Cassandra Clare: The Mortal Instruments Series Page 6

  Clary’s eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She imagined she could feel tearing skin as she peeled them slowly open and blinked for the first time in three days.

  She saw clear blue sky above her, white puffy clouds and chubby angels with gilded ribbons trailing from their wrists. Am I dead? she wondered. Could heaven actually look like this? She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again: This time she realized that what she was staring at was an arched wooden ceiling, painted with a rococo motif of clouds and cherubs.

  Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Every part of her ached, especially the back of her neck. She glanced around. She was tucked into a linen-sheeted bed, one of a long row of similar beds with metal headboards. Her bed had a small nightstand beside it with a white pitcher and cup on it. Lace curtains were pulled across the windows, blocking the light, although she could hear the faint, ever-present New York sounds of traffic coming from outside.

  “So, you’re finally awake,” said a dry voice. “Hodge will be pleased. We all thought you’d probably die in your sleep.”

  Clary turned. Isabelle was perched on the next bed, her long jet-black hair wound into two thick braids that fell past her waist. Her white dress had been replaced by jeans and a tight blue tank top, though the red pendant still winked at her throat. Her dark spiraling tattoos were gone; her skin was as unblemished as the surface of a bowl of cream.

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Clary’s voice rasped like sandpaper. “Is this the Institute?”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Is there anything Jace didn’t tell you?”

  Clary coughed. “This is the Institute, right?”

  “Yes. You’re in the infirmary, not that you haven’t figured that out already.”

  A sudden, stabbing pain made Clary clutch at her stomach. She gasped.

  Isabelle looked at her in alarm. “Are you okay?”

  The pain was fading, but Clary was aware of an acid feeling in the back of her throat and a strange light-headedness. “My stomach.”

  “Oh, right. I almost forgot. Hodge said to give you this when you woke up.” Isabelle grabbed for the ceramic pitcher and poured some of the contents into the matching cup, which she handed to Clary. It was full of a cloudy liquid that steamed slightly. It smelled like herbs and something else, something rich and dark. “You haven’t eaten anything in three days,” Isabelle pointed out. “That’s probably why you feel sick.”

  Clary gingerly took a sip. It was delicious, rich and satisfying with a buttery aftertaste. “What is this?”

  Isabelle shrugged. “One of Hodge’s tisanes. They always work.” She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a catlike arch of her back. “I’m Isabelle Lightwood, by the way. I live here.”

  “I know your name. I’m Clary. Clary Fray. Did Jace bring me here?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Hodge was furious. You got ichor and blood all over the carpet in the entryway. If he’d done it while my parents were here, he’d have gotten grounded for sure.” She looked at Clary more narrowly. “Jace said you killed that Ravener demon all by yourself.”

  A quick image of the scorpion thing with its crabbed, evil face flashed through Clary’s mind; she shuddered and clutched the cup more tightly. “I guess I did.”

  “But you’re a mundie.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Clary said, savoring the look of thinly disguised amazement on Isabelle’s face. “Where is Jace? Is he around?”

  Isabelle shrugged. “Somewhere,” she said. “I should go tell everyone you’re up. Hodge’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Hodge is Jace’s tutor, right?”

  “Hodge tutors us all.” She pointed. “The bathroom’s through there, and I hung some of my old clothes on the towel rack in case you want to change.”

  Clary went to take another sip from the cup and found that it was empty. She no longer felt hungry or light-headed either, which was a relief. She set the cup down and hugged the sheet around herself. “What happened to my clothes?”

  “They were covered in blood and poison. Jace burned them.”

  “Did he?” asked Clary. “Tell me, is he always really rude, or does he save that for mundanes?”

  “Oh, he’s rude to everyone,” said Isabelle airily. “It’s what makes him so damn sexy. That, and he’s killed more demons than anyone else his age.”

  Clary looked at her, perplexed. “Isn’t he your brother?”

