CITY OF ASHES

“Well, not during a war. But Jace isn’t a soldier.”


“But we’re all soldiers. Jace as much as the rest of us. There’s a hierarchy of command and the Inquisitor is near the top. Jace is near the bottom. He should have treated her with more respect.”

“If you agree that he ought to be in jail, why did you ask me to come here? Just to get me to agree with you? I don’t see the point. What do you want me to do?”

“We didn’t say he should be in jail,” Isabelle snapped. “Just that he shouldn’t have talked back to one of the highest-ranked members of the Clave. Besides,” she added in a smaller voice, “I thought that maybe you could help.”

“Help? How?”

“I told you before,” Alec said, “half the time it seems like Jace is trying to get himself killed. He has to learn to look out for himself, and that includes cooperating with the Inquisitor.”

“And you think I can help you make him do that?” Clary said, disbelief coloring her voice.

“I’m not sure anyone can make Jace do anything,” said Isabelle. “But I think you can remind him that he has something to live for.”

Alec looked down at the pillow in his hand and gave a sudden savage yank to the fringe. Beads rattled down onto Isabelle’s blanket like a shower of localized rain.

Isabelle frowned. “Alec, don’t.”

Clary wanted to tell Isabelle that they were Jace’s family, that she wasn’t, that their voices carried more weight with him than hers ever would. But she kept hearing Jace’s voice in her head, saying, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. But you make me feel like I belong. “Can we go to the Silent City and see him?”

“Will you tell him to cooperate with the Inquisitor?” Alec demanded.

Clary considered. “I want to hear what he has to say first.”

Alec dropped the denuded pillow onto the bed and stood up, frowning. Before he could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Isabelle unhitched herself from the vanity table and went to answer it.

It was a small, dark-haired boy, his eyes half-hidden by glasses. He wore jeans and an oversize sweatshirt and carried a book in one hand. “Max,” Isabelle said, with some surprise, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was in the weapons room,” said the boy—who had to be the Lightwoods’ youngest son. “But there were noises coming from the library. I think someone might be trying to contact the Institute.” He peered around Isabelle at Clary. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Clary,” said Alec. “She’s Jace’s sister.”

Max’s eyes rounded. “I thought Jace didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

“That’s what we all thought,” said Alec, picking up the sweater he’d left draped over one of Isabelle’s chairs and yanking it on. His hair rayed out around his head like a soft dark halo, crackling with static electricity. He pushed it back impatiently. “I’d better get to the library.”

“We’ll both go,” Isabelle said, taking her gold whip, which was twisted into a shimmering rope, out of a drawer and sliding the handle through her belt. “Maybe something’s happened.”

“Where are your parents?” Clary asked.

“They got called out a few hours ago. A fey was murdered in Central Park. The Inquisitor went with them,” Alec explained.

“You didn’t want to go?”

“We weren’t invited.” Isabelle looped her two dark braids up on top of her head and stuck the coil of hair through with a small glass dagger. “Look after Max, will you? We’ll be right back.”

“But—” Clary protested.

“We’ll be right back.” Isabelle darted out into the corridor, Alec on her heels. The moment the door shut behind them, Clary sat down on the bed and regarded Max with apprehension. She’d never spent much time around children—her mother had never let her babysit—and she wasn’t really sure how to talk to them or what might amuse them. It helped a little that this particular little boy reminded her of Simon at that age, with his skinny arms and legs and glasses that seemed too big for his face.

Max returned her stare with a considering glance of his own, not shy, but thoughtful and contained. “How old are you?” he said finally.

Clary was taken aback. “How old do I look?”

“Fourteen.”

“I’m sixteen, but people always think I’m younger than I am because I’m so short.”

Max nodded. “Me too,” he said. “I’m nine but people always think I’m seven.”

“You look nine to me,” said Clary. “What’s that you’re holding? Is it a book?”

Max brought his hand out from behind his back. He was holding a wide, flat paperback, about the size of one of those small magazines they sold at grocery store counters. This one had a brightly colored cover with Japanese kanji script on it under the English words. Clary laughed. “Naruto,” she said. “I didn’t know you liked manga. Where did you get that?”