CITY OF GLASS

As he approached, he wondered what about the house in the vision had seemed eerie. Up close, it was just an ordinary Idris farmhouse, made of squares of white and gray stone. The shutters had once been painted a bright blue, but it looked as if it had been years since anyone had repainted them. They were pale and peeling with age.

Reaching one of the windows, Jace hoisted himself onto the sill and peered through the cloudy pane. He saw a big, slightly dusty room with a workbench of sorts running along one wall. The tools on it weren’t anything you’d do handiwork with—they were a warlock’s tools: stacks of smeared parchment; black, waxy candles; fat copper bowls with dried dark liquid stuck to the rims; an assortment of knives, some as thin as awls, some with wide square blades. A pentagram was chalked on the floor, its outlines blurred, each of its five points decorated with a different rune. Jace’s stomach tightened—the runes looked like the ones that had been carved around Ithuriel’s feet. Could Valentine have done this—could these be his things? Was this his hideaway—a hideaway Jace had never visited or known about?

Jace slid off the sill, landing in a dry patch of grass—just as a shadow passed across the face of the moon. But there were no birds here, he thought, and glanced up just in time to see a raven wheeling overhead. He froze, then stepped hastily into the shadow of a tree and peered up through its branches. As the raven dipped closer to the ground, Jace knew his first instinct had been right. This wasn’t just any raven—this was Hugo, the raven that had once been Hodge’s; Hodge had used him on occasion to carry messages outside the Institute. Since then Jace had learned that Hugo had originally been his father’s.

Jace pressed himself closer to the tree trunk. His heart was pounding again, this time with excitement. If Hugo was here, it could only mean that he was carrying a message, and this time the message wouldn’t be for Hodge. It would be for Valentine. It had to be. If Jace could only manage to follow him—

Perching on a sill, Hugo peered through one of the house’s windows. Apparently realizing that the house was empty, the bird rose into the air with an irritable caw and flapped off in the direction of the stream.

Jace stepped out from the shadows and set out in pursuit of the raven.

“So, technically,” Simon said, “even though Jace isn’t actually related to you, you have kissed your brother.”

“Simon!” Clary was appalled. “Shut UP.” She spun in her seat to see if anyone was listening, but, fortunately, nobody seemed to be. She was sitting in a high seat on the dais in the Accords Hall, Simon by her side. Her mother stood at the edge of the dais, leaning down to speak to Amatis.

All around them the Hall was chaos as the Downworlders who had come from the North Gate poured in, spilling in through the doors, crowding against the walls. Clary recognized various members of Luke’s pack, including Maia, who grinned across the room at her. There were faeries, pale and cold and lovely as icicles, and warlocks with bat wings and goat feet and even one with antlers, blue fire sparking from their fingertips as they moved through the room. The Shadowhunters milled among them, looking nervous.

Clutching her stele in both hands, Clary looked around anxiously. Where was Luke? He’d vanished into the crowd. She picked him out after a moment, talking with Malachi, who was shaking his head violently. Amatis stood nearby, shooting the Consul dagger glances.

“Don’t make me sorry I ever told you any of this, Simon,” Clary said, glaring at him. She’d done her best to give him a pared-down version of Jocelyn’s tale, mostly hissed under her breath as he’d helped her plow through the crowds to the dais and take her seat there. It was weird being up here, looking down on the room as if she were the queen of all she surveyed. But a queen wouldn’t be nearly so panicked. “Besides. He was a horrible kisser.”

“Or maybe it was just gross, because he was, you know, your brother.” Simon seemed more amused by the whole business than Clary thought he had any right to be.

“Do not say that where my mother can hear you, or I’ll kill you,” she said with a second glare. “I already feel like I’m going to throw up or pass out. Don’t make it worse.”

Jocelyn, returning from the edge of the dais in time to hear Clary’s last words—though, fortunately, not what she and Simon had been discussing—dropped a reassuring pat onto Clary’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, baby. You were so great before. Is there anything you need? A blanket, some hot water …”