  That got Isabelle’s attention. She laughed out loud. “Jace? My brother? No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Well, he lives here with you,” Clary pointed out. “Doesn’t he?”

  Isabelle nodded. “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “Why doesn’t he live with his own parents?”

  For a fleeting moment Isabelle looked uncomfortable. “Because they’re dead.”

  Clary’s mouth opened in surprise. “Did they die in an accident?”

  “No.” Isabelle fidgeted, pushing a dark lock of hair behind her left ear. “His mother died when he was born. His father was murdered when he was ten. Jace saw the whole thing.”

  “Oh,” Clary said, her voice small. “Was it . . . demons?”

  Isabelle got to her feet. “Look, I’d better let everyone know you’ve woken up. They’ve been waiting for you to open your eyes for three days. Oh, and there’s soap in the bathroom,” she added. “You might want to clean up a little. You smell.”

  Clary glared at her. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Any time.”

  Isabelle’s clothes looked ridiculous. Clary had to roll the legs on the jeans up several times before she stopped tripping on them, and the plunging neckline of the red tank top only emphasized her lack of what Eric would have called a “rack.”

  She cleaned up in the small bathroom, using a bar of hard lavender soap. Drying herself with a white hand towel left damp hair straggling around her face in fragrant tangles. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror. There was a purpling bruise high up on her left cheek, and her lips were dry and swollen.

  I have to call Luke, she thought. Surely there was a phone around here somewhere. Maybe they’d let her use it after she talked to Hodge.

  She found her Skechers placed neatly at the foot of her infirmary bed, her keys tied into the laces. Sliding her feet into them, she took a deep breath and left to find Isabelle.

  The corridor outside the infirmary was empty. Clary glanced down it, perplexed. It looked like the sort of hallway she sometimes found herself racing down in nightmares, shadowy and infinite. Glass lamps blown into the shapes of roses hung at intervals on the walls, and the air smelled like dust and candle wax.

  In the distance she could hear a faint and delicate noise, like wind chimes shaken by a storm. She set off down the corridor slowly, trailing a hand along the wall. The Victorian-looking wallpaper was faded with age, burgundy and pale gray. Each side of the corridor was lined with closed doors.

  The sound she was following grew louder. Now she could identify it as the sound of a piano being played with desultory but undeniable skill, though she couldn’t identify the tune.

  Turning the corner, she came to a doorway, the door propped fully open. Peering in she saw what was clearly a music room. A grand piano stood in one corner, and rows of chairs were arranged against the far wall. A covered harp occupied the center of the room.

  Jace was seated at the grand piano, his slender hands moving rapidly over the keys. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt, his tawny hair ruffled up around his head as if he’d just woken up. Watching the quick, sure movements of his hands across the keys, Clary remembered how it had felt to be lifted up by those hands, his arms holding her up and the stars hurtling down around her head like a rain of silver tinsel.

  She must have made some noise, because he twisted around on the stool, blinking into the shadows. “Alec?” he said. “Is that you?”

  “It’s not Alec. It’s me.” She stepped farther into the room. “Clary.”
<
br />   Piano keys jangled as he got to his feet. “Our own Sleeping Beauty. Who finally kissed you awake?”

  “Nobody. I woke up on my own.”

  “Was there anyone with you?”

  “Isabelle, but she went off to get someone—Hodge, I think. She told me to wait, but—”

  “I should have warned her about your habit of never doing what you’re told.” Jace squinted at her. “Are those Isabelle’s clothes? They look ridiculous on you.”

  “I could point out that you burned my clothes.”

  “It was purely precautionary.” He slid the gleaming black piano cover closed. “Come on, I’ll take you to Hodge.”

  The Institute was huge, a vast cavernous space that looked less like it had been designed according to a floor plan and more like it had been naturally hollowed out of rock by the passage of water and years. Through half-open doors Clary glimpsed countless identical small rooms, each with a stripped bed, a nightstand, and a large wooden wardrobe standing open. Pale arches of stone held up the high ceilings, many of the arches intricately carved with small figures. She noticed certain repeating motifs: angels and swords, suns and roses.

