WAKE THE DEAD
Jace’s room was as neat as ever—bed made perfectly, the books that lined the shelves arranged in alphabetical order, notes and textbooks stacked carefully on the desk. Even his weapons were lined up along the wall in order of size, from a massive broadsword to a set of small daggers.
Clary, standing in the doorway, held back a sigh. The neatness was all very well. She was used to it. It was, she had always thought, Jace’s way of exerting control over the elements of a life that otherwise might seem overwhelmed with chaos. He had lived so long not knowing who—or even what—he really was, she could hardly begrudge him the careful alphabetization of his poetry collection.
She could, however—and did—begrudge the fact that he wasn’t there. If he hadn’t gone back home after leaving the bridal shop, where had he gone? As she looked around the room, a feeling of unreality came over her. It wasn’t possible that any of this was happening, was it? She knew how breakups went from hearing other girls complain about them. First the pulling away, the gradual refusal to return notes or phone calls. The vague messages saying nothing was wrong, that the other person just wanted a little space. Then the speech about how “It’s not you, it’s me.” Then the crying part.
She’d never thought any of that would ever apply to her and Jace. What they had wasn’t ordinary, or subject to the ordinary rules of relationships and breakups. They belonged to each other totally, and always would, and that was that.
But maybe everyone felt that way? Until the moment they realized they were just like everyone else, and everything they’d thought was real shattered apart.
Something that glittered silver across the room caught her eye. It was the boxAmatis had given Jace, withits delicate design of birds around the sides. She knew he had been working his way through it, reading the letters slowly, going through the notes and photos. He hadn’t said much about it to her, and she hadn’t wanted to pry. His feelings about his biological father were something he was going to have to come to terms with on his own.
She found herself drawn to the box now, though. She remembered him sitting on the front steps of the Accords Hall in Idris, holding the box in his lap. As if I could stop loving you, he’d said. She touched the lid of the box, and her fingers found the clasp, which sprung open easily. Inside were scattered papers, old photographs. She drew one out, and stared at it, fascinated. There were two people in the photograph, a young woman and a young man.
She recognized the woman immediately as Luke’s sister, Amatis. She was gazing up at the young man with all the radiance of first love. He was handsome, tall and blond, though his eyes were blue, not gold, and his features less angular than Jace’s . . . and yet still, knowing who he was—Jace’s father—was enough to make her stomach tighten.
She set the photo of Stephen Herondale down hastily, and nearly cut her finger on the blade of a slim hunting dagger that lay crosswise in the box. Birds were carved along the handle. The blade of it was stained with rust, or what looked like rust. It must not have been cleaned properly. She shut the box quickly, and turned away, guilt like a weight on her shoulders.
She had thought about leaving a note, but, deciding it would be better to wait until she could talk to Jace in person, she left and went down the hall to the elevator. She had knocked on Isabelle’s door earlier, but it didn’t look like she was home either. Even the witchlight torches in the hallways seemed to be burning at a lower level than usual.
Feeling utterly depressed, Clary reached for the elevator call button—only to realize it was already lit. Someone was heading up from the ground floor to the Institute.
Jace, she thought immediately, her pulse jumping. But of course it might not be him, she told herself. It could be Izzy, or Maryse, or—
“Luke?” she said in surprise as the elevator door opened. “What are you doing here?’
“I might ask you the same thing.” He stepped out of the elevator, pulling the gate shut behind him. He was wearing a fleece-lined zip-up flannel jacket that Jocelyn had been trying to get him to throw away since they’d first started dating. It was rather nice, Clary thought, that just about nothing seemed to change Luke, no matter what happened in his life. He liked what he liked, and that was that. Even if it was a ratty-looking old coat.
“Except I think I can guess. So, is he here?”
“Jace? No.” Clary shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. “It’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Luke hesitated. “Clary—”
“Lucian.” The cool voice that came from behind them was Maryse’s. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He turned to nod at her. “Maryse.”
Maryse Lightwood stood in the doorway, her hand lightly on the frame. She was wearing gloves, pale gray gloves that matched her tailored gray suit. Clary wondered if Maryse ever wore jeans. She had never seen Isabelle and Alec’s mother in anything but power suits or gear. “Clary,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
Clary felt herself flush. Maryse didn’t seem to mind her coming and going, but then, Maryse had never really acknowledged Clary’s relationship with Jace at all. It was hard to blame her. Maryse was still coping with Max’s death, which had been only six weeks ago, and she was doing it alone, with Robert Lightwood still in Idris. She had bigger things on her mind than Jace’s love life.
“I was just leaving,” Clary said.
“I’ll give you a ride back home when I’m done here,” Luke said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Maryse, is it a problem if Clary remains while we talk? Because I’d prefer to have her stay.”
Maryse shook her head. “No problem, I suppose.” She sighed, raking her hands through her hair. “Believe me, I wish I didn’t need to bother you at all. I know you’re getting married in a week—congratulations, by the way. I don’t know if I told you that before.”
“You didn’t,” said Luke, “but it’s appreciated. Thank you.”
“Only six weeks.” Maryse smiled faintly. “Quite a whirlwind courtship.”
Luke’s hand tightened on Clary’s shoulder, the only sign of his annoyance. “I don’t suppose you called me over here to congratulate me on my engagement, did you?”
Maryse shook her head. She looked very tired, Clary thought, and there were strands of gray in her upswept dark hair that hadn’t been there before. “No. I assume you’ve heard about the bodies we’ve been finding for the past week or so?”
“The dead Shadowhunters, yes.”
“We found another one tonight. Stuffed in a Dumpster near Columbus Park. Your pack’s territory.”
Luke’s eyebrows went up. “Yes, but the others—”
“The first body was found in Greenpoint. Warlock territory. The second floating in a pond in Central Park. The domain of the fey. Now we have werewolf territory.” She fixed her gaze on Luke. “What does that make you think?”
“That someone who isn’t very pleased about the new Accords is trying to set Downworlder against Downworlder,”
Luke said. “I can assure you my pack didn’t have anything to do with this. I don’t know who’s behind it, but it’s a veryclumsyattempt, if youask me. Ihope the Clave cansee throughit.”
“There’s more,” Maryse said. “We’ve identified the first two bodies. It took some time, since the first was burned nearly beyond recognition and the second was badly decomposed. Can you guess who they might have been?”
“Maryse—”