Just standing over here by yourself. Clary wondered what kind of glamour Kaelie had been using; her mother ought to be able to see through most. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“Where’s Simon? I thought he was coming.”
Of course she would think of Simon first, Clary thought, not Jace. Even though Jace had been supposed to come, and as Clary’s boyfriend, he probably ought to even have been there early. “Mom,” she said, and then paused.
“Do you think you’ll ever like Jace?”
Jocelyn’s green eyes softened. “I did notice he wasn’t here, Clary. I just didn’t know if you’d want to talk about it.”
“I mean,” Clary went on doggedly, “do you think there’s something he could do to make you like him?”
“Yes,” Jocelyn said. “He could make you happy.” She touched Clary’s face lightly, and Clary clenched her own hand, feeling the bell press into her skin.
“He does make me happy,” Clary said. “But he can’t control everything in the world, Mom. Other things happen—”
She fumbled for words. How could she explain that it wasn’t Jace making her unhappy, but what was happening to him, without revealing what that was?
“You love him so much,” Jocelyn said gently. “It scares me. I’ve always wanted to keep you protected.”
“And look how that worked out,” Clary began, and then softened her voice. This wasn’t the time to blame her mother or fight with her, not now. Not with Luke looking over at them from the doorway, his face alight with love and anxiety. “If you just knew him,” she said, a little hopelessly. “But I guess everyone says that about their boyfriend.”
“You’re right,” Jocelyn said, surprising her. “I don’t know him, not really. I see him, and he reminds me a little of his mothersomehow. Idon’t knowwhy—he doesn’t look like her, except thatshe was also beautiful,and she had that terrible vulnerability that he has—”
“Vulnerability?” Clary was astonished. She had never thought anyone but herself thought of Jace as vulnerable.
“Oh, yes,” said Jocelyn. “I wanted to hate her for taking Stephen away from Amatis, but you just couldn’t help wanting to protect Céline. Jace has a little of that.” She sounded lost in thought. “Or maybe it’s just that beautiful things are so easily broken by the world.” She lowered her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I have my memories to contend with, but they’re my memories. Jace shouldn’t bear the weight of them. I will tell you one thing, though. If he didn’t love you like he does—and it’s written all over his face whenever he looks at you—I wouldn’t tolerate him for even a moment. So keep that in mind when you’re being angry with me.”
She waved off Clary’s protestation that she wasn’t angry with a smile and a pat on the cheek, and headed back toward Luke with a last appeal for Clary to get out among the crowd and mingle. Clary nodded and said nothing, looking after her mother as she went, and feeling the bell sear against the inside of her hand where she clutched it, like the tip of a burning match.
The area around the Ironworks was mostly warehouses and art galleries, the kind of neighborhood that emptied out at night, so it didn’t take too long for Jordan and Simon to find a parking space. Simon jumped down out of the truck, only to find Jordan already on the sidewalk, looking at him critically.
Simon hadn’t packed any nice clothes when he’d left his house—he didn’t have anything on him fancier than a bomber jacket that had once belonged to his dad—so he and Jordan had spent the afternoon prowling the East Village for a decent outfit for him to wear.
They’d finally found an old Zegna suit in a consignment shop called Love Saves the Day that mostly sold glitter platform boots and sixties Pucci scarves. Simon suspected it was where Magnus got most of his clothes.
“What?” he said now, self-consciously pulling down the sleeves of his suit jacket. It was a little too small for him, though Jordan had opined that if he never buttoned it, no one would notice. “How bad do I look?”
Jordan shrugged. “You won’t crack any mirrors,” he said. “I was just wondering if you were armed. You want anything? Dagger, maybe?” He opened his own suit jacket just a bit, and Simon saw something long and metallic glinting against the inside lining.
“No wonder you and Jace like each other so much. You’re both crazy walking arsenals.”
Simon shook his head in weariness and turned to head toward the Ironworks entrance. It was across the street, a wide gold awning shadowing a rectangle of sidewalk that had been decorated with a dark red carpet with the gold image of a wolf stamped into it.
Simon couldn’t help being slightly amused.
Leaning against one of the poles holding up the awning was Isabelle. She had her hair up and was wearing a long red dress, slit up the side to show most of her leg. Loops of gold laddered her right arm. They looked like bracelets, but Simon knew they were really her electrum whip. She was covered in Marks. They twined her arms, threaded their way up her thigh, necklaced her throat, and decorated her chest, a great deal of which was visible, thanks to the plunging neckline of her dress. Simon tried not to stare.
“Hey, Isabelle,” he said.
Beside him Jordan was also trying not to stare. “Um,” he said. “Hi. I’m Jordan.”
“We met,” Isabelle said coldly, ignoring his proffered hand. “Maia was trying to rip your face off. Quite rightly, too.”
Jordan looked worried. “Is she here? Is she okay?”
“She’s here,” said Isabelle. “Not that how she feels is any of your business . . .”
“I feel a sense of responsibility,” said Jordan.
“And where is this feeling located? In your pants, perhaps?”
Jordan looked indignant.
Isabelle waved a slim decorated hand. “Look, whatever you did in the past, it’s past. I know you’re Praetor Lupus now, and I told Maia what that means. She’s willing to accept that you’re here and ignore you. But that’s all you get.
Don’t bother her, don’t try to talk to her, don’t even look at her, or I’ll fold you in half so many times you’ll look like a tiny little origami werewolf.”
Simon snorted.
“Laugh away.” Isabelle pointed at him. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, either. So despite the fact that she looks totally babelicious tonight—and if I were into chicks I would completely go for her—neither of you are allowed to talk to her. Got it?”
They nodded, looking at their shoes like middle schoolers who’d just been handed detention slips.
Isabelle unpeeled herself from the pole. “Great. Let’s go on in.”