  “Why does this place have so many bedrooms?” Clary asked. “I thought it was a research institute.”

  “This is the residential wing. We’re pledged to offer safety and lodging to any Shadowhunter who requests it. We can house up to two hundred people here.”

  “But most of these rooms are empty.”

  “People come and go. Nobody stays for long. Usually it’s just us—Alec, Isabelle, Max, their parents—and me and Hodge.”

  “Max?”

  “You met the beauteous Isabelle? Alec is her elder brother. Max is the youngest, but he’s overseas with his parents.”

  “On vacation?”

  “Not exactly.” Jace hesitated. “You can think of them as—as foreign diplomats, and of this as an embassy, of sorts. Right now they’re in the Shadowhunter home country, working out some very delicate peace negotiations. They brought Max with them because he’s so young.”

  “Shadowhunter home country?” Clary’s head was spinning. “What’s it called?”

  “Idris.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You wouldn’t have.” That irritating superiority was back in his voice. “Mundanes don’t know about it. There are wardings—protective spells—up all over the borders. If you tried to cross into Idris, you’d simply find yourself transported instantly from one border to the next. You’d never know what happened.”

  “So it’s not on any maps?”

  “Not mundie ones. For our purposes you can consider it a small country between Germany and France.”

  “But there isn’t anything between Germany and France. Except Switzerland.”

  “Precisely,” said Jace.

  “I take it you’ve been there. To Idris, I mean.”

  “I grew up there.” Jace’s voice was neutral, but something in his tone let her know that more questions in that direction would not be welcome. “Most of us do. There are, of course, Shadowhunters all over the world. We have to be everywhere, because demonic activity is everywhere. But to a Shadowhunter, Idris is always ‘home.’”

  “Like Mecca or Jerusalem,” said Clary, thoughtfully. “So most of you are brought up there, and then when you grow up—”

  “We’re sent where we’re needed,” said Jace shortly. “And there are a few, like Isabelle and Alec, who grow up away from the home country because that’s where their parents are. With all the resources of the Institute here, with Hodge’s training—” He broke off. “This is the library.”

  They had reached an arch-shaped set of wooden doors. A blue Persian cat with yellow eyes lay curled in front of them. It raised its head as they approached and yowled. “Hey, Church,” Jace said, stroking the cat’s back with a bare foot. The cat slit its eyes in pleasure.

  “Wait,” said Clary. “Alec and Isabelle and Max—they’re the only Shadowhunters your age that you know, that you spend time with?”

  Jace stopped stroking the cat. “Yes.”

  “That must get kind of lonely.”

  “I have everything I need.” He pushed the doors open. After a moment’s hesitation she followed him inside.

  The library was circular, with a ceiling that tapered to a point, as if it had been built inside a tower. The walls were lined with books, the shelves so high that tall ladders set on casters were placed along them at intervals. These were no ordinary books either—these were books bound in leather and velvet, clasped with sturdy-looking locks and hinges made of brass and silver. Their spines were studded with dully glowing jewels and illuminated with gold script. They looked worn in a way that made it clear that these books were not just old but were well-used, and had been loved.

  The floor was polished wood, inlaid with chips of glass and marble and bits of semiprecious stone. The inlay formed a pattern that Clary couldn’t quite decipher—it might have been the constellations, or even a map of the world; she suspected she’d have to climb up into the tower and look down in order to see it properly.

  In the center of the room sat a magnificent desk. It was carved from a single slab of wood, a great, heavy piece of oak that gleamed with the dull shine of years. The slab rested upon the backs of two angels, carved from the same wood, their wings gilded and their faces engraved with a look of suffering, as if the weight of the slab were breaking their backs. Behind the desk sat a thin man with gray-streaked hair and a long beaky noise.

  “A book lover, I see,” he said, smiling at Clary. “You didn’t tell me that, Jace.”

