elias was chanting more quickly now, raising his webbed hands, tracing delicate outlines on the air with his fingers. Where they passed, blue fire crackled. The man couldn't speak Chthonian, the warlock language, with any fluency, but he recognized enough of the words to understand Elias's repeated chant: Agramon, I summon thee. Out of the spaces between the worlds, I summon thee. The man slid a hand into his pocket. Something hard and cold and metallic met the touch of his fingers. He smiled. Elias had stopped walking. 

He was standing in front of the pentagram now, his voice rising and falling in a steady chant, blue fire crackling around him like lightning. Suddenly a plume of black smoke rose inside the pentagram; it spiraled upward, spreading and solidifying. Two eyes hung in the shadow like jewels caught in a spider's web. "Who has called me here across the worlds?" 

Agramon demanded in a voice like shattering glass. "Who summons me?" Elias had stopped chanting. He was standing still in front of the pentagram-still except for his wings, which beat the air slowly. The air stank of corrosion and burning. "Agramon," the warlock said. "I am the warlock Elias. I am the one who has summoned you." For a moment there was silence. Then the demon laughed, if smoke can be said to laugh. The laugh itself was caustic as acid. "Foolish warlock," Agramon wheezed. "Foolish boy." "You are the foolish one, if you think you can threaten me," Elias said, but his voice trembled like his wings. 

"You will be a prisoner of that pentagram, Agramon, until I release you." "Will I?" The smoke surged forward, forming and re-forming itself. A tendril took the shape of a human hand and stroked the edge of the burning pentagram that contained it. Then, with a surge, the smoke seethed past the edge of the star, poured over the border like a wave breaching a levee. The flames guttered and died as Elias, screaming, stumbled backward. He was chanting now, in rapid Chthonian, spells of containment and banishment. Nothing happened; the black smoke-mass came on inexorably, and now it was starting to have something of a shape- a malformed, enormous, hideous shape, its glowing eyes altering, rounding to the size of saucers, spilling a dreadful light. The man watched with impassive interest as Elias screamed again and turned to run. He never reached the door. Agramon surged forward, his dark mass crashing down over the warlock like a surge of boiling black tar. Elias struggled feebly for a moment under the onslaught-and then was still. The black shape withdrew, leaving the warlock lying contorted on the marble floor. "I do hope," said the man, who had taken the cold metal object out of his pocket and was toying with it idly, "that you haven't done anything to him that will render him useless to me. I need his blood, you see." Agramon turned, a black pillar with deadly diamond eyes. They took in the man in the expensive suit, his narrow, unconcerned face, the black Marks covering his skin, and the glowing object in his hand. "You paid the warlock child to summon me? And you did not tell him what I could do?" "You guess correctly," said the man. Agramon spoke with grudging admiration. "That was clever." The man took a step toward the demon. "I am very clever. And I'm also your master now. I hold the Mortal Cup. You must obey me, or face the consequences." The demon was silent a moment. 

Then it slid to the ground in a mockery of obeisance-the closest a creature with no real body could come to kneeling. "I am at your service, my Lord...?" The sentence ended politely, on a question. The man smiled. "You may call me Valentine." 

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A Season in Hell 

I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am. -Arthur Rimbaud 

1 Valentine's Arrow 

"Are you still mad?" Alec, leaning against the wall of the elevator, glared across the small space at Jace. "I'm 

not mad." 

"Oh, yes you are." Jace gestured accusingly at his stepbrother, then yelped as pain shot up his arm. Every part 

of him hurt from the thumping he'd taken that afternoon when he'd dropped three floors through rotted wood 

onto a pile of scrap metal. Even his fingers were bruised. Alec, who'd only recently put away the crutches he'd 

had to use after his fight with Abbadon, didn't look much better than Jace felt. His clothes were covered in 

mud and his hair hung down in lank, sweaty strips. There was a long cut down the side of his cheek. "I am 

not," Alec said, through his teeth. "Just because you said dragon demons were extinct-" "I said mostly extinct." 

Alec jabbed a finger toward him. "Mostly extinct," he said, his voice trembling with rage, 


ENOUGH." "I see," said Jace. "I'll just have them change the entry in the demonology textbook from 'almost 


happy?" "Boys, boys," said Isabelle, who'd been examining her face in the elevator's mirrored wall. "Don't 

fight." She turned away from the glass with a sunny smile. "All right, so it was a little more action than we 

were expecting, but I thought it was fun." Alec looked at her and shook his head. "How do you manage never 

to get mud on you?" Isabelle shrugged philosophically. "I'm pure at heart. It repels the dirt." Jace snorted so loudly that she turned on him with a frown. He wiggled his mud-caked fingers at her. His 

nails were black crescents. "Filthy inside and out." Isabelle was about to reply when the elevator ground to a 

halt with the sound of screeching brakes. "Time to get this thing fixed," she said, yanking the door open. Jace 

followed her out into the entryway, already looking forward to shucking his armor and weapons and stepping 

into a hot shower. He'd convinced his stepsiblings to come hunting with him despite the fact that neither of 

them was entirely comfortable going out on their own now that Hodge wasn't there to 

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But Jace had wanted the oblivion of fighting, the harsh diversion of killing, and the distraction of injuries. And 

knowing he wanted it, they'd gone along with it, crawling through filthy deserted subway tunnels until they'd 

found the Dragonidae demon and killed it. The three of them working together in perfect unison, the way they 

always had. Like family. He unzipped his jacket and slung it over one of the pegs hanging on the wall. Alec 

was sitting on the low wooden bench next to him, kicking off his muck-covered boots. He was humming 

tunelessly under his breath, letting Jace know he wasn't that annoyed. Isabelle was pulling the pins out of her 

long dark hair, allowing it to shower down around her. "Now I'm hungry," she said. "I wish Mom were here to 

cook us something." "Better that she isn't," said Jace, unbuckling his weapons belt. "She'd already be shrieking 

about the rugs." "You're right about that," said a cool voice, and Jace swung around, his hands still at his belt, 

and saw Maryse Lightwood, her arms folded, standing in the doorway. She wore a stiff black traveling suit and her hair, black as Isabelle's, was drawn back into a thick rope that hung halfway down her 

back. Her eyes, a glacial blue, swept over the three of them like a tracking searchlight. 

"Mom!" Isabelle, 

recovering her composure, ran to her mother for a hug. Alec got to his feet and joined them, trying to hide the 

fact that he was still limping. Jace stood where he was. There had been something in Maryse's eyes as her gaze 

had passed over him that froze him in place. Surely what he had said wasn't that bad? They joked about her 

obsession with the antique rugs all the time- "Where's Dad?" Isabelle asked, stepping back from her mother. 

"And Max?" There was an almost imperceptible pause. Then Maryse said, "Max is in his room. And your 

father, unfortunately, is still in Alicante. There was some business there that required his attention." Alec, 

generally more sensitive to moods than his sister, seemed to hesitate. "Is something wrong?" "I could ask you 

that." His mother's tone was dry. "Are you limping?" 

Alec was a terrible liar. Isabelle picked up for him, smoothly: "We had a run-in with a Dragonidae demon in 

the subway tunnels. But it was nothing." 

"And I suppose that Greater Demon you fought last week, that was nothing too?" Even Isabelle was silenced 

by that. She looked to Jace, who wished she hadn't. "That wasn't planned for." Jace was 

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concentrating. Maryse hadn't greeted him yet, hadn't said so much as hello, and she was still looking at him 

with eyes like blue daggers. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that was beginning to spread. 

She'd never looked at him like this before, no matter what he'd done. "It was a mistake-" 

"Jace!" Max, the 

youngest Lightwood, squeezed his way around Maryse and darted into the room, evading his mother's 

reaching hand. "You're back! You're all back." He turned in a circle, grinning at Alec and Isabelle in triumph. 

"I thought I heard the elevator." "And I thought I told you to stay in your room," said Maryse. "I don't 

remember that," said Max, with a seriousness that made even Alec smile. Max was small for his age-he looked 

about seven-but he had a self-contained gravity that, combined with his oversize glasses, gave him the air of 

someone older. Alec reached over and ruffled his brother's hair, but Max was still looking at Jace, his eyes 

shining. Jace felt the cold fist clenched in his stomach relax ever so slightly. Max had always hero-worshiped 

him in a way that he didn't worship his own older brother, probably because Jace was far more tolerant of 

Max's presence. "I heard you fought a Greater Demon," he said. "Was it awesome?" "It was ... different," Jace 

hedged. "How was Alicante?"  

"It was awesome. We saw the coolest stuff. There's this huge armory in Alicante and they took me to some of 

the places where they make the weapons. They showed me a new way to make seraph blades too, so they last 

longer, and I'm going to try to get Hodge to show me-" Jace couldn't help it; his eyes flicked instantly to 

Maryse, his expression incredulous. So Max didn't know about Hodge? Hadn't she told him? Maryse saw his 

look and her lips thinned into a knifelike line. "That's enough, Max." She took her youngest son by the arm. 

He craned his head to look up at her in surprise. "But I'm talking to Jace-" "I can see that." 

She pushed him 

gently toward Isabelle. "Isabelle, Alec, take your brother to his room. Jace,"-there was a tightness in her voice 

when she spoke his name, as if invisible acid were drying up the syllables in her mouth-

"get yourself cleaned 

up and meet me in the library as soon as you can." "I don't get it," said Alec, looking from his mother to Jace, 

and back again. "What's going on?" Jace could feel cold sweat start up along his spine. "Is 

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father?" Maryse jerked twice, as if the words "my father" had been two separate slaps. 

"The library," she said, 

through clenched teeth. "We'll discuss the matter there." Alec said, "What happened while you were gone 

wasn't Jace's fault. We were all in on it. And Hodge said-" 

"We'll discuss Hodge later as well." Maryse's eyes were on Max, her tone warning. "But, Mother," Isabelle 

protested. "If you're going to punish Jace, you should punish us as well. It would only be fair. We all did 

exactly the same things." "No," said Maryse, after a pause so long that Jace thought perhaps she wasn't going 

to say anything at all. "You didn't." 

