8
WEAPON OF CHOICE
SHE WAS TOO SURPRISED TO SCREAM. THE SENSATION OF falling was the worst part; her heart flew up into her throat and her stomach turned to water. She flung her hands out, trying to catch at something, anything, that might slow her descent.
Her hands closed on branches. Leaves tore off in her grip. She thumped to the ground, hard, her hip and shoulder striking packed earth. She rolled over, sucking the air back into her lungs. She was just beginning to sit up when someone landed on top of her.
She was knocked backward. A forehead banged against hers, her knees banging against someone else’s. Tangled up in arms and legs, Clary coughed hair—not her own—out of her mouth and tried to struggle out from under the weight that felt like it was crushing her flat.
“Ouch,” Jace said in her ear, his tone indignant. “You elbowed me.”
“Well, you landed on me.”
He levered himself up on his arms and looked down at her placidly. Clary could see blue sky above his head, a bit of tree branch, and the corner of a gray clapboard house. “Well, you didn’t leave me much choice, did you?” he asked. “Not after you decided to leap merrily through that Portal like you were jumping the F train. You’re just lucky it didn’t dump us out in the East River.”
“You didn’t have to come after me.”
“Yes, I did,” he said. “You’re far too inexperienced to protect yourself in a hostile situation without me.”
“That’s sweet. Maybe I’ll forgive you.”
“Forgive me? For what?”
“For telling me to shut up.”
His eyes narrowed. “I did not … Well, I did, but you were—”
“Never mind.” Her arm, pinned under her back, was beginning to cramp. Rolling to the side to free it, she saw the brown grass of a dead lawn, a chain-link fence, and more of the gray clapboard house, now distressingly familiar.
She froze. “I know where we are.”
Jace stopped spluttering. “What?”
“This is Luke’s house.” She sat up, pitching Jace to the side. He rolled gracefully to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. She ignored him and scrambled upright, shaking out her numb arm.
They stood in front of a small gray row house, nestled among the other row houses that lined the Williamsburg waterfront. A breeze blew off the East River, setting a small sign swinging over the brick front steps. Clary watched Jace as he read the block-lettered words aloud: “GARROWAY BOOKS. FINE USED, NEW, AND OUT OF PRINT. CLOSED SATURDAYS.” He glanced at the dark front door, its knob wound with a heavy padlock. A few days’ worth of mail lay on the doormat, untouched. He glanced at Clary. “He lives in a bookstore?”
“He lives behind the store.” Clary glanced up and down the empty street, which was bordered on one end by the arched span of the Williamsburg Bridge, and by a deserted sugar factory on the other. Across the sluggishly moving river the sun was setting behind the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, outlining them in gold. “Jace, how did we get here?”
“Through the Portal,” Jace said, examining the padlock. “It takes you to whatever place you’re thinking of.”
“But I wasn’t thinking of here,” Clary objected. “I wasn’t thinking of anywhere.”
“You must have been.” He dropped the subject, seeming uninterested. “So, since we’re here anyway …”
“Yeah?”
“What do you want to do?”
“Leave, I guess,” Clary said bitterly. “Luke told me not to come here.”
Jace shook his head. “And you just accept that?”
Clary hugged her arms around herself. Despite the fading heat of the day, she felt cold. “Do I have a choice?”
“We always have choices,” Jace said. “If I were you, I’d be pretty curious about Luke right now. Do you have keys to the house?”
Clary shook her head. “No, but sometimes he leaves the back door unlocked.” She pointed to the narrow alley between Luke’s row house and the next. Plastic trash cans were propped in a neat row beside stacks of folded newspapers and a plastic tub of empty soda bottles. At least Luke was still a responsible recycler.
“You sure he isn’t home?” Jace asked.
She glanced at the empty curb. “Well, his truck’s gone, the store’s closed, and all the lights are off. I’d say probably not.”
“Then lead the way.”
The narrow aisle between the row houses ended in a high chain-link fence. It surrounded Luke’s small back garden, where the only plants flourishing seemed to be the weeds that had sprung up through the paving stones, cracking them into powdery shards.
“Up and over,” Jace said, jamming the toe of a boot into a gap in the fence. He began to climb. The fence rattled so loudly that Clary glanced around nervously, but there were no lights on in the neighbors’ house. Jace cleared the top of the fence and sprang down the other side, landing in the bushes to the accompaniment of an earsplitting yowl.
For a moment Clary thought he must have landed on a stray cat. She heard Jace shout in surprise as he fell backward. A dark shadow—much too big to be feline—exploded out of the shrubbery and streaked across the yard, keeping low. Rolling to his feet, Jace darted after it, looking murderous.
Clary started to climb. As she threw her leg over the top of the fence, Isabelle’s jeans caught on a twist of wire and tore up the side. She dropped to the ground, shoes scuffing the soft dirt, just as Jace cried out in triumph. “Got him!” Clary turned to see Jace sitting on top of the prone intruder, whose arms were up over his head. Jace grabbed for his wrist. “Come on, let’s see your face—”
“Get the hell off me, you pretentious asshole,” the intruder snarled, shoving at Jace. He struggled halfway into a sitting position, his battered glasses knocked askew.
Clary stopped dead in her tracks. “Simon?”
“Oh, God,” said Jace, sounding resigned. “And here I’d actually hoped I’d got hold of something interesting.”