City of Lost Souls

“What about Joshua’s sword?” interrupted Isabelle. “Can you get that? Or can we?”


“Only an angel can gift you that sword,” said Dolores. “And to summon an angel is to be blasted with heavenly fire.”

“But Raziel—,” Isabelle began.

Cleophas’s lips thinned into a straight line. “Raziel left us the Mortal Instruments that he might be called upon in a time of direst need. That one chance was wasted when Valentine summoned him. We shall never be able to compel his might again. It was a crime to use the Instruments in that manner. The only reason that Clarissa Morgenstern escapes culpability is that it was her father who summoned him, not herself.”

“My husband also summoned another angel,” said Jocelyn. Her voice was quiet. “The angel Ithuriel. He kept him imprisoned for many years.”

Both Sisters hesitated before Dolores spoke. “It is the bleakest of crimes to entrap an angel,” she said. “The Clave could never approve it. Even if you could summon one, you could never force it to do your bidding. There is no spell for that. You could never get an angel to give you the archangel’s sword; you can take by force from an angel, but there is no greater crime. Better that your Jonathan die than that an angel be so besmirched.”

At that, Isabelle, whose temper had been rising, exploded. “That’s the problem with you—all of you, the Iron Sisters and the Silent Brothers. Whatever they do to change you from Shadowhunters to what you are, it takes all the feelings out of you. We might be part angel, but we’re part human, too. You don’t understand love, or the things people do for love, or family—”

The flame leaped in Dolores’s orange eyes. “I had a family,” she said. “A husband and children, all murdered by demons. There was nothing left to me. I had always had a skill with shaping things with my hands, so I became an Iron Sister. The peace it has brought me is peace I think I would never have found elsewhere. It is for that reason I chose the name Dolores, “sorrow.” So do not presume to tell us what we do or do not know about pain, or humanity.”

“You don’t know anything,” Isabelle snapped. “You’re as hard as demon-stone. No wonder you surround yourselves with it.”

“Fire tempers gold, Isabelle Lightwood,” said Cleophas.

“Oh, shut up,” Isabelle said. “You’ve been very unhelpful, both of you.”

She turned on the heel of her boot, spun away, and stalked back across the bridge, barely taking note of where the knives turned the path into a death trap, letting her body’s training guide her. She reached the other side and strode through the gates; only when she was outside them did she break down. Kneeling among the moss and volcanic rocks, under the great gray sky, she let herself shake silently, though no tears came.

It seemed ages before she heard a soft step beside her, and Jocelyn knelt and put her arms around her. Oddly, Isabelle found that she didn’t mind. Though she had never much liked Jocelyn, there was something so universally motherly in her touch that Isabelle leaned into it, almost against her own will.

“Do you want to know what they said, after you left?” Jocelyn asked, after Isabelle’s trembling had slowed.

“I’m sure something about how I’m a disgrace to Shadowhunters everywhere, et cetera.”

“Actually, Cleophas said you’d make an excellent Iron Sister, and if you were ever interested to let them know.” Jocelyn’s hand stroked her hair lightly.

Despite everything, Isabelle choked back a laugh. She looked up at Jocelyn. “Tell me,” she said.

Jocelyn’s hand stop moving. “Tell you what?”

“Who it was. That my father had the affair with. You don’t understand. Every time I see a woman my mother’s age, I wonder if it was her. Luke’s sister. The Consul. You—”

Jocelyn sighed. “It was Annamarie Highsmith. She died in Valentine’s attack on Alicante. I doubt you ever knew her.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I’ve never even heard her name before.”

“Good.” Jocelyn tucked a lock of Isabelle’s hair back. “Do you feel any better, now that you know?”

“Sure,” Isabelle lied, staring down at the ground. “I feel a lot better.”



After lunch Clary had returned to the downstairs bedroom with the excuse that she was exhausted. With the door firmly closed she had tried contacting Simon again, though she realized, given the time difference between where she was now—Italy—and New York, there was every chance he was asleep. At least she prayed he was asleep. It was far preferable to hope for that than to consider the possibility that the rings might not work.