"Rule number one of anime," Simon said. He sat propped up against a pile of pillows at the foot of his bed, a 

bag of potato chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. He was wearing a black T-shirt that said I 

BLOGGED YOUR MOM and a pair of jeans with a hole ripped in one knee. "Never screw with a blind 

monk." "I know," Clary said, taking a potato chip and dunking it into the can of dip balanced on the TV tray 

between them. "For some reason they're always way better fighters than monks who can see." She peered at 

the screen. "Are those guys dancing?" "That's not dancing. They're trying to kill each other. This is the guy 

who's the mortal enemy of the other guy, remember? He killed his dad. Why would they be dancing?" Clary 

crunched at her chip and stared meditatively at the screen, where animated swirls of pink and yellow clouds 

rippled between the figures of two winged men, who floated around each other, each clutching a glowing 

spear. Every once in a while one of them would speak, but since it was all in Japanese with Chinese subtitles, it didn't clarify much. "The guy with the hat," she said. "He was the evil guy?" "No, the hat guy was 

the dad. He was the magical emperor, and that was his hat of power. The evil guy was the one with the 

mechanical hand that talks." The telephone rang. Simon set the bag of chips down and made as if to get up and 

answer it. Clary put her hand on his wrist. "Don't. Just leave it." "But it might be Luke. He could be calling 

from the hospital." "It's not Luke," Clary said, sounding more sure than she felt. "He'd call my cell, not your 

house." Simon looked at her a long moment before sinking back down on the rug beside her. "If you say so." 

She could hear the doubt in his voice, but also the unspoken assurance, I just want you to 

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sure "happy" was anything she was likely to be right now, not with her mother in the hospital hooked up to 

tubes and bleeping machines, and Luke like a zombie, slumped in the hard plastic chair next to her bed. Not 

with worrying about Jace all the time and picking up the phone a dozen times to call the Institute before 

setting it back down, the number still undialed. If Jace wanted to talk to her, he could call. 

Maybe it had been a 

mistake to take him to see Jocelyn. She'd been so sure that if her mother could just hear the voice of her son, 

her firstborn, she'd wake up. But she hadn't. Jace had stood stiff and awkward by the bed, his face like a 

painted angel's, with blank indifferent eyes. Clary had finally lost her patience and shouted at him, and he'd 

shouted back before storming off. Luke had watched him go with a clinical sort of interest on his exhausted 

face. "That's 

the first time I've seen you act like sister and brother," he'd remarked. Clary had said nothing in response. 

There was no point telling him how badly she wanted Jace not to be her brother. You couldn't rip out your 

own DNA, no matter how much you wished you could. No matter how much it would make you happy. But 

even if she couldn't quite manage happy, she thought, at least here in Simon's house, in his bedroom, she felt comfortable and at home. She'd known him long enough to remember when he had a bed shaped like a fire 

truck and LEGOs piled in a corner of the room. Now the bed was a futon with a brightly striped quilt that had 

been a present from his sister, and the walls were plastered with posters of bands like Rock Solid Panda and 

Stepping Razor. There was a drum set wedged into the corner of the room where the LEGOs had been, and a 

computer in the other corner, the screen still frozen on an image from World of Warcraft. 

It was almost as 

familiar as being in her own bedroom at home-which no longer existed, so at least this was the next best thing. 

"More chibis," said Simon gloomily. All the characters onscreen had turned into inch-high baby versions of 

themselves and were chasing each other around waving pots and pans. "I'm changing the channel," Simon 

announced, seizing the remote. "I'm tired of this anime. I can't tell what the plot is and no one ever has sex." 

"Of course they don't," Clary said, taking another chip. "Anime is wholesome family entertainment." "If you're 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( in the mood for less wholesome entertainment, we could try the porn channels," Simon observed. "Would you 

rather watch The Witches of Breastwick or As I Lay Dianne?" 

"Give me that!" Clary grabbed for the remote, but Simon, chortling, had already switched the TV to another 

channel. His laughter broke off abruptly. Clary looked up in surprise and saw him staring blankly at the TV. 

An old black-and-white movie was playing-Dracula. She'd seen it before, with her mother. 

Bela Lugosi, thin 

and white-faced, was on-screen, wrapped in the familiar high-collared cloak, his lips curled back from his 

pointed teeth. "I never," he intoned in his thick Hungarian accent. "I love how the spiderwebs are 

made out of rubber," Clary said, trying to sound light. "You can totally tell." But Simon was already on his 

feet, dropping the remote onto the bed. "I'll be right back," he muttered. His face was the color of winter sky 

just before it rained. Clary watched him go, biting her lip hard-it was the first time since her mother had gone 

to the hospital that she'd realized maybe Simon wasn't too happy either. 

Toweling off his hair, Jace regarded his reflection in the mirror with a quizzical scowl. A healing rune had 

taken care of the worst of his bruises, but it hadn't helped the shadows under his eyes or the tight lines at the 

corners of his mouth. His head ached and he felt slightly dizzy. He knew he should have eaten something that 

morning, but he'd woken up nauseated and panting from nightmares, not wanting to pause to eat, just wanting 

the release of physical activity, to burn out his dreams in bruises and sweat. 

Tossing the towel aside, he thought longingly of the sweet black tea Hodge used to brew from the 

night-blooming flowers in the greenhouse. The tea had taken away hunger pangs and brought a swift surge of 

energy. Since Hodge's death, Jace had tried boiling the plants' leaves in water to see if he could produce the 

same effect, but the only result was a bitter, ashy-tasting liquid that made him gag and spit. 

Barefoot, he 

padded into the bedroom and threw on jeans and a clean shirt. He pushed back his wet blond hair, frowning. It 

was too long at the moment, falling into his eyes- something Maryse would be sure to chide him about. She 

always did. He might not be the Lightwoods' biological son, but they'd treated him like it since they'd adopted 

him at age ten, after the death of his own father. The supposed death, Jace reminded himself, that hollow 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( feeling in his guts resurfacing again. He'd felt like a jack-o'-lantern for the past few days, as if his guts had 

been yanked out with a fork and dumped in a heap while a grinning smile stayed plastered on his face. He 

often wondered if anything he'd believed about his life, or himself, had ever been true. 

He'd thought he was an 

orphan- he wasn't. He'd thought he was an only child-he had a sister. Clary. The pain came again, stronger. He 

pushed it down. His eyes fell on the bit of broken mirror that lay atop his dresser, still reflecting green boughs 

and a diamond of blue sky. It was nearly twilight now in Idris: The sky was dark as cobalt. 

Choking on 

hollowness, Jace yanked his boots on and headed downstairs to the library. He wondered as he clattered down 

the stone steps just what it was that Maryse wanted to say to him alone. She'd looked like she'd wanted to haul 

off and smack him. He couldn't remember the last time she'd laid a hand on him. The Lightwoods weren't 

Given to corporal punishment-quite a change from being brought up by Valentine, who'd concocted all sorts of 

painful castigations to encourage obedience. Jace's Shadowhunter skin always healed, covering all but the 

worst of the evidence. In the days and weeks after his father died Jace could remember searching his body for 

scars, for some mark that would be a token, a remembrance to tie him physically to his father's memory. He 

reached the library and knocked once before pushing the door open. Maryse was there, sitting in Hodge's old 

chair by the fire. Light streamed down through the high windows and Jace could see the touches of gray in her 

hair. She was holding a glass of red wine; there was a cut-glass decanter on the table beside her. "Maryse," he 

said. She jumped a little, spilling some of the wine. "Jace. I didn't hear you come in." He didn't move. "Do you 

remember that song you used to sing to Isabelle and Alec-when they were little and afraid of the dark- to get 

them to fall asleep?" Maryse appeared taken aback. "What are you talking about?" "I used to hear you through 

the walls," he said. "Alec's bedroom was next to mine then." She said nothing. "It was in French," Jace said. 

"The song." "I don't know why you'd remember something like that." She looked at him as if he'd accused her 

of something. 

"You never sang to me." There was a barely perceptible pause. Then, "Oh, you," she said. 

"You were never 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( afraid of the dark." "What kind of ten-year-old is never afraid of the dark?" Her eyebrows went up. "Sit down, 

Jonathan," she said. "Now." He went, just slowly enough to annoy her, across the room, and threw himself 

into one of the wing-back chairs beside the desk. "I'd rather you didn't call me Jonathan." 

"Why not? It's your 

name." She looked at him consideringly. "How long have you known?" "Known what?" 

"Don't be stupid. You 

know exactly what I'm asking you." She turned her glass in her fingers. "How long have you known that 

Valentine is your father?" Jace considered and discarded several responses. Usually he could get his way with 

Maryse by making her laugh. He was one of the only people in the world who could make her laugh. "About 

as long as you have." Maryse shook her head slowly. "I don't believe that." Jace sat up straight. His hands 

were in fists where they rested on the chair arms. He could see a slight tremor in his fingers, wondered if he'd 

ever had it before. He didn't think so. His hands had always been as steady as his heartbeat. "You don't believe me?" 

He heard the incredulity in his own voice and winced inwardly. Of course she didn't believe him. That had 

been obvious from the moment she had arrived home. "It doesn't make sense, Jace. How could you not know 

who your own father is?" "He told me he was Michael Wayland. We lived in the Wayland country house-" "A 

nice touch," said Maryse, "that. And your name? What's your real name?" "You know my real name." 

"Jonathan Christopher. I knew that was Valentine's son's name. I knew Michael had a son named Jonathan too. 

It's a common enough Shadowhunter name-I never thought it was strange they shared it, and as for Michael's 

boy's middle name, I never inquired. But now I can't help wondering. What was Michael Wayland's son's real 

middle name? How long had Valentine been planning what he was going to do? How long did he know he 

was going to murder Jonathan Wayland-?" She broke off, her eyes fixed on Jace. "You never looked like 

Michael, you know," she said. "But sometimes children don't look like their parents. I didn't think about it 

before. But now I can see Valentine in you. The way you're looking at me. That defiance. 

You don't care what 

I say, do you?" But he did care. All he was good at was making sure she couldn't see it. 

"Would it make a 

difference if I did?" She set the glass down on the table beside her. It was empty. "And 

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with questions to throw me off, just like Valentine always did. Maybe I should have known." 

"Maybe nothing. I'm still exactly the same person I've been for the past seven years. 

Nothing's changed about 

me. If I didn't remind you of Valentine before, I don't see why I would now." Her glance moved over him and 

away as if she couldn't bear to look directly at him. "Surely when we talked about Michael, you must have 

known we couldn't possibly have meant your father. The things we said about him could never have applied to 

Valentine." "You said he was a good man." Anger twisted inside him. "A brave Shadowhunter. A loving 

father. I thought that seemed accurate enough." "What about photographs? You must have seen photographs 

of Michael Wayland and realized he wasn't the man you called your father." She bit her lip. 

