Clary burst through the doors, terrified that Jace would have vanished into the alley shadows like a ghost. But he was there, slouched against the wall. He had just taken something out of his pocket and was punching buttons on it. He looked up in surprise as the door of the coffee shop fell shut behind her.
In the rapidly falling twilight, his hair looked coppery gold. “Your friend’s poetry is terrible,” he said.
Clary blinked, caught momentarily off guard. “What?”
“I said his poetry was terrible. It sounds like he ate a dictionary and started vomiting up words at random.”
“I don’t care about Eric’s poetry.” Clary was furious. “I want to know why you’re following me.”
“Who said I was following you?”
“Nice try. And you were eavesdropping, too. Do you want to tell me what this is about, or should I just call the police?”
“And tell them what?” Jace said witheringly. “That invisible people are bothering you? Trust me, little girl, the police aren’t going to arrest someone they can’t see.”
“I told you before, my name is not ‘little girl,’” she said through her teeth. “It’s Clary.”
“I know,” he said. “Pretty name. Like the herb, clary sage. In the old days people thought eating the seeds would let you see the Fair Folk. Did you know that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know much, do you?” he said. There was a lazy contempt in his gold eyes. “You seem to be a mundane like any other mundane, yet you can see me. It’s a conundrum.”
“What’s a mundane?”
“Someone of the human world. Someone like you.”
“But you’re human,” Clary said.
“I am,” he said. “But I’m not like you.” There was no defensiveness in his tone. He sounded like he didn’t care if she believed him or not.
“You think you’re better. That’s why you were laughing at us.”
“I was laughing at you because declarations of love amuse me, especially when unrequited,” he said. “And because your Simon is one of the most mundane mundanes I’ve ever encountered. And because Hodge thought you might be dangerous, but if you are, you certainly don’t know it.”
“I’m dangerous?” Clary echoed in astonishment. “I saw you kill someone last night. I saw you drive a knife up under his ribs, and—” And I saw him slash at you with fingers like razor blades. I saw you cut and bleeding, and now you look as if nothing ever touched you.
“I may be a killer,” Jace said, “but I know what I am. Can you say the same?”
“I’m an ordinary human being, just like you said. Who’s Hodge?”
“My tutor. And I wouldn’t be so quick to brand myself as ordinary, if I were you.” He leaned forward. “Let me see your right hand.”
“My right hand?” Clary echoed. He nodded. “If I show you my hand, will you leave me alone?”
“Certainly.” His voice was edged with amusement.
She held out her right hand grudgingly. It looked pale in the half-light spilling from the windows, the knuckles dotted with a light dusting of freckles. Somehow she felt as exposed as if she were pulling up her shirt and showing him her naked chest. He took her hand in his and turned it over. “Nothing.” He sounded almost disappointed. “You’re not left-handed, are you?”
“No. Why?”
He released her hand with a shrug. “Most Shadowhunter children get Marked on their right hands—or left, if they’re left-handed like I am—when they’re still young. It’s a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons.” He showed her the back of his left hand; it looked perfectly normal to her.
“I don’t see anything,” she said.
“Let your mind relax,” he suggested. “Wait for it to come to you. Like waiting for something to rise to the surface of water.”
“You’re crazy.” But she relaxed, gazing at his hand, seeing the tiny lines across the knuckles, the long joints of the fingers—
It jumped out at her suddenly, flashing like a DON’T WALK sign. A black design like an eye across the back of his hand. She blinked, and it vanished. “A tattoo?”
He smiled smugly and lowered his hand. “I thought you could do it. And it’s not a tattoo—it’s a Mark. They’re runes, burned into our skin.”
“They make you handle weapons better?” Clary found this hard to believe, though perhaps no more hard to believe than the existence of zombies.
“Different Marks do different things. Some are permanent but the majority vanish when they’ve been used.”
“That’s why your arms aren’t all inked up today?” she asked. “Even when I concentrate?”
“That’s exactly why.” He sounded pleased with himself. “I knew you had the Sight, at least.” He glanced up at the sky. “It’s nearly full dark. We should go.”
“We? I thought you were going to leave me alone.”
“I lied,” Jace said without a shred of embarrassment. “Hodge said I have to bring you to the Institute with me. He wants to talk to you.”
“Why would he want to talk to me?”
“Because you know the truth now,” Jace said. “There hasn’t been a mundane who knew about us for at least a hundred years.”
“About us?” she echoed. “You mean people like you. People who believe in demons.”
“People who kill them,” said Jace. “We’re called Shadowhunters. At least, that’s what we call ourselves. The Downworlders have less complimentary names for us.”
“Downworlders?”
“The Night Children. Warlocks. The fey. The magical folk of this dimension.”
Clary shook her head. “Don’t stop there. I suppose there are also, what, vampires and werewolves and zombies?”
“Of course there are,” Jace informed her. “Although you mostly find zombies farther south, where the voudun priests are.”
“What about mummies? Do they only hang around Egypt?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No one believes in mummies.”
“They don’t?”
“Of course not,” Jace said. “Look, Hodge will explain all this to you when you see him.”
Clary crossed her arms over her chest. “What if I don’t want to see him?”
“That’s your problem. You can come either willingly or unwillingly.”
Clary couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you threatening to kidnap me?”
“If you want to look at it that way,” Jace said, “yes.”
Clary opened her mouth to protest angrily, but was interrupted by a strident buzzing noise. Her phone was ringing again.
“Go ahead and answer that if you like,” Jace said generously.