The Mortal Instruments - Complete Collection (295 page)

Zachariah looked down. “He is long dead,” he said. “I was—When he died, I—” He shook his head, frustrated. “For years I have spoken only with my mind, though you hear my thoughts as words,” he said. “The process of shaping language in the ordinary way, of finding speech, does not come easily to me now.” He raised his head to look at Jace. “Value your
parabatai
,” he said. “For it is a precious bond. All love is precious. It is why we do what we do. Why do we fight demons? Why are they not fit custodians of this world? What makes us better? It is because they do not build, but destroy. They do not love, but hate only. We are human and fallible, we Shadowhunters. But if we did not have the capacity to love, we could not guard humans; we must love them to guard them. My
parabatai
, he loved like few ever could love, with all and everything. I see you are like that too; it burns more brightly in you than the fire of Heaven.”

Brother Zachariah was looking at Jace, with a fierce intensity that felt as if it would strip the flesh off his bones. “I’m sorry,” Jace said quietly. “That you lost your
parabatai
. Is there anyone—anyone left for you to go home to?”

The boy’s mouth curved a little at the corner. “There is one. She has always been home for me. But not so soon. I must stay, first.”

“To fight?”

“And love and grieve. When I was a Silent Brother, my loves and losses were muted slightly, like music heard from a distance, true in tune but muffled. Now—now it has all come upon me at once. I am bowed under it. I must be stronger
before I can see her.” His smile was wistful. “Have you ever felt that your heart contained so much that it must surely break apart?”

Jace thought of Alec wounded in his lap, of Max still and white on the floor of the Accords Hall; he thought of Valentine, his arms around Jace as Jace’s blood soaked the sand underneath them. And lastly he thought of Clary: her sharp bravery that kept him safe, her sharper wit that kept him sane, the steadiness of her love.

“Weapons, when they break and are mended, can be stronger at the mended places,” said Jace. “Perhaps hearts are the same.”

Brother Zachariah, who was now just a boy like Jace himself, smiled at him a little sadly. “I hope that you are right.”

“I can’t believe Jordan’s dead,” Clary said. “I just saw him. He was sitting on the wall at the Institute when we went through the Portal.”

She was walking beside Simon along one of the canals, heading toward the center of the city. The demon towers rose around them, their brilliance reflected in the canal waters.

Simon glanced sidelong at Clary. He kept thinking of the way she’d looked when he’d seen her the night before, blue and exhausted and barely conscious, her clothes ripped and bloody. She looked like herself again now, color in her cheeks, her hands in her pockets, the hilt of her sword protruding from her belt. “Neither can I,” he said.

Clary’s eyes were distant and bright; Simon wondered what she was remembering—Jordan teaching Jace to control his emotions in Central Park? Jordan in Magnus’s apartment, talking
to a pentagram? Jordan the first time they’d ever seen him, ducking under a garage door to audition for Simon’s band? Jordan sitting on the sofa in his and Simon’s apartment, playing Xbox with Jace? Jordan telling Simon that he was sworn to protect him?

Simon felt hollow inside. He’d spent the night sleeping fitfully, waking up out of nightmares in which Jordan appeared and stood looking at him silently, hazel eyes asking Simon to help him, save him, while the ink on his arms ran like blood.

“Poor Maia,” she said. “I wish she were here; I wish we could talk to her. She’s had such a hard time, and now this—”

“I know,” Simon said, almost choking. Thinking about Jordan was bad enough. If he thought about Maia, too, he’d fall apart.

Clary responded to the abruptness in his tone by reaching out for his hand. “Simon,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He let her take his hand, loosely interlacing their fingers. He saw her glance down at the gold faerie ring he always wore.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“No, of course not. How could you be? He was your—”
Friend? Roommate? Bodyguard?

“Responsibility,” Simon said.

She looked taken aback. “No—Simon, you were his. He was your guard.”

“Come on, Clary,” Simon said. “What do you think he was doing at the Praetor Lupus headquarters? He never went there. If he was there, it was because of me, because he was looking for me. If I hadn’t gone and gotten myself kidnapped—”

“Gotten yourself kidnapped?” Clary snapped. “What, you volunteered to have Maureen kidnap you?”

“Maureen didn’t kidnap me,” he said in a low voice.

She looked at him, puzzled. “I thought she kept you in a cage at the Dumort. I thought you said—”

“She did,” Simon said. “But the only reason I was outside where she could get at me was because I was attacked by one of the Endarkened. I didn’t want to tell Luke and your mother,” he added. “I thought they’d freak out.”

“Because if Sebastian sent a Dark Shadowhunter after you, it was because of me,” said Clary tightly. “Did he want to kidnap you or kill you?”

“I didn’t really get a chance to ask him.” Simon shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jordan told me to run, so I ran—right into some of Maureen’s clan. She was having the apartment watched, evidently. I suppose that’s what I get for running off and leaving him. If I hadn’t, if I hadn’t been taken, he never would have gone out to the Praetor, and he never would have been killed.”

“Stop it.” Simon looked over in surprise. Clary sounded genuinely angry. “Stop blaming yourself. Jordan didn’t get himself assigned to you at random. He wanted the job so he could be near Maia. He knew the risks in guarding you. He took them on voluntarily. It was his choice. He was looking for redemption. Because of what happened between him and Maia. Because of what he
did
. That was what the Praetor was, for him. It saved him. Guarding you, people like you, saved him. He’d turned into a monster. He’d hurt Maia. He’d turned her into a monster too. What he did wasn’t forgivable. If he hadn’t had the Praetor, if he hadn’t had you to take care of, it would have eaten him up until he killed himself.”

“Clary—” Simon was shocked at the darkness in her words.

She shivered, as if she were shaking off the touch of spiderwebs. They had turned onto