14
WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
Jace tossed uneasily on the narrow bed in the Silent City. He didn’t know where the Brothers slept, and they didn’t seem inclined to reveal it. The only place there seemed to be for him to lie down was in one of the cells below the City where they usually kept prisoners. They’d left the door open for him so he didn’t feel too much like he was in jail, but the place couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be called pleasant.
The air was close and thick; he’d taken off his shirt and lay atop the covers in just his jeans, but he was still too hot.
The walls were dull gray. Someone had carved the letters JG into the stone just above the bedstead, leaving him to wonder what that was about—and there was nothing else in the room but the bed, a cracked mirror that gave him back his own reflection in twisted pieces, and the sink. Not to mention the more than unpleasant memories the room stirred up.
The Brothers had been in and out of his mind all night, till he felt like a wrung-out rag.
Since they were so secretive about everything, he had no idea if they were making any progress. They didn’t seem pleased, but then, they never did.
Therealtest,heknew,wassleeping.Whatwouldhedream?
Tosleep:perchancetodream.Heflippedover, burying his face in his arms. He didn’t think he could stand even one more dream about hurting Clary. He thought he might actually lose his mind, and the idea frightened him. The prospect of dying had never frightened him much, but the thought of going insane was nearly the worst thing he could imagine.
But going to sleep was the only way to know. He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
He slept, and he dreamed.
He was back in the valley—the valley in Idris where he had fought Sebastian and nearly died. It was autumn in the valley, not high summer as it had been the last time he had been there. The leaves were exploding in gold and russet and orange and red. He was standing by the bank of the small river—a stream, really—that cut the valley in half. In the distance, coming toward him, was someone, someone he couldn’t see very clearly yet, but the person’s stride was direct and purposeful.
He was so sure it was Sebastian that it was not until the figure had come close enough to see clearly that he realized it couldn’t possibly be. Sebastian had been tall, taller than Jace, but this person was small—the face in shadow, but a head or two shorter than Jace—and skinny, with the thin shoulders of childhood, and bony wrists sticking out of the too-short sleeves of his shirt.
Max.
The sight of his little brother hit Jace like a blow, and he went down on his knees on the green grass. The fall didn’t hurt. Everything had the padded edges of the dream that it was. Max looked as he always had. A knobby-kneed boy just on the verge of growing up and out of that little-kid stage. Now he never would.
“Max,” Jace said. “Max, I’m so sorry.”
“Jace.” Max stood where he was. A little wind had come up and lifted his brown hair off his face. His eyes, behind their glasses, were serious. “I’m not here because of me,” he said. “I’m not here to haunt you or make you feel guilty.”
Of course he isn’t, said a voice in Jace’s head. Max has only ever loved you, looked up to you, thought you were wonderful.
“The dreams you’ve been having,” Max said. “They’re messages.”
“The dreams are a demon’s influence, Max. The Silent Brothers said—”
“They’re wrong,” Max said quickly. “There are only a few of them now, and their powers are weaker than they used to be. These dreams are meant to tell you something. You’ve been misunderstanding them. They’re not telling you to hurt Clary. They’re warning you that you already are.”
Jace shook his head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
“The angels sentme to talk to youbecause Iknowyou,” Maxsaid,inhis clear child’s voice.“Iknow howyouare with the people you love, and you’d never hurt them willingly.
But you haven’t destroyed all of Valentine’s influence inside you yet. His voice still whispers to you, and you don’t think you hear it, but you do. The dreams are telling you that until you kill that part of yourself, you can’t be with Clary.”
“Then I’ll kill it,” Jace said. “I’ll do whatever I have to do. Just tell me how.”
Max smiled a clear bright smile and held out something in his hand. It was a silver-handled dagger—Stephen Herondale’s silver-handled dagger, the one from the box. Jace recognized it at once. “Take this,” Max said. “And turn it against yourself. The part of you that is here in the dream with me must die. What will rise up afterward will be cleansed.”
Jace took the knife.
Max smiled. “Good. There are many of us here on the other side who are worried about you. Your father is here.”
“Not Valentine—”
“Your real father. He told me to tell you to use this. It will cut away everything rotten in your soul.”
Max smiled like an angel as Jace turned the knife toward himself, blade inward. Then at the last moment Jace hesitated. It was too close to what Valentine had done to him, piercing him through the heart. He took the blade and cut a long incision into his right forearm, from elbow to wrist. There was no pain. He switched the knife to the right hand and did the same to his other arm. Blood exploded from the long cuts on his arms, brighter red than blood in real life, blood the color of rubies. It spilled down his skin and pattered onto the grass.
He heard Max breathe out softly. The boy bent down and touched the fingers of his right hand to the blood. When he raised them, they were glittering scarlet. He took a step toward Jace, and then another. This close up, Jace could see Max’s face clearly—his poreless child’s skin, the translucence of his eyelids, his eyes—Jace didn’t remember him having such dark eyes. Max put his hand to the skin of Jace’s chest, just over his heart, and with the blood he began to trace a design there, a rune. Not one Jace had ever seen before, with overlapping corners and strange angles to its shape.