"Help me out here, 

Jace." "All the photographs were destroyed in the Uprising. That's what you told me. Now I wonder if it wasn't 

because Valentine had them all burned so nobody would know who was in the Circle. I never had a 

photograph of my father," Jace said, and wondered if he sounded as bitter as he felt. 

Maryse put a hand to her 

temple and massaged it as if her head were aching. "I can't believe this," she said, as if to herself. "It's insane." 

"So don't believe it. Believe me," Jace said, and felt the tremor in his hands increase. She dropped her hand.  

"Don't you think I want to?" she demanded, and for a moment he heard the echo in her voice of the Maryse 

who'd come into his bedroom at night when he was ten 

years old and staring dry-eyed at the ceiling, thinking of his father-and she'd sat by the bed with him until he'd 

fallen asleep just before dawn. "I didn't know," Jace said again. "And when he asked me to come with him 

back to Idris, I said no. I'm still here. Doesn't that count for anything?" She turned to look back at the decanter, 

as if considering another drink, then seemed to discard the idea. "I wish it did," she said. 

"But there are so 

many reasons your father might want you to remain at the Institute. Where Valentine is concerned, I can't 

afford to trust anyone his influence has touched." "His influence touched you," Jace said, and instantly 

regretted it at the look that flashed across her face. "And I repudiated him," said Maryse. 

"Have you? Could 

you?" Her blue eyes were the same color as Alec's, but Alec had never looked at him like 

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hate him, Jace. Tell me you hate that man and everything he stands for." A moment passed, and another, and 

Jace, looking down, saw that his hands were so tightly fisted that the knuckles stood out white and hard like 

the bones in a fish's spine. "I can't say that." Maryse sucked in her breath. "Why not?" 

"Why can't you say that 

you trust me? I've lived with you almost half my life. Surely you must know me better than that?" "You sound 

so honest, Jonathan. You always have, even when you were a little boy trying to pin the blame for something 

you'd done wrong on Isabelle or Alec. I've only ever met one person who could sound as persuasive as you." 

Jace tasted copper in his mouth. "You mean my father." "There were only ever two kinds of people in the 

world for Valentine," she said. "Those who were for the Circle and those who were against it. The latter were 

enemies, and the former were weapons in his arsenal. I saw him try to turn each of his friends, even his own 

wife, into a weapon for the Cause-and you want me to believe he wouldn't have done the same with his own 

son?" She shook her head. "I knew him better than that." For the first time, Maryse looked at him with more 

sadness than anger. "You are an arrow shot directly into the heart of the Clave, Jace. You are Valentine's 

arrow. Whether you know it or not." 

Clary shut the bedroom door on the blaring TV and went to look for Simon. She found him in the kitchen, 

bent over the sink with the water running. His hands were braced on the draining board. 

"Simon?" The kitchen 

was a bright, cheerful yellow, the walls decorated with framed chalk and pencil sketches Simon and Rebecca 

had done in grade school. Rebecca had some drawing talent, you could tell, but Simon's sketches of people all 

looked like parking meters with tufts of hair. He didn't look up now, though she could tell by the tightening of 

his shoulder muscles that he'd heard her. She went over to the sink, laying a hand lightly on his back. She felt 

the sharp nubs of his spine through the thin cotton T-shirt and wondered if he'd lost weight. She couldn't tell 

by looking at him, but looking at Simon was like looking in a mirror- when you saw someone every day, 

you didn't always notice small changes in their outward appearance. "Are you okay?" He turned the water off 

with a hard jerk of his wrist. "Sure. I'm fine." She laid a finger against the side of his chin 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( and turned his face 

toward her. He was sweating, the dark hair that lay across his forehead stuck to his skin, though the air coming 

through the halfopen kitchen window was cool. "You don't look fine. Was it the movie?" 

He didn't answer. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed, it's just-" "You don't remember?" His voice sounded hoarse. "I..." Clary 

trailed off. That night, looking back, seemed a long haze of running, of blood and sweat, of shadows glimpsed 

in doorways, of falling through space. She remembered the white faces of the vampires, like paper cutouts 

against the darkness, and remembered Jace holding her, shouting hoarsely into her ear. 

"Not really. It's a blur." 

His gaze flicked past her and then back. "Do I seem different to you?" he asked. She raised her eyes to his. His 

were the color of black coffee- not really black, but a rich brown without a touch of gray or hazel. Did he seem 

different? There might have been an extra touch of confidence in the way he held himself since the day he'd 

killed Abbadon, the Greater Demon; but there was also a wariness about him, as if he were waiting or 

watching for something. It was 

something she had noticed about Jace as well. Perhaps it was only the awareness of mortality. "You're still 

Simon." He half-closed his eyes as if in relief, and as his eyelashes lowered, she saw how angular his 

cheekbones looked. He had lost weight, she thought, and was about to say so when he leaned down and kissed 

her. She was so surprised at the feel of his mouth on hers that she went rigid all over, grabbing for the edge of 

the draining board to support herself. She did not, however, push him away, and clearly taking this as a sign of 

encouragement, Simon slid his hand behind her head and deepened the kiss, parting her lips with his. His 

mouth was soft, softer than Jace's had been, and the hand that cupped her neck was warm and gentle. He tasted 

like salt. She let her eyes fall shut and for a moment floated dizzily in the darkness and the heat, the feel of his 

fingers moving through her hair. When the harsh ring of the telephone cut through her daze, she jumped back 

as if he'd pushed her away, though he hadn't moved. They stared at each other for a moment, in wild 

confusion, like two people finding themselves suddenly transported to a strange landscape where nothing was 

familiar. Simon turned away first, reaching for the phone that hung on the wall beside the 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( spice rack. "Hello?" 

He sounded normal, but his chest was rising and falling fast. He held the receiver out to Clary. "It's for you." 

Clary took the phone. She could still feel the pounding of her heart in her throat, like the fluttering wings of an 

insect trapped under her skin. It's Luke, calling from the hospital. Something's happened to my mother. 

She swallowed. "Luke? Is it you?" "No. It's Isabelle." "Isabelle?" Clary looked up and saw Simon watching 

her, leaning against the sink. The flush on his cheeks had faded. "Why are you-I mean, what's up?" There was 

a hitch in the other girl's voice, as if she'd been crying. "Is Jace there?" Clary actually held out the phone so 

she could stare at it before bringing the receiver back to her ear. "Jace? No. Why would he be here?" Isabelle's 

answering breath echoed down the phone line like a gasp. "The thing is ... he's gone." 



The Hunter's Moon 

Maia had never trusted beautiful boys, which was why she hated Jace Wayland the first time she ever laid eyes 

on him. Her twin brother, Daniel, had been born with her mother's honey-colored skin and huge dark eyes, and 

he'd turned out to be the sort of person who lit the wings of butterflies on fire to watch them burn and die as 

they flew. He'd tormented her as well, in 

small and petty ways at first, pinching her where the bruises wouldn't show, switching the shampoo in her 

bottle for bleach. She'd gone to her parents but they hadn't believed her. No one had, looking at Daniel; they'd 

confused beauty with innocence and harmlessness. When he broke her arm in ninth grade, she ran away from 

home, but her parents brought her back. In tenth grade, Daniel was knocked down in the street by a 

hit-and-run driver and killed instantly. Standing next to her parents at the graveside, Maia had been ashamed 

by her own overwhelming sense of relief. God, she thought, would surely punish her for being glad that her 

brother was dead. The next year, He did. She met Jordan. Long dark hair, slim hips in worn jeans, indie-boy 

rocker shirts and lashes like a girl's. She never thought he'd go for her-his type usually preferred skinny, pale 

girls in hipster glasses-but he seemed to like her rounded shape. He told her she was beautiful in between 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( kisses. The first few months were like a dream; the last few months like a nightmare. He became possessive, 

controlling. When he was angry with her, he'd snarl and whip the back of his hand across her cheek, leaving a 

mark like too much blusher. When she tried to break up with him, he pushed her, knocked her down in her 

own front yard before she ran inside and slammed the door. Later, she let him see her kissing another boy, just 

to get the point across that it was over. She didn't even remember that boy's name anymore. What she did 

remember was walking home that night, the rain misting her hair in fine droplets, mud splattering up the legs 

of her jeans as she took a shortcut through the park near her house. She remembered the dark shape exploding 

out from behind the metal merry-go-round, the huge wet wolf body knocking her into the mud, the savage 

pain as its jaws clamped 

down on her throat. She'd screamed and thrashed, tasting her own hot blood in her mouth, her brain screaming: This is impossible. Impossible. There weren't wolves in New Jersey, not in her ordinary suburban neighborhood, not in the twenty-first century. Her cries brought lights on in the nearby houses, one after 

another of the windows lighting up like struck matches. The wolf let her go, its jaws trailing ribbons of blood 

and torn flesh. Twenty-four stitches later, she was back in her pink bedroom, her mother hovering anxiously.  

The emergency room doctor had said the bite looked like a large dog's, but Maia knew better. Before the wolf 

had turned to race away, she'd heard a hot, familiar whispered voice in her ear, "You're mine now. You'll 

always be mine." She never saw Jordan again-he and his parents packed up their apartment and moved, and 

none of his friends knew where he'd gone, or would admit they did. She was only half-surprised the next full 

moon when the pains started: tearing pains that ripped up and down her legs, forcing her to the ground, 

bending her spine the way a magician might bend a spoon. When her teeth burst out of her gums and rattled to 

the floor like spilled Chiclets, she fainted. Or thought she did. She woke up miles away from her house, naked 

and covered in blood, the scar on her arm pulsing like a heartbeat. That night she hopped the train to 

Manhattan. It wasn't a hard decision. It was bad enough being biracial in her conservative suburban 

neighborhood. God knew what they'd do to a werewolf. It hadn't been that hard to find a pack to fall in with. 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( There were several of them in Manhattan alone. She wound up with the downtown pack, the ones who slept in the old police station in Chinatown. Pack leaders were mutable. 

There'd been Kito first, then Vacronique, then Gabriel, and now Luke. She'd liked Gabriel all right, but Luke 

was better. He had a trustworthy look and kind blue eyes and wasn't too handsome, so she didn't dislike him 

on the spot. She was comfortable enough here with the pack, sleeping in the old police station, playing cards 

and eating Chinese food on nights when the moon wasn't full, hunting through the park when it was, and the 

next day drinking off the hangover of the Change at the Hunter's Moon, one of the city's better underground 

werewolf bars. There was ale by the yard, and nobody ever carded you to see if you were under twenty-one. 

