CITY OF BONES

Remembering the stinging sensation when the stele had touched her wrist, she braced herself, but all she felt as the glowing instrument glided lightly over her injury was a faint warmth. “There,” he said, straightening up. Clary flexed her arm in wonder—though the blood was still there, the wound was gone, as were the pain and stiffness. “And next time you’re planning to injure yourself to get my attention, just remember that a little sweet talk works wonders.”


Clary felt her mouth twitch into a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. And as he turned away, she added, “And thanks.”

He slid the stele into his back pocket without turning to look at her, but she thought she saw a certain gratification in the set of his shoulders. “Brother Jeremiah,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “you’ve been very quiet all this time. Surely you have some thoughts you’d like to share?”

I am charged with leading you from the Silent City, and that is all, said the archivist. Clary wondered if she were imagining it, or if there was actually a faintly affronted tone to his “voice.”

“We could always show ourselves out,” Jace suggested hopefully. “I’m sure I remember the way—”

The marvels of the Silent City are not for the eyes of the uninitiated, said Jeremiah, and he turned his back on them with a soundless swish of robes. This way.

When they emerged into the open, Clary took deep breaths of the thick morning air, relishing the city stench of smog, dirt, and humanity. Jace looked around thoughtfully. “It’s going to rain,” he said.

He was right, Clary thought, looking up at the iron-gray sky. “Are we taking a carriage back to the Institute?”

Jace looked from Brother Jeremiah, still as a statue, to the carriage, looming like a black shadow in the archway that led to the street. Then he broke into a grin.

“No way,” he said. “I hate those things. Let’s hail a cab.”





11

MAGNUS BANE


JACE LEANED FORWARD AND BANGED HIS HAND AGAINST THE partition separating them from the cab driver. “Turn left! Left! I said to take Broadway, you brain-dead moron!”

The taxi driver responded by jerking the wheel so hard to the left that Clary was thrown against Jace. She let out a yelp of resentment. “Why are we taking Broadway, anyway?”

“I’m starving,” Jace said. “And there’s nothing at home except leftover Chinese.” He took his phone out of his pocket and started dialing. “Alec! Wake up!” he shouted. Clary could hear an irritated buzzing on the other end. “Meet us at Taki’s. Breakfast. Yeah, you heard me. Breakfast. What? It’s only a few blocks away. Get going.”

He clicked off and shoved the phone into one of his many pockets as they pulled up to a curb. Handing the driver a wad of bills, Jace elbowed Clary out of the car. When he landed on the pavement behind her, he stretched like a cat and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to the greatest restaurant in New York.”

It didn’t look like much—a low brick building that sagged in the middle like a collapsed soufflé. A battered neon sign proclaiming the restaurant’s name hung sideways and was sputtering. Two men in long coats and tipped-forward felt hats slouched in front of the narrow doorway. There were no windows.

“It looks like a prison,” said Clary.

He pointed at her. “But in prison could you order a spaghetti fra diavolo that makes you want to kiss your fingers? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t want spaghetti. I want to know what a Magnus Bane is.”

“It’s not a what. It’s a who,” said Jace. “It’s a name.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“He’s a warlock,” said Jace in his most reasonable voice. “Only a warlock could have put a block in your mind like that. Or maybe one of the Silent Brothers, but clearly it wasn’t them.”

“Is he a warlock you’ve heard of?” demanded Clary, who was rapidly tiring of Jace’s reasonable voice.

“The name does sound familiar—”

“Hey!” It was Alec, looking like he’d rolled out of bed and pulled jeans on over his pajamas. His hair, unbrushed, stuck out wildly around his head. He loped toward them, eyes on Jace, ignoring Clary as usual. “Izzy’s on her way,” he said. “She’s bringing the mundane.”

“Simon? Where did he come from?” Jace asked.

“He showed up first thing this morning. Couldn’t stay away from Izzy, I guess. Pathetic.” Alec sounded amused. Clary wanted to kick him. “Anyway, are we going in or what? I’m starving.”

“Me too,” said Jace. “I could really go for some fried mouse tails.”

“Some what?” asked Clary, sure that she’d heard wrong.

Jace grinned at her. “Relax,” he said. “It’s just a diner.”

They were stopped at the front door by one of the slouching men. As he straightened, Clary caught a glimpse of his face under the hat. His skin was dark red, his squared-off hands ending in blue-black nails. Clary felt herself stiffen, but Jace and Alec seemed unconcerned. They said something to the man, who nodded and stepped back, allowing them to pass.