Done, Max dropped his hand and stepped back, head cocked to the side, an artist examining his latest work. A sudden spear of agony went through Jace. It felt as if the skin on his chest were burning. Max stood watching him, smiling, flexing his bloody hand. “Does it hurt you, Jace Lightwood?” he said, and his voice was no longer Max’s voice, but something else, high and husky and familiar.
“Max—,” Jace whispered.
“As you have dealt pain, so shall you be dealt pain,” said Max, whose face had begun to shimmer and change.
“As you have caused grief, so shall you feel grief. You are mine now, Jace Lightwood.
You are mine.”
The agony was blinding. Jace crumpled forward, hands clawing at his chest, and he tumbled into darkness.
Simonsatonthe couch, his face inhis hands. His mind was buzzing. “This is myfault,” he said.“Imight as well have killed Maureen when I drank her blood. She’s dead because of me.”
Jordan sprawled in the armchair opposite him. He was wearing jeans and a green tee over a long-sleeved thermal shirt with holes in the cuffs; he had his thumbs stuck through them, and was worrying at the material. The gold Praetor Lupus medal around his neck glinted. “Come on,” he said. “There’s no way you could have known.
She was fine when I put her in the cab. These guys must have grabbed her and killed her later.”
Simon felt light-headed. “But I bit her. She’s not going to come back, right? She’s not going to be a vampire?”
“No. Come on, you know this stuff as well as I do. You’d have to have given her some of your blood for her to become a vampire. If she’d drunk your blood and then died, yeah, we’d be out in the graveyard on stake watch.
But she didn’t. I mean, I assume you’d remember something like that.”
Simon tasted sour blood in the back of his throat. “They thought she was my girlfriend,”
he said. “They warned me they’d kill her if I didn’t show up, and when I didn’t come, they cut her throat. She must have waited there all day, wondering if I’d come. Hoping I’d show up . . .” His stomach revolted, and he bent over, breathing hard, trying to keep from gagging.
“Yeah,” said Jordan, “but the question is, who is they?” He gave Simon a hard look. “I think it might be time for you to call the Institute. I don’t love the Shadowhunters, but I’ve always heard their archives are incredibly thorough.
Maybe they’ve got something on that address from the note.”
Simon hesitated.
“Come on,” Jordan said. “You do enough crap for them. Let them do something for you.”
With a shrug Simon went to get his phone. Heading back to the living room, he dialed Jace’s number. Isabelle picked up on the second ring. “You again?”
“Sorry,” Simon said awkwardly. Apparently their little interlude in the Sanctuary hadn’t softened her toward him as much as he had hoped. “I was looking for Jace, but I guess I can talk to you—”
“Charming as always,” said Isabelle. “I thought Jace was with you.”
“No.” Simon felt a stirring of unease. “Who told you that?”
“Clary,” Isabelle said. “Maybe they’re sneaking some time together or something.” She sounded unworried, which made sense; the last person who’d lie about Jace’s whereabouts if he was in any sort of trouble was Clary.
“Anyway, Jace left his phone in his room. If you do see him, remind him he’s supposed to be at the party at the Ironworks tonight. If he doesn’t show, Clary will kill him.”
Simon had nearly forgotten that he was supposed to be at the party that night.
“Right,” he said. “Look, Isabelle. I’ve got a problem here.”
“Spill. I love problems.”
“I don’t know if you’re going to love this one,” he said dubiously, and filled her in quickly on the situation. She gave a little gasp when he got to the part where he’d bitten Maureen, and he felt his throat tighten.
“Simon,” she whispered.
“I know, I know,” he said wretchedly. “You think I’m not sorry? I’m beyond sorry.”
“If you’d killed her, you’d have broken the Law. You’d be an outlaw. I’d have to kill you.”
“But I didn’t,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “I didn’t do this. Jordan swears that she was fine when he put her intothecab.Andthenewspapersaysherthroatwascut.
Ididn’tdothat.Someonedidittogettome.Ijustdon’t know why.”
“We’re not done with this issue.” Her voice was stern. “But first go get the note they left.
Read it out to me.”
Simon did as asked, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath on Isabelle’s part.
“I thought that address sounded familiar,” she said. “That’s where Clary told me to meet her yesterday. It’s a church, uptown. The headquarters of some sort of demon-worshipping cult.”
“What would a demon-worshipping cult want with me?” Simon said, and received a curious look from Jordan, who was only hearing half the conversation.
“I don’t know. You’re a Daylighter. You’ve got crazy powers. You’re going to be a target for lunatics and black magicians. That’s just how it is.” Isabelle, Simon felt, could have sounded a bit more sympathetic. “Look, you’re going to the Ironworks party, right?
We canmeet there and talk nextsteps.And I’ll tellmymom aboutwhat’s been going on with you. They’re already investigating the Church of Talto, so they can add that to the info pile.”
“I guess,” Simon said. The last thing in the world he felt like was going to a party.
“And bring Jordan with you,” Isabelle said. “You can use a bodyguard.”
“I can’t do that. Maia’s going to be there.”