Being a lycanthrope made you grow up fast, and as long as you sprouted hair and fangs once a month, you 

were good to drink at the Moon, no matter how old you were in mundane years. These days she hardly thought 

of her family at all, but when the blond boy in the long black coat stalked his way into the bar, Maia stiffened 

all over. He didn't look like Daniel, not exactly- Daniel had had dark hair that curled close to the nape of his 

neck and honey skin, and this boy was all white and gold. But they had the same lean bodies, the same way of 

walking, like a panther on the lookout for prey, and the same total confidence in their own attraction. Her hand 

tightened convulsively around the stem of her glass and she had to remind herself: He's dead. Daniel's dead. A 

rush of murmurs swept through the bar on the heels of the boy's arrival, like the froth of a wave spreading out 

from the stern of a boat. The boy acted as if he didn't notice anything, hooking a bar stool toward himself with 

a booted foot and settling onto it with his elbows on the bar. Maia heard him order a shot of single 

malt in the quiet that followed the murmurs. He downed half the drink with a neat flip of his wrist. The liquor 

was the same dark gold color as his hair. When he lifted his hand to set the glass back down on the bar, Maia 

saw the thick coiling black Marks on his wrists and the backs of his hands. Bat, the guy sitting next to 

her-she'd dated him once, but they were friends now-muttered something under his breath that sounded like 

"Nephilim." So that's it. The boy wasn't a werewolf at all. He was a Shadowhunter, a member of the arcane 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( world's secret police force. They upheld the Law, backed by the Covenant, and you couldn't become one of 

them: You had to be born into it. Blood made them what they were. There were a lot of rumors about them, 

most unflattering: They were haughty, proud, cruel; they looked down on and despised Downworlders. There 

were few things a lycanthrope liked less than a Shadowhunter-except maybe a vampire. 

People also said that 

the Shadowhunters killed demons. Maia remembered when she'd first heard that demons existed and had been 

told about what they did. It had given her a headache. Vampires and werewolves were just people with a 

disease, that much she understood, but expecting her to believe in all that heaven and hell crap, demons and 

angels, and still nobody could tell her for sure if there was a God or not, or where you went after you died? It 

wasn't fair. She believed in demons now-she'd seen enough of what they did that she wasn't able to deny it-but 

she wished she didn't have to. 

"I take it," the boy said, leaning his elbows onto the bar, "that you don't serve Silver Bullet here. Too many 

bad associations?" His eyes gleamed, narrow and shining like the moon at a quarter full. 

The bartender, Freaky Pete, just looked at the boy and shook his head in disgust. If the boy hadn't been a Shadowhunter, Maia guessed, Pete would have tossed him out of the Moon, but instead he just walked to the other end of the bar and busied himself polishing glasses. "Actually," said Bat, who was unable to stay out of anything, "we don't 

serve it because it's really crappy beer." The boy turned his narrow, shining gaze on Bat, and smiled 

delightedly. Most people didn't smile delightedly when Bat looked at them funny: Bat was six and a half feet 

tall, with a thick scar that disfigured half his face where silver powder had burned his skin. 

Bat wasn't one of 

the overnighters, the pack who lived in the police station, sleeping in the old cells. He had his own apartment, 

even a job. He'd been a pretty good boyfriend, right up until he dumped Maia for a redheaded witch named 

Eve who lived in Yonkers and ran a palmistry shop out of her garage. "And what are you drinking?" the boy 

inquired, leaning so close to Bat that it was like an insult. "A little hair of the dog that bit-well, everyone?" 

"You really think you're pretty funny." By this point the rest of the pack was leaning in to hear them, ready to 

back up Bat if he decided to knock this obnoxious brat into the middle of next week. 

"Don't you?" "Bat," Maia 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( said. She wondered if she were the only pack member in the bar who doubted Bat's ability to knock the boy 


next week. It wasn't that she doubted Bat. It was something about the boy's eyes. "Don't." 

Bat ignored her. 

"Don't you?" "Who am I to deny the obvious?" The boy's eyes slid over Maia as if she were invisible and went 

back to Bat. "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what happened to your face? It looks like-" And here he 

leaned forward and said something to Bat so quietly that Maia didn't hear it. The next thing she knew, Bat was 

swinging a blow at the boy that should have shattered his jaw, only the boy was no longer there. He was 

standing a good five feet away, laughing, as Bat's fist connected with his abandoned glass and sent it soaring 

across the bar to strike the opposite wall in a shower of shattering glass. Freaky Pete was around the side of 

the bar, his big fist knotted in Bat's shirt, before Maia could blink an eye. "That's enough," 

he said. "Bat, why 

don't you take a walk and cool down." Bat twisted in Pete's grasp. "Take a walk? Did you hear-" "I heard." 

Pete's voice was low. "He's a Shadowhunter. Walk it off, cub." Bat swore and pulled away from the bartender. 

He stalked toward the exit, his shoulders stiff with rage. The door banged shut behind him. 

The boy had 

stopped smiling and was looking at Freaky Pete with a sort of dark resentment, as if the bartender had taken 

away a toy he'd intended to play with. "That wasn't necessary," he said. "I can handle myself." 

Pete regarded the Shadowhunter. "It's my bar I'm worried about," he said finally. "You might want to take 

your business elsewhere, Shadowhunter, if you don't want any trouble." "I didn't say I didn't want trouble." 

The boy sat back down on his stool. "Besides, I didn't get to finish my drink." Maia glanced behind her, where 

the wall of the bar was soaked with alcohol. "Looks like you finished it to me." For a second the boy just 

looked blank; then a curious spark of amusement lit in his golden eyes. He looked so much like Daniel in that 

moment that Maia wanted to back away. Pete slid another glass of amber liquid across the bar before the boy 

could reply to her. "Here you go," he said. His eyes drifted to Maia. She thought she saw some admonishment 

in them. "Pete-," she began. She didn't get to finish. The door to the bar flew open. Bat was standing there in 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( the doorway. It took a moment for Maia to realize that the front of his shirt and his sleeves were soaked with 

blood. She slid off her stool and ran to him. "Bat! Are you hurt?" His face was gray, his silvery scar standing 

out on his cheek like a piece of twisted wire. "An attack," he said. "There's a body in the alley. A dead kid. 

Blood-everywhere." He shook his head, looked down at himself. "Not my blood. I'm fine." 

"A body? But 

who-" Bat's reply was swallowed in the commotion. Seats were abandoned as the pack rushed to the door. 

Pete came out from behind his counter and pushed his way through the mob. Only the Shadowhunter boy stayed where he was, his head bent over his drink. Through gaps in the crowd around the 

door, Maia caught a glimpse of the gray paving of the alley, splashed with blood. It was still wet and had run 

between the cracks in the paving like the tendrils of a red plant. "His throat cut?" Pete was saying to Bat, 

whose color had come back. "How-" "There was someone in the alley. Someone kneeling over him," Bat said. 

His voice was tight. "Not like a person-like a shadow. They ran off when they saw me. He was still alive. A 

little. I bent down over him, but-" Bat shrugged. It was a casual movement, but the cords in his neck were 

standing out like thick roots wrapping a tree trunk. "He died without saying anything." 

"Vampires," said a 

buxom female lycanthrope-her name was Amabel, Maia thought-who was standing by the door. "The Night 

Children. It can't have been anything else." Bat looked at her, then turned and stalked across the room toward 

the bar. He grabbed the Shadowhunter by the back of the jacket-or reached out as if he meant to, but the boy 

was already on his feet, turning fluidly. "What's your problem, werewolf?" Bat's hand was still outstretched. 

"Are you deaf, Nephilim?" he snarled. "There's a dead boy in the alley. One of ours." "Do you mean a lycanthrope or some other sort of Downworlder?" The boy arched his light eyebrows. "You all blend together 

to me." There was a low growl-from Freaky Pete, Maia noted with some surprise. He had come back into the 

bar and was surrounded 

by the rest of the pack, their eyes fixed on the Shadowhunter. "He was only a cub," said Pete. "His name was 

Joseph." The name didn't ring any bells for Maia, but she saw the tight set of Pete's jaw and felt a flutter in her 

stomach. The pack was on the warpath now and if the Shadowhunter had any sense, he'd be backpedaling like 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( crazy. He wasn't, though. He was just standing there looking at them with those gold eyes and that funny smile 

on his face. "A lycanthrope boy?" he said. "He was one of the pack," said Pete. "He was only fifteen." "And 

what exactly do you expect me to do about it?" said the boy. Pete was staring incredulously. "You're 

Nephilim," he said. "The Clave owes us protection in these circumstances." The boy looked around the bar, 

slowly and with such a look of insolence that a flush spread over Pete's face. "I don't see anything you need 

protecting from here," said the boy. "Except some bad dÃ©cor and a possible mold problem. But you can 

usually clear that up with bleach." "There's a dead body outside this bar's front door," said Bat, enunciating 

carefully. "Don't you think-" "I think it's a little too late for him to need protection," said the boy, "if he's 

already dead." Pete was still staring. His ears had grown pointed, and when he spoke, his voice was muffled 

by his thickening canine teeth. "You want to be careful, Nephilim," he said. "You want to be very careful." 

The boy looked at him with opaque eyes. "Do I?" "So you're going to do nothing?" Bat said. "Is that it?" "I'm 

going to finish my drink," said the boy, eyeing his half empty glass, still on the counter, "if you'll let me." "So 

that's the attitude of the Clave, a week after the Accords?" said Pete with disgust. "The death of Downworlders 

is nothing to you?" The boy smiled, and Maia's spine prickled. He looked exactly like Daniel just before 

Daniel reached out and yanked the wings off a ladybug. "How like Downworlders," he said, "expecting the 

Clave to clean your mess up for you. As if we could be bothered just because some stupid cub decided to 

splatter-paint himself all over your alley-" And he used a word, a word for weres that they never used 

themselves, a filthily unpleasant word that implied an improper relationship between wolves and human 

women. Before anyone else could move, Bat flung himself at the Shadowhunter-but the boy was gone. Bat 

stumbled and whirled around, staring. The pack gasped. Maia's mouth dropped open. The Shadowhunter boy 

was standing on the bar, feet planted wide apart. He really did look like an avenging angel getting ready to 

dispatch divine justice from on high, as the Shadowhunters were meant to do. Then he reached out a hand and 

curled his fingers toward himself, quickly, a gesture familiar to her from the playground as 

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me-and the pack rushed at him. 