  Jace chuckled. Clary could tell that he had come up behind her and was standing there with his hands in his pockets, grinning that infuriating grin of his. “We haven’t done much talking during our short acquaintance,” he said. “I’m afraid our reading habits didn’t come up.”

  Clary turned around and shot him a glare.

  “How can you tell?” she asked the man behind the desk. “That I like books, I mean.”

  “The look on your face when you walked in,” he said, standing up and coming around from behind the desk. “Somehow I doubted you were that impressed by me.”

  Clary stifled a gasp as he rose. For a moment it seemed to her that he was strangely misshapen, his left shoulder humped and higher than the other. As he approached, she saw that the hunch was actually a bird, perched neatly on his shoulder—a glossy feathered creature with bright black eyes.

  “This is Hugo,” the man said, touching the bird on his shoulder. “Hugo is a raven, and, as such, he knows many things. I, meanwhile, am Hodge Starkweather, a professor of history, and, as such, I do not know nearly enough.”

  Clary laughed a little, despite herself, and shook his outstretched hand. “Clary Fray.”

  “Honored to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I would be honored to make the acquaintance of anyone who could kill a Ravener with her bare hands.”

  “It wasn’t my bare hands.” It still felt odd to be congratulated for killing something. “It was Jace’s—well, I don’t remember what it was called, but—”

  “She means my Sensor,” Jace said. “She shoved it down the thing’s throat. The runes must have choked it. I guess I’ll need another one,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I should have mentioned that.”

  “There are several extra in the weapons room,” said Hodge. When he smiled at Clary, a thousand small lines rayed out from around his eyes, like the cracks in an old painting. “That was quick thinking. What gave you the idea of using the Sensor as a weapon?”

  Before she could reply, a sharp laugh sounded through the room. Clary had been so enraptured by the books and distracted by Hodge that she hadn’t seen Alec sprawled in an overstuffed red armchair by the empty fireplace. “I can’t believe you buy that story, Hodge,” he said.

  At first Clary didn’t even register his words. She was too busy staring at him. Like many only children, she was fasc
inated by the resemblance between siblings, and now, in the full light of day, she could see exactly how much Alec looked like his sister. They had the same jet-black hair, the same slender eyebrows winging up at the corners, the same pale, high-colored skin. But where Isabelle was all arrogance, Alec slumped down in the chair as if he hoped nobody would notice him. His lashes were long and dark like Isabelle’s, but where her eyes were black, his were the dark blue of bottle glass. They gazed at Clary with a hostility as pure and concentrated as acid.

  “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Alec.” Hodge raised an eyebrow. Clary wondered how old he was; there was a sort of agelessness to him, despite the gray in his hair. He wore a neat gray tweed suit, perfectly pressed. He would have looked like a kindly college professor if it hadn’t been for the thick scar that drew up the right side of his face. She wondered how he had gotten it. “Are you suggesting that she didn’t kill that demon after all?”

  “Of course she didn’t. Look at her—she’s a mundie, Hodge, and a little kid, at that. There’s no way she took on a Ravener.”

  “I’m not a little kid,” Clary interrupted. “I’m sixteen years old—well, I will be on Sunday.”

  “The same age as Isabelle,” Hodge said. “Would you call her a child?”

  “Isabelle hails from one of the greatest Shadowhunter dynasties in history,” Alec said dryly. “This girl, on the other hand, hails from New Jersey.”

  “I’m from Brooklyn!” Clary was outraged. “And so what? I just killed a demon in my own house, and you’re going to be a dickhead about it because I’m not some spoiled-rotten rich brat like you and your sister?”

  Alec looked astonished. “What did you call me?”

  Jace laughed. “She has a point, Alec,” Jace said. “It’s those bridge-and-tunnel demons you really have to watch out for—”

  “It’s not funny, Jace,” Alec interrupted, starting to his feet. “Are you just going to let her stand there and call me names?”

  “Yes,” Jace said kindly. “It’ll do you good—try to think of it as endurance training.”