City of Lost Souls

She closed her eyes. A moment later he was kissing her again, very softly this time, his mouth tracing the shape of hers. She felt herself go pliant under his hands. She sensed it as his breathing quickened and her own pulse jumped. His hands stroked down through her hair, over her back, to her waist. His touch was comforting—the feel of his heartbeat against hers like familiar music—and if the key was slightly different, with her eyes closed, she couldn’t tell. Their blood was the same, under the skin, she thought, as the Seelie Queen had said; her heart raced when his did, had nearly stopped when his had. If she had to do it all again, she thought, under the pitiless gaze of Raziel, she would have done the same thing.

This time he drew back, letting his fingers linger on her cheek, her lips. “I want what you want,” he said. “Whenever you want it.”

Clary felt a shudder go down her spine. The words were simple, but there was a dangerous and seductive invitation to the fall of his voice: Whatever you want, whenever you want it. His hand smoothed down her hair, to her back, lingering at her waist. She swallowed. There was only so much that she was going to be able to hold back.

“Read to me,” she said suddenly.

He blinked down at her. “What?”

She was looking past him, at the books on his nightstand. “It’s a lot to process,” she said. “What Sebastian said, what happened last night, everything. I need to sleep, but I’m too keyed up. When I was young and I couldn’t sleep, my mother used to read to me to relax me.”

“And I remind you of your mother now? I have got to look into a manlier cologne.”

“No, it’s just—I thought it would be nice.”

He scooted back against the pillows, reaching for the stack of books by the bed. “Anything particular you want to hear?” With a flourish he picked up the book on top of the stack. It looked old, leather-bound, the title stamped in gold on the front. A Tale of Two Cities. “Dickens is always promising…”

“I’ve read that before. For school,” Clary recalled. She scooted up on the pillows beside Jace. “But I don’t remember any of it, so I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

“Excellent. I’ve been told I have a lovely, melodic reading voice.” He flipped the book open to the front page, where the title was printed in ornate script. Across from it was a long dedication, the ink faded now and barely legible, though Clary could make out the signature: With hope at last, William Herondale.

“Some ancestor of yours,” Clary said, brushing her finger against the page.

“Yes. Odd that Valentine had it. My father must have given it to him.” Jace opened to a random page and began to read:

“He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily. ‘Don’t be afraid to hear me. Don’t shrink from anything I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might have been.’

“‘No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.’”

“Oh, I do remember this story now,” Clary said. “Love triangle. She picks the boring guy.”

Jace chuckled softly. “Boring to you. Who can say what got Victorian ladies hot beneath the petticoats?”

“It’s true, you know.”

“What, about the petticoats?”

“No. That you have a lovely reading voice.” Clary turned her face against his shoulder. It was times like this, more than when he was kissing her, that hurt—times when he could have been her Jace. As long as she kept her eyes closed.

“All that, and abs of steel,” Jace said, turning another page. “What more could you ask for?”





17

VALEDICTION


As I strolled down along the quay

All in the lateness of the day

I heard a lovely maiden say:

“Alack, for I can get no play.”

A minstrel boy heard what she said

And straight he rushed to her aid…

“Do we have to keep listening to this wail-ey music?” Isabelle demanded, her booted foot tapping against the dashboard of Jordan’s truck.

“I happen to like this wail-ey music, my girl, and since I’m driving, I get to choose,” Magnus said loftily. He was indeed driving. Simon had been surprised that he knew how, though he wasn’t sure why. Magnus had been alive for ages. Surely he had found time to squeeze in a few weeks of driver’s ed. Although Simon couldn’t help wondering what birth date was on his license.

Isabelle rolled her eyes, probably because there wasn’t enough room to do much else in the cab of the truck, with all four of them crammed together on the bench seat. Simon honestly hadn’t expected her to come. He hadn’t expected anyone to come to the farm with him but Magnus, though Alec had insisted on coming as well (much to Magnus’s annoyance, as he considered the whole enterprise “too dangerous”), and then, just as Magnus had revved up the engine on the truck, Isabelle had come banging down the stairs of his apartment building and thrown herself through the front door, panting and out of breath. “I’m coming too,” she’d announced.