Bat and Amabel swarmed up onto the bar; the boy spun, so quickly that his reflection in the mirror behind the 

bar seemed to blur. Maia saw him kick out, and then the two were groaning on the floor in a flurry of smashed 

glass. She could hear the boy laughing even as someone else reached up and pulled him down; he sank into 

the crowd with an ease that spoke of willingness, and then she couldn't see him at all, just a welter of flailing 

arms and legs. Still, she thought she could hear him laughing, even as metal flashed-the edge of a knife-and 

she heard herself suck in her breath. "That's enough." It was Luke's voice, quiet, steady as a heartbeat. It was 

strange how you always knew your pack leader's voice. Maia turned and saw him standing just at the entrance 

to the bar, one hand against the wall. He looked not just tired, but ravaged, as if something were tearing him 

down from the inside; still, his voice was calm as he said again, "That's enough. Leave the boy alone." The 

pack melted away from the Shadowhunter, leaving just Bat still standing there, defiant, one hand still gripping 

the back of the Shadowhunter's shirt, the other holding a short-bladed knife. The boy himself was 

bloody-faced but hardly looked like someone who needed saving; he was grinning a grin as dangerous-looking 

as the broken glass that littered the floor. "He's not a boy," Bat said. "He's a Shadowhunter." "They're welcome 

enough here," said Luke, his tone neutral. "They are our allies." "He said it didn't matter," 

said Bat angrily. 

"About Joseph-"  

"I know," Luke said quietly. His eyes shifted to the blond boy. "Did you come in here just to pick a fight, Jace 

Wayland?" The boy-Jace-smiled, stretching his split lip so that a thin trickle of blood ran down his chin. 

"Luke." Bat, startled to hear their pack leader's first name come out of the Shadowhunter's mouth, let go of the 

back of Jace's shirt. "I didn't know-" "There's nothing to know," said Luke, the tiredness in his eyes creeping 

into his voice. Freaky Pete spoke, his voice a bass rumble. "He said the Clave wouldn't care about the death of 

a single lycanthrope, even a child. And it's a week after the Accords, Luke." "Jace doesn't speak for the 

Clave," said Luke, "and there's nothing he could have done even if he'd wanted to. Isn't that right?" He looked 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( at Jace, who was very pale. "How do you-" "I know what happened," said Luke. "With Maryse." Jace 

stiffened, and for a moment Maia saw through the Daniellike savage amusement to what was underneath, and 

it was dark and agonized and reminded her more of her own eyes in the mirror than of her brother's. "Who told 

you? Clary?" "Not Clary." Maia had never heard Luke speak that name before, but he said it with a tone that 

implied that this was someone special to him, and to the Shadowhunter boy as well. "I'm the pack leader, Jace. 

I hear things. Now come on. Let's go to Pete's office and talk." 

Jace hesitated for a moment before shrugging. "Fine," he said, "but you owe me for the Scotch I didn't drink." 

"That was my last guess," Clary said with a defeated sigh, sinking down onto the steps outside the 

Metropolitan Museum of Art and staring disconsolately down Fifth Avenue. "It was a good one." Simon sat 

down beside her, long legs sprawled out in front of him. "I mean, he's a guy who likes weapons and killing, so 

why not the biggest collection of weapons in the whole city? And I'm always up for a visit to Arms and 

Armor, anyway. Gives me ideas for my campaign." She looked at him in surprise. "You still gaming with Eric 

and Kirk and Matt?" "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" "I thought gaming might have lost some of its appeal for you 

since..." Since our real lives started to resemble one of your campaigns. Complete with good guys, bad guys, 

really nasty magic, and important enchanted objects you had to find if you wanted to win the game. Except in 

a game, the good guys always won, defeated the bad guys and came home with the treasure. Whereas in real 

life, they'd lost the treasure, and sometimes Clary still wasn't clear on who the bad and good guys actually 

were. She looked at Simon and felt a wave of sadness. If he did give up gaming, it would be her fault, just like 

everything that had 

happened to him in the past weeks had been her fault. She remembered his white face at the sink that 

morning, just before he'd kissed her. "Simon-," she began. "Right now I'm playing a half-troll cleric who 

wants revenge on the Ores who killed his family," he said cheerfully. "It's awesome." She laughed just as her 

cell phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and flipped it open; it was Luke. "We didn't find him," she said, 

before he could say hello. "No. But I did." She sat up straight. "You're kidding. Is he 

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She caught sight of Simon looking at her sharply and dropped her voice. "Is he all right?" 

"Mostly." "What do 

you mean, mostly?" "He picked a fight with a werewolf pack. He's got some cuts and bruises." Clary 

half-closed her eyes. Why, oh why, had Jace picked a fight with a pack of wolves? What had possessed him? 

Then again, it was Jace. He'd pick a fight with a Mack truck if the urge took him. "I think you should come 

down here," Luke said. "Someone has to reason with him and I'm not having much luck." 

"Where are you?" 

Clary asked. 

He told her. A bar called the Hunter's Moon on Hester Street. She wondered if it was glamoured. Flipping her 

phone shut, she turned to Simon, who was staring at her with raised eyebrows. "The prodigal returns?" "Sort 

of." She scrambled to her feet and stretched her tired legs, mentally calculating how long it would take them to 

get to Chinatown on the train and whether it was worth shelling out the pocket money Luke had given her for 

a cab. Probably not, she decided-if they got stuck in traffic, it would take longer than the subway. "... come 

with you?" Simon finished, standing up. He was on the step below her, which made them almost the same 

height. "What do you think?" She opened her mouth, then closed it again quickly. "Er..." 

He sounded resigned. 

"You haven't heard a word I said these past two minutes, have you?" "No," she admitted. 

"I was thinking 

about Jace. It sounded like he was in bad shape. Sorry." His brown eyes darkened. "I take it you're rushing off 

to bind up his wounds?" "Luke asked me to come down," she said. "I was hoping you'd come with me." Simon 

kicked at the step above his with a booted foot. "I will, but-why? Can't Luke return Jace to the Institute 

without your help?" 

"Probably. But he thinks Jace might be willing to talk to me about what's going on first." 

"I thought maybe we 

could do something tonight," Simon said. "Something fun. See a movie. Get dinner downtown." She looked at 

him. In the distance, she could hear water splashing into a museum fountain. She thought of the kitchen at his 

house, his damp hands in her hair, but it all seemed very far away, even though she could picture it-the way 

you might remember the photograph of an incident without really remembering the incident itself any longer. 

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"He's my brother," she said. "I have to go." Simon looked as if he were too weary to even sigh. "Then I'll go 

with you." 

The back office of Hunter's Moon was down a narrow corridor strewn with sawdust. Here and there the 

sawdust was churned up by footsteps and spotted with a dark liquid that didn't look like beer. The whole place 

smelled smoky and gamy, a little like-Clary had to admit it, though she wouldn't have said so to Luke-wet dog. 

"He's not in a very good mood," said Luke, pausing in front of a closed door. "I shut him up in Freaky Pete's 

office after he nearly killed half my pack with his bare hands. He wouldn't talk to me, so"-Luke shrugged-"I thought of you." He looked from Clary's baffled face to Simon's. 

"What?" "I can't 

believe he came here," Clary said. "I can't believe you know someone named Freaky Pete," 

said Simon. "I 

know a lot of people," said Luke. "Not that Freaky Pete is strictly people, but I'm hardly one to talk." He 

swung the office door wide. Inside was a plain room, windowless, the walls hung with sports pennants. There 

was a paper-strewn desk weighted down with a small TV set, and behind it, in a chair whose leather was so 

cracked it looked like veined marble, was Jace. The moment the door opened, Jace seized up a yellow pencil 

lying on the desk and threw it. It sailed through the air and struck the wall just next to Luke's head, where it 

stuck, vibrating. Luke's eyes widened. Jace smiled faintly. "Sorry, I didn't realize it was you." Clary felt her 

heart contract. She hadn't seen Jace in days, and he looked different somehow-not just the bloody face and 

bruises, which were clearly new, but the skin on his face seemed tighter, the bones more prominent. Luke 

indicated Simon and Clary with a wave of his hand. "I brought some people to see you." 

Jace's eyes moved to 

them. They were as blank as if they had been painted on. "Unfortunately," he said, "I only had the one pencil." 

"Jace-," Luke started. 

"I don't want him in here." Jace jerked his chin toward Simon. "That's hardly fair." Clary was indignant. Had 

he forgotten that Simon had saved Alec's life, possibly all their lives? "Out, mundane," said Jace, pointing to 

the door. Simon waved a hand. "It's fine. I'll wait in the hallway." He left, refraining from banging the door 

shut behind him, though Clary could tell he wanted to. She turned back to Jace. "Do you have to be so-," she 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( began, but stopped when she saw his face. It looked stripped down, oddly vulnerable. 

"Unpleasant?" he 

finished for her. "Only on days when my adoptive mother tosses me out of the house with instructions never to 

darken her door again. Usually, I'm remarkably good-natured. Try me on any day that doesn't end in y." Luke 

frowned. "Maryse and Robert Lightwood are not my favorite people, but I can't believe Maryse would do 

that." Jace looked surprised. "You know them? The Lightwoods?" "They were in the Circle with me," said 

Luke. "I was surprised when I heard they were heading the Institute here. It seems they made a deal with the 

Clave, after the Uprising, to ensure some kind of lenient treatment for themselves, while Hodge-well, we 

know what happened to him." He was silent a moment. "Did Maryse say why she was exiling you, so to 

speak?" "She doesn't believe that I thought I was Michael Wayland's son. She accused me of being in it with 

Valentine all along- saying I helped him get away with the Mortal Cup." 

"Then why would you still be here?" Clary asked. "Why wouldn't you have fled with him?" 

"She wouldn't 

say, but I suspect she thinks I stayed to be a spy. A viper in their bosoms. Not that she used the word 'bosoms,' 

but the thought was there." "A spy for Valentine?" Luke sounded dismayed. "She thinks Valentine assumed 

that because of their affection for me, she and Robert would believe whatever I said. So Maryse has decided 

that the solution to that is not to have any affection for me." "Affection doesn't work like that." Luke shook his 

head. "You can't turn it off, like a tap. Especially if you're a parent." "They're not really my parents." "There's 

more to parentage than blood. They've been your parents for seven years in all the ways that matter. Maryse is 

just hurt." "Hurt?" Jace sounded incredulous. "She's hurt?" "She loved Valentine, remember," said Luke. "As 

we all did. He hurt her badly. She doesn't want his son to do the same. She worries you've lied to them. That 

the person she thought you were all these years was a ruse, a trick. You have to reassure her." Jace's 

expression was a perfect mixture of stubbornness and astonishment. "Maryse is an adult! 

