CITY OF BONES

He didn’t look at her. His eyes were locked on his father’s. The moment stretched out and out, interminable. At last he nodded, curtly, without lowering his hand. But he did let Luke move to stand beside him, and place his hand over Jace’s, on the hilt of the blade. “You can let go now, Jonathan,” Luke said—and then, seeing Clary’s face, amended himself. “Jace.”


Jace seemed not to have heard him. He released the hilt and moved away from his father. Some of Jace’s color had come back, and he was now a shade more like putty, his lip bloody where he’d bitten it. Clary ached to touch him, put her arms around him, knew he’d never let her.

“I have a suggestion,” said Valentine to Luke, in a surprisingly even tone.

“Let me guess,” said Luke. “It’s ‘Don’t kill me,’ isn’t it?”

Valentine laughed, a sound without any humor in it. “I would hardly lower myself to ask you for my life,” he said.

“Good,” said Luke, nudging the other man’s chin with his blade. “I’m not going to kill you unless you force my hand, Valentine. I draw the line at murdering you in front of your own children. What I want is the Cup.”

The roaring downstairs was louder now. Clary could hear what sounded like footsteps in the corridor outside. “Luke—”

“I hear it,” he snapped.

“The Cup’s in Idris, I told you,” said Valentine, his eyes shifting past Luke.

Luke was sweating. “If it’s in Idris, you used the Portal to bring it there. I’ll go with you. Bring it back.” Luke’s eyes were darting. There was more movement in the corridor outside now, sounds of shouting, of something shattering. “Clary, stay with your brother. After we go through, you use the Portal to take you to a safe place.”

“I won’t leave here,” said Jace.

“Yes, you will.” Something thudded against the door. Luke raised his voice. “Valentine, the Portal. Move.”

“Or what?” Valentine’s eyes were fixed on the door with a considering look.

“I’ll kill you if you force my hand,” Luke said. “In front of them, or not. The Portal, Valentine. Now.”

Valentine spread his hands wide. “If you wish.”

He stepped lightly backward, just as the door exploded inward, hinges scattering across the floor. Luke ducked out of the way to avoid being crushed by the falling door, turning as he did so, the sword still in his hand.

A wolf stood in the doorway, a mountain of growling, brindled fur, shoulders hunched forward, lips curled back over snarling teeth. Blood ran from innumerable gashes in his pelt.

Jace was swearing softly, a seraph blade already in his hand. Clary caught at his wrist. “Don’t—he’s a friend.”

Jace shot her an incredulous glance, but lowered his arm.

“Alaric—” Luke shouted something then, in a language Clary didn’t understand. Alaric snarled again, crouching closer to the floor, and for a confused moment she thought he was going to hurl himself at Luke. Then she saw Valentine’s hand at his belt, the flash of red jewels, and realized that she had forgotten that he still had Jace’s dagger.

She heard a voice shout Luke’s name, thought it was her own—then realized that her throat seemed glued shut, and that it was Jace who had shouted.

Luke slewed around, excruciatingly slowly, it seemed, as the knife left Valentine’s hand and flew toward him like a silver butterfly, turning over and over in the air. Luke raised his blade—and something huge and tawny gray hurtled between him and Valentine. She heard Alaric’s howl, rising, suddenly cut off; heard the sound as the blade struck. She gasped and tried to run forward, but Jace pulled her back.

The wolf crumpled at Luke’s feet, blood spattering his fur. Feebly, with his paws, Alaric clawed at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest.

Valentine laughed. “And this is how you repay the unquestioning loyalty you bought so cheaply, Lucian,” he said. “By letting them die for you.” He was backing up, his eyes still on Luke.

Luke, white-faced, looked at him, and then down at Alaric; shook his head once, and dropped to his knees, leaning over the fallen werewolf. Jace, still holding Clary by the shoulders, hissed, “Stay here, you hear me? Stay here,” and set off after Valentine, who was hurrying, inexplicably, toward the far wall. Did he plan to throw himself out the window? Clary could see his reflection in the big, gold-framed mirror as he neared it, and the expression on his face—a sort of sneering relief—filled her with a murderous rage.

“Like hell I will,” she muttered, moving to follow Jace. She paused only to grab the blue-hilted kindjal from the floor beneath the table, where Valentine had kicked it. The weapon in her hand felt comfortable now, reassuring, as she pushed a fallen chair out of her way and approached the mirror.