She shouldn't need 

reassurance from me." 

"Oh, come on, Jace," Clary said. "You can't wait for perfect behavior from everyone. 

Adults screw up too. Go 

back to the Institute and talk to her rationally. Be a man." "I don't want to be a man," said 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( Jace. "I want to be 

an angstridden teenager who can't confront his own inner demons and takes it out verbally on other people 

instead." "Well," said Luke, "you're doing a fantastic job." "Jace," Clary said hastily, before they could start 

fighting in earnest, "you have to go back to the Institute. Think about Alec and Izzy, think what this will do to 

them." "Maryse will make something up to calm them down. Maybe she'll say I ran off." 

"That won't work," 

said Clary. "Isabelle sounded frantic on the phone." "Isabelle always sounds frantic," said Jace, but he looked 

pleased. He leaned back in the chair. The bruises along his jaw and cheekbone stood out like dark, shapeless Marks against his skin. "I won't go back to a place where I'm not trusted. I'm not ten years old anymore. I can take care of myself." Luke looked as if he weren't sure about that. "Where will you go? How will you live?" 

Jace's eyes glittered. "I'm seventeen. Practically an adult. Any adult Shadowhunter is entitled to-" "Any adult. 

But you're not one. You can't draw a salary from the Clave because you're too young, and in fact the Lightwoods are 

bound by the Law to care for you. If they won't, someone else would be appointed or-" 

"Or what?" Jace 

sprang up from the chair. "I'll go to an orphanage in Idris? Be dumped on some family I've never met? I can 

get a job in the mundane world for a year, live like one of them-" "No, you can't," Clary said. "I ought to 

know, Jace, I was one of them. You're too young for any job you'd want and besides, the skills you have-well, 

most professional killers are older than you. And they're criminals." "I'm not a killer." "If you lived in the 

mundane world," said Luke, "that's all you'd be." Jace stiffened, his mouth tightening, and Clary knew Luke's 

words had hit him where it hurt. "You don't get it," he said, a sudden desperation in his voice. "I can't go back. 

Maryse wants me to say I hate Valentine. And I can't do that." Jace raised his chin, his jaw set, his eyes on 

Luke as if he halfexpected the older man to respond with derision or even horror. After all, Luke had more 

reason to hate Valentine than almost anyone else in the world. "I know," said Luke. "I loved him once too." 

Jace exhaled, almost a sound of relief, and Clary thought suddenly, This is why he came here, to this place. 

Not just to start a fight, but to get to Luke. Because Luke would understand. Not everything Jace did was 

insane and suicidal, she reminded herself. It just seemed that way. 

"You shouldn't have to claim you hate your father," said Luke. "Not even to reassure 

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understand." Clary looked at Jace closely, trying to read his face. It was like a book written in a foreign 

language she'd studied all too briefly. "Did she really say she never wanted you to come back?" Clary asked. 

"Or did you just assume that was what she meant, so you left?" "She told me it would probably be better if I 

found somewhere else to be for a while," Jace said. "She didn't say where." "Did you give her a chance to?" 

Luke said. "Look, Jace. You're absolutely welcome to stay with me as long as you need to. I want you to know 

that." Clary's stomach flipped. The thought of Jace in the same house she lived in, always nearby, filled her 

with a mixture of exultation and horror. "Thanks," said Jace. His voice was even, but his eyes had gone 

instantly, helplessly, to Clary, and she could see in them the same awful mixture of emotions she felt herself. 

Luke, she thought. Sometimes I wish you weren't quite so generous. Or so blind. "But," 

Luke went on, "I think 

you should at least go back to the Institute long enough to talk to Maryse and find out what's really going on. 

It sounds like there's more to this than she's telling you. More, maybe, than you were willing to hear." Jace 

tore his gaze from Clary's. "All right." His voice was rough. "But on one condition. I don't want to go by 

myself." "I'll go with you," Clary said quickly.  

"I know." Jace's voice was low. "And I want you to. But I want Luke to come too." Luke looked startled. 

"Jace-I've lived here fifteen years and I've never gone to the Institute. Not once. I doubt Maryse is any fonder 

of me-" "Please," Jace said, and though his voice was flat and he spoke quietly, Clary could almost feel, like a 

palpable thing, the pride he'd had to fight down to say that single word. "All right." Luke nodded, the nod of a 

pack leader used to doing what he had to do, whether he wanted to or not. "Then I'll come with you." 

Simon leaned against the wall in the corridor outside Pete's office and tried not to feel sorry for himself. The 

day had started off well. Fairly well, anyway. First there'd been that bad episode with the Dracula film on 

television making him feel sick and faint, bringing up all the emotions, the longings, he'd been trying to push 

down and forget about. Then somehow the sickness had knocked the edge off his nerves and he'd found 

himself kissing Clary the way he'd wanted to for so many years. People always said that 

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out the way you imagined they would. People were wrong. And she'd kissed him back... 

But now she was in 

there with Jace, and Simon had a knotting, twisting feeling in his stomach, like he'd swallowed a bowl full of 

worms. It was a sick feeling he'd grown used to lately. It hadn't always been like this, even after he'd realized 

how he felt about Clary. He'd never pressed her, never pushed his feelings on her. He'd always been sure that 

one day she would wake up out of her dreams of animated princes and kung fu heroes and realize what was 

staring them both in the face: They belonged together. And if she hadn't seemed interested in Simon, at least 

she hadn't seemed interested in anyone else either. Until Jace. He remembered sitting on the porch steps of 

Luke's house, watching Clary as she explained to him who Jace was, what he did, while Jace examined his 

nails and looked superior. Simon had barely heard her. He'd been too busy noticing how she looked at the 

blond boy with the strange tattoos and the angular, pretty face. Too pretty, Simon had thought, but Clary 

clearly hadn't thought so: She'd looked at him as though he were one of her animated heroes come to life. He 

had never seen her look at anyone that way before, and had always thought that if she ever did, it would be 

him. But it wasn't, and that hurt more than he'd ever imagined anything could hurt. Finding out that Jace was 

Clary's brother was like being marched up in front of a firing squad and then being handed a reprieve at the 

last minute. Suddenly the world seemed full of possibilities again. Now he wasn't so sure. 

"Hey, there." 

Someone was coming along the corridor, a notvery-tall someone picking their way gingerly among the blood 

spatters. "Are you waiting to see Luke? Is he in there?" "Not exactly." Simon moved away from the door. "I 

mean, sort of. He's in there with a friend of mine." 

The person, who had just reached him, stopped and stared. Simon could see that she was a girl, about sixteen 

years old, with smooth light brown skin. Her brown-gold hair was braided close to her head in dozens of small 

braids, and her face was nearly the exact shape of a heart. She had a compact, curvy body, wide hips flaring 

out from a smaller waist. "That guy from the bar? The Shadowhunter?" Simon shrugged. 

"Well, I hate to tell 

you this," she said, "but your friend is an asshole." "He's not my friend," said Simon. "And 

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with you more, actually." "But I thought you said-" "I'm waiting for his sister," said Simon. "She's my best 

friend." "And she's in there with him right now?" The girl jerked her thumb toward the door. She wore rings 

on each of her fingers, primitive-looking bands hammered out of bronze and gold. Her jeans were worn but 

clean and when she turned her head, he saw the scar that ran along her neck, just above the collar of her 

T-shirt. "Well," she said grudgingly, "I know about asshole brothers. I guess it's not her fault." "It's not," said 

Simon. "But she's maybe the only person he might listen to." "He didn't strike me as the listening type," said 

the girl, and caught his sidelong look with a look of her own. Amusement flickered across her face. "You're 

looking at my scar. It's where I was bitten." 

"Bitten? You mean you're a-" "A werewolf," said the girl. "Like everyone else here. 

Except you, and the 

asshole. And the asshole's sister." "But you weren't always a werewolf. I mean, you weren't born one." "Most 

of us aren't," said the girl. "That's what makes us different than your Shadowhunter buddies." "What?" She 

smiled fleetingly. "We were human once." Simon said nothing to that. After a moment the girl held her hand 

out. "I'm Maia." "Simon." He shook her hand. It was dry and soft. She looked up at him through golden-brown 

eyelashes, the color of buttered toast. "How do you know Jace is an asshole?" he said. "Or maybe I should say,  

how did you find out?" She took her hand back. "He tore up the bar. Punched out my friend Bat. Even 

knocked a couple of the pack unconscious." "Are they all right?" Simon was alarmed. Jace hadn't seemed 


for waffles afterward. "Did they get to a doctor?" "A warlock," said the girl. "We don't have much to do with 

mundane doctors, our kind." "Downworlders ?" 

Her eyebrows went up. "Someone taught you all the lingo, didn't they?" Simon was nettled. "How do you 

know I'm not one of them? Or you? A Shadowhunter or a Downworlder, or-" She shook her head until her 

braids bounced. "It just shines out of you," she said, a little bitterly, "your humanity." The intensity in her 

voice almost made him shiver. "I could knock on the door," he suggested, feeling suddenly lame. "If you want 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( to talk to Luke." She shrugged. "Just tell him Magnus is here, checking out the scene in the alley." He must 

have looked startled, because she said, "Magnus Bane. He's a warlock." I know, Simon wanted to say, but 

didn't. The whole conversation had been weird enough already. "Okay." Maia turned as if to go, but paused 

partway down the hall, one hand on the doorjamb. "You think she'll be able to talk sense into him?" she asked. 

"His sister?" "If he listens to anyone, it would be her." "That's sweet," said Maia. "That he loves his sister like 

that." "Yeah," Simon said. "It's precious." 


The Inquisitor 

The first time Clary had ever seen the Institute, it had looked like a dilapidated church, its roof broken in, 

stained yellow police tape holding the door closed. Now she didn't have to concentrate to dispel the illusion. 

Even from across the street she could see it exactly as it was, a towering Gothic cathedral whose spires seemed 

to pierce the dark blue sky like knives. Luke fell silent. It was clear from the look on his face that some kind of 

struggle was taking place inside him. As they mounted the steps, Jace reached inside his shirt as if from habit, 

but when he drew his hand out, it was empty. He laughed without any mirth. "I forgot. 

Maryse took my keys 

from me before I left." "Of course she did." Luke was standing directly in front of the Institute's doors. He 

gently touched the symbols carved into the wood, just below the architrave. "These doors are just like the ones 

at the Council Hall in Idris. I never thought I would see their like again." Clary almost felt guilty interrupting 

Luke's reverie, but there were practical matters to attend to. "If we don't have a key-" 

"One shouldn't be 

necessary. An Institute should be open to any of the Nephilim who mean no harm to the inhabitants." "What if 

they mean harm to us?" Jace muttered. Luke's mouth quirked at the corner. "I don't think that makes a 


"Yeah, the Clave always stacks the deck its way." Jace's voice sounded muffled-his lower lip was swelling, 

his left eyelid turning purple. Why didn't he heal himself? Clary wondered. "Did she take your stele, too?" "I 

didn't take anything when I left," Jace said. "I didn't want to take anything the Lightwoods 

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looked at him with some concern. "Every Shadowhunter must have a stele." "So I'll get another one," said 

Jace, and put his hand to the Institute's door. "In the name of the Clave," he said, "I ask entry to this holy 

place. And in the name of the Angel Raziel, I ask your blessings upon my mission against-

" The doors swung 

open. Clary could see the cathedral's interior through them, the shadowy darkness illuminated here and there 

by candles in tall iron candelabras. "Well, that's convenient," said Jace. "I guess blessings are easier to come 

by than I thought. Maybe I should ask for blessings on my mission against all those who wear white after 

Labor Day." "The Angel knows what your mission is," said Luke. "You don't have to say the words aloud, 

Jonathan." For a moment Clary thought she saw something flicker across Jace's face-uncertainty, surprise-and 

maybe even relief? But all he said was, "Don't call me that. It's not my name." 

They made their way through the ground floor of the cathedral, past the empty pews and the light burning 

forever on the altar. Luke looked around him curiously, and even seemed surprised when the elevator, like a 

gilded birdcage, arrived to carry them up. "This must have been Maryse's idea," he said as they stepped into it. 

"It's entirely her taste." "It's been here as long as I have," said Jace, as the door clanged shut behind them. The 

ride up was brief, and none of them spoke. Clary played nervously with the fringe of her scarf. She felt a little 

guilty about having told Simon to go home and wait for her to call him later. She had seen from the annoyed 

set of his shoulders as he stalked off down Canal Street that he'd felt summarily dismissed. 

Still, she couldn't 

imagine having him-a mundane-here while Luke petitioned Maryse Lightwood on Jace's behalf; it would just 

make everything awkward. The elevator came to a clanging stop and they stepped out to find Church waiting 

for them in the entryway, a slightly dilapidated red bow around his neck. Jace bent to rub the back of his hand 

along the cat's head. "Where's Maryse?" Church made a noise in his throat, halfway between a purr and a 

growl, and headed off down the corridor. They followed, Jace silent, Luke glancing around with evident 

curiosity. "I never thought I'd see the inside of this place." Clary asked, "Does it look like you thought it 

would?" "I've been to the Institutes in London and Paris; this is not unlike those, no. 

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"Somehow what?" Jace was several strides ahead. "Colder," said Luke. Jace said nothing. 

They had reached 

the library. Church sat down as if to indicate that he planned to go no farther. Voices were faintly audible 

through the thick wooden door, but Jace pushed it open without knocking and strode inside. Clary heard a 

voice exclaim in surprise. For a moment her heart contracted as she thought of Hodge, who had all but lived in 

this room. Hodge, with his gravelly voice, and Hugin, the raven who was his almost constant companion-and 

who had, at Hodge's orders, nearly ripped out her eyes. It wasn't Hodge, of course. 

Behind the enormous 

mahogany plank desk that balanced on the backs of two kneeling stone angels sat a middle-aged woman with 

Isabelle's ink black hair and Alec's thin, wiry build. She wore a neat black suit, very plain, in contrast to the 

multiple brightly colored rings that burned on her fingers. Beside her stood another figure: a slender teenage 

boy, slightly built, with curling dark hair and honey-colored skin. As he turned to look at them, Clary couldn't 

hold back an exclamation of surprise. "Raphael?" For a moment the boy looked taken aback. Then he smiled, 

his teeth very white and sharp-not surprising, considering that he was a vampire. "Dios," 

he said, addressing 

himself to Jace. "What happened to you, brother? You look as if a pack of wolves tried to tear you apart." 

"That's either a shockingly good guess," said Jace, "or you heard about what happened." 

Raphael's smile turned into a grin. "I hear things." The woman behind the desk rose to her feet. "Jace," she 

said, her voice full of anxiety. "Did something happen? Why are you back so soon? I thought you were going 

to stay with-" Her gaze moved past him to Luke and Clary. "And who are you?" "Jace's sister," Clary said. 

Maryse's eyes rested on Clary. "Yes, I can see it. You look like Valentine." She turned back to Jace. "You 

brought your sister with you? And a mundane, as well? It's not safe for any of you here right now. And 

especially a mundane-" Luke, smiling faintly, said, "But I'm not a mundane." Maryse's expression changed 

slowly from bewilderment to shock as she looked at Luke-really looked at him-for the first time. "Lucian?" 

"Hello, Maryse," said Luke. "It's been a long time." 

Maryse's face was very still, and in that moment she looked suddenly much older, older even than Luke. She 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( sat down carefully. "Lucian," she said again, her hands flat on the desk. "Lucian Graymark." Raphael, who 

had been watching the proceedings with the bright, curious gaze of a bird, turned to Luke. 

"You killed 

Gabriel." Who was Gabriel? Clary stared at Luke, puzzled. He gave a slight shrug. "I did, yes, just like he 

killed the pack leader before him. That's how it works with lycanthropes." Maryse looked up at that. "The pack 


"If you lead the pack now, it's time for us to talk," said Raphael, inclining his head graciously in Luke's 

direction, though his eyes were wary. "Though not at this exact moment; perhaps." "I'll send someone over to 

arrange it," said Luke. "Things have been busy lately. I might be behind on the niceties." 

"You might," was all 

that Raphael said. He turned back to Maryse. "Is our business here concluded?" Maryse spoke with an effort. 

"If you say the Night Children aren't involved in these killings, then I'll take you at your word. I'm required to, 

unless other evidence comes to light." Raphael frowned. "To light?" he said. "That is not a phrase I like." He 

turned then, and Clary saw with a start that she could see through the edges of him, as if he were a photograph 

that had blurred around the margins. His left hand was transparent, and through it she could see the big metal 

globe Hodge had always kept on the desk. She heard herself make a little noise of surprise as the transparency 

spread up his arms from his hands-and down his chest from his shoulders, and in a moment he was gone, like 

a figure erased from a sketch. Maryse exhaled a sigh of relief. Clary gaped. "Is he dead?" 

"What, Raphael?" 

said Jace. "Not likely. That was just a projection of him. He can't come into the Institute in his corporeal 

body." "Why not?" "Because this is hallowed ground," said Maryse. "And he is damned." 

Her wintry eyes lost 

none of their coldness when she turned her glance on Luke. "You, head of the pack here?" 

she asked. 

"I suppose I should hardly be surprised. It does seem to be your method, doesn't it?" Luke ignored the 

bitterness in her tone. "Was Raphael here about the cub who was killed today?" "That, and a dead warlock," 

Maryse said. "Found murdered downtown, two days apart." "But why was Raphael here?" 

"The warlock was 

drained of blood," said Maryse. "It seems that whoever murdered the werewolf was interrupted before the 

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his folk had nothing to do with it." "Do you believe him?" Jace said. "I don't care to talk about Clave business 

with you right now, Jace-especially not in front of Lucian Graymark." "I'm just called Luke now," Luke said 

placidly. "Luke Garroway." Maryse shook her head. "I hardly recognized you. You look like a mundane." 

"That's the idea, yes." "We all thought you were dead." "Hoped," said Luke, still placidly. 

"Hoped I was dead." 

Maryse looked as if she'd swallowed something sharp. "You might as well sit down," she said finally, pointing 

toward the chairs 

in front of the desk. "Now," said Maryse, once they'd taken their seats, "perhaps you might tell me why you're 

here." "Jace," said Luke, without preamble, "wants a trial before the Clave. I'm willing to vouch for him. I was 

there that night at Renwick's, when Valentine revealed himself. I fought him and we nearly killed each other. I 

can confirm that everything Jace says happened is the truth." "I'm not sure," countered Maryse, "what your 

word is worth." "I may be a lycanthrope," said Luke, "but I'm also a Shadowhunter. I'm willing to be tried by 

the Sword, if that will help." By the Sword? That sounded bad. Clary looked over at Jace. 

He was outwardly 

calm, his fingers laced together in his lap, but there was a shuddering tension about him, as if he were a 

hairsbreadth from exploding. He caught her look and said, "The Soul-Sword. The second of the Mortal 

Instruments. It's used in trials to determine if a Shadowhunter is lying." "You're not a Shadowhunter," said 

Maryse to Luke, as if Jace hadn't spoken. "You haven't lived by the Law of the Clave in a long, long time." 

"There was a time when you didn't live by it either," said Luke. High color flooded Maryse's cheeks. "I would 

have thought," he went on, "that by now you would have gotten past not being able to trust anyone, Maryse." 

"Some things you never forget," she said. Her voice held a dangerous softness. "You think pretending his own 

death was the biggest lie Valentine ever told us? You think charm is the same as honesty? I used to think so. I was wrong." She stood up and leaned on the table with her thin hands. "He told 

us he would lay down his life for the Circle and that he expected us to do the same. And we would have-all of 

us-I know it. I nearly did it." Her gaze swept over Jace and Clary and her eyes locked with 

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remember," she said, "the way he told us that the Uprising would be nothing, hardly a battle, a few unarmed 

ambassadors against the full might of the Circle. I was so confident in our swift victory that when I rode out to 

Alicante, I left Alec at home in his cradle. I asked Jocelyn to watch my children while I was away. She 

refused. I know why now. She knew-and so did you. And you didn't warn us." "I'd tried to warn you about 

Valentine," said Luke. "You didn't listen." "I don't mean about Valentine. I mean about the Uprising! When 

we arrived, there were fifty of us against five hundred Downworlders-" "You'd been willing to slaughter them 

unarmed when you thought there would be only five of them," said Luke quietly. Maryse's hands clenched on 

the desk. "We were slaughtered," she said. "In the midst of the carnage, we looked to Valentine to lead us. But 

he wasn't there. By that time the Clave had surrounded the Hall of Accords. We thought Valentine had been 

killed, were ready to give our own lives in a final desperate rush. Then I remembered Alec-if I died, what 

would happen to my little boy?" Her voice caught. "So I laid my arms down and gave myself up to the Clave." 

"You did the right thing, Maryse," said Luke. 

She turned on him, eyes blazing. "Don't patronize me, werewolf. If it weren't for you-" 

"Don't yell at him!" 

Clary cut in, almost rising to her feet herself. "It's your fault for believing Valentine in the first place-" "You 

think I don't know that?" There was a ragged edge to Maryse's voice now. "Oh, the Clave made that point 

nicely when they questioned us-they had the Soul-Sword and they knew when we were lying, but they couldn't 

make us talk-nothing could make us talk, until-" "Until what?" It was Luke who spoke. 

"I've never known. I 

always wondered what they told you to make you turn on him." "Just the truth," Maryse said, sounding 

suddenly tired. "That Valentine hadn't died there in the Hall. He'd fled-left us there to die without him. He'd 

died later, we were told, burned to death in his house. The Inquisitor showed us his bones, the charred amulet 

he used to wear. Of course, that was another lie " Her voice trailed off, and then she rallied again, her words 

crisp: "It was all coming apart by then, anyway. We were finally talking to one another, those of us in the 

Circle. Before the battle, Valentine had drawn me aside, told me that out of all the Circle, 

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trusted most, his closest lieutenant. When the Clave questioned us I found out he'd said the same thing to 

everyone." "Hell hath no fury," Jace muttered, so quietly that only Clary heard him. "He lied not just to the 

Clave but to us. He used our loyalty and our affection. Just as he did when he sent you to us," Maryse said, 

looking directly at Jace now. "And now he's back, and he has the Mortal Cup. He's been planning all this for years, all along, all of it. I can't afford to trust you, Jace. I'm 

sorry." Jace said nothing. His face was expressionless, but he'd gone paler as Maryse spoke, his new bruises 

standing out livid on his jaw and cheek. "Then what?" Luke said. "What is it you expect him to do? Where is 

he supposed to go?" Her eyes rested for a moment on Clary. "Why not to his sister?" she said. "Family-" 

"Isabelle is Jace's sister," interrupted Clary. "Alec and Max are his brothers. What are you going to tell them? 

They'll hate you forever if you throw Jace out of your house." Maryse's eyes rested on her. 

"What do you 

know about it?" "I know Alec and Isabelle," said Clary. The thought of Valentine came, unwelcome; she 

pushed it away. "Family is more than blood. Valentine isn't my father. Luke is. Just like Alec and Max and 

Isabelle are Jace's family. If you try to tear him out of your family, you'll leave a wound that won't ever heal." 

Luke was looking at her with a sort of surprised respect. Something flickered in Maryse's eyes-uncertainty? 

"Clary," Jace said softly. "Enough." He sounded defeated. Clary turned on Maryse. "What about the Sword?" 

she demanded. Maryse looked at her for a moment with genuine puzzlement. "The Sword?" 

"The Soul-Sword," said Clary. "The one you can use to tell if a Shadowhunter is lying or not. You can use it 

on Jace." "That's a good idea." There was a spark of animation in Jace's voice. "Clary, you mean well, but you 

don't know what the Sword entails," Luke said. "The only one who can use it is the Inquisitor." Jace sat 

forward. "Then call on her. Call the Inquisitor. I want to end this." "No," Luke said, but Maryse was looking at 

Jace. "The Inquisitor," she said reluctantly, "is already on her way-" "Maryse." Luke's voice cracked. "Tell me 

you haven't called her into this!" "I didn't! Did you think the Clave wouldn't involve itself in this wild tale of 

Forsaken warriors and Portals and staged deaths? After what Hodge did? We're all under 

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thanks to Valentine," she finished, seeing Jace's white and stunned expression. "The Inquisitor could put Jace 

in prison. She could strip his Marks. I thought it would be better..." "If Jace were gone when she arrived," said 

Luke. "No wonder you've been so eager to send him away." "Who is the Inquisitor?" 

Clary demanded. The 

word conjured up images of the Spanish Inquisition, of torture, the whip and the rack. 

"What does she do?" 

"She investigates Shadowhunters for the Clave," said Luke. "She ensures the Law hasn't been broken by 

Nephilim. She investigated all the Circle members after the Uprising." "She cursed Hodge?" Jace said. "She 

sent you here?" "She chose our exile and his punishment. She has no love for us, and hates your father." "I'm 

not leaving," said Jace, still very pale. "What will she do to you if she gets here and I'm gone? She'll think you 

conspired to hide me. She'll punish you-you and Alec and Isabelle and Max." Maryse said nothing. "Maryse, 

don't be a fool," Luke said. "She'll blame you more if you let Jace go. Keeping him here and allowing the trial 

by Sword would be a sign of good faith." "Keeping Jace-you can't be serious, Luke!" 

Clary said. She knew 

using the Sword had been her idea, but she was beginning to regret ever having brought it up. "She sounds 

awful." "But if Jace leaves," said Luke, "he can never come back. He'll never be a Shadowhunter again. Like it 

or not, the Inquisitor is the Law's right hand. If Jace wants to stay a part of the Clave, he has to cooperate with 

her. He does have something on his side, something the members of the Circle did not have after the 

Uprising." "And what's that?" Maryse asked. Luke smiled faintly. "Unlike you," he said, 

"Jace is telling the 


Maryse took a hard breath, then turned to Jace. "Ultimately, it's your decision," she said. 

"If you want the 

trial, you can stay here until the Inquisitor comes." "I'll stay," Jace said. There was a firmness in his tone, 

devoid of anger, that surprised Clary. He seemed to be looking past Maryse, a light flickering in his eyes, as if 

of reflected fire. In that moment Clary couldn't help but think that he looked very like his father. 


 The Cuckoo in the Nest 

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"Orange juice, molasses, eggs-weeks past their sell-by date, though-and something that looks kind of like 

lettuce." "Lettuce?" Clary peered over Simon's shoulder into the fridge. "Oh. That's some mozzarella." Simon 

shuddered and kicked Luke's fridge door shut. "Order pizza?" "I already did," said Luke, coming into the 

kitchen with the cordless phone in hand. "One large veggie pie, three Cokes. And I called the hospital," he 

added, hanging the phone up. "There's been no change with Jocelyn." "Oh," Clary said. 

She sat down at the 

wooden table in Luke's kitchen. Usually Luke was pretty neat, but at the moment the table was covered in unopened mail and stacks of dirty plates. Luke's green duffel hung across the back of a chair. 

She knew she should be helping with the cleaning up, but lately she just hadn't had the energy. Luke's kitchen 

was small and a little dingy at the best of times-he wasn't much of a cook, as evidenced by the fact that the 

spice rack that hung over the old-fashioned gas stove was empty of spices. Instead, he used it to hold boxes of 

coffee and tea. Simon sat down next to her as Luke cleared the dirty dishes off the table and dumped them into 

the sink. "Are you okay?" he asked in a low voice. "I'm all right." Clary managed a smile. 

"I didn't expect my 

mom to wake up today, Simon. I have this feeling she's- waiting for something." "Do you know what?" "No. 

Just that something's missing." She looked up at Luke, but he was involved in vigorously scrubbing the plates 

clean in the sink. "Or someone." Simon looked quizzically at her, then shrugged. "So it sounds like the scene 

at the Institute was pretty intense." Clary shuddered. "Alec and Isabelle's mom is scary." 

"What's her name 

again?" "May-ris," said Clary, copying Luke's pronunciation. "It's an old Shadowhunter name." Luke dried his 

hands on a dishcloth. 

"And Jace decided to stay there and deal with this Inquisitor person? He didn't want to leave?" Simon said. 

"It's what he has to do if he ever wants to have a life as a Shadowhunter," said Luke. "And being that-one of 

the Nephilim-means everything to him. I knew other Shadowhunters like him, back in Idris. If you took that 

away from him-" The familiar buzz of the doorbell sounded. Luke tossed the dishcloth onto the counter. "I'll 

be right back." As soon as he was out of the kitchen, Simon said, "It's really weird thinking of Luke as 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( someone who was once a Shadowhunter. Weirder than it is thinking of him as a werewolf." 

"Really? Why?" Simon shrugged. "I've heard of werewolves before. They're sort of a known element. So he 

turns into a wolf once a month, so what. But the Shadowhunter thing-they're like a cult." 

"They're not like a 

cult." "Sure they are. Shadowhunting is their whole lives. And they look down on everyone else. They call us 

mundanes. Like they're not human beings. They're not friends with ordinary people, they don't go to the same 

places, they don't know the same jokes, they think they're above us." Simon pulled one gangly leg up and 

twisted the frayed edge of the hole in the knee of his jeans. "I met another werewolf today." 

"Don't tell me you were hanging out with Freaky Pete at the Hunter's Moon." There was an uneasy feeling in 

the pit of her stomach, but she couldn't have said exactly what was causing it. Probably free-floating stress. 

"No. It was a girl," Simon said. "About our age. Named Maia." "Maia?" Luke was back in the kitchen carrying 

a square white pizza box. He dropped it onto the table and Clary reached over to pop it open. The smell of hot 

dough, tomato sauce, and cheese reminded her how starved she was. She tore off a slice, not waiting for Luke 

to slide a plate across the table to her. He sat down with a grin, shaking his head. "Maia's one of the pack, 

right?" Simon asked, taking a slice himself. Luke nodded. "Sure. She's a good kid. I've had her over here a few 

times looking out for the bookstore while I've been at the hospital. She lets me pay her in books." Simon 

looked at Luke over his pizza. "Are you low on money?" Luke shrugged. "Money's never been important to 

me, and the pack looks after its own." Clary said, "My mom always said that when we ran low on money she'd 

sell one of my dad's stocks. But since the guy I thought was my dad wasn't my dad, and I doubt Valentine has 

any stocks-" "Your mother was selling her jewelry off bit by bit," said Luke. "Valentine had given her some of 

his family's pieces, jewelry that had been with the Morgensterns for generations. Even a small piece would 

fetch a high price at auction." He sighed. "Those are gone now-though Valentine may have recovered them from the wreckage of your old apartment." "Well, I hope it 

gave her some satisfaction, anyway," Simon said. "Selling off his stuff like that." He took a third piece of 

Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( pizza. It was truly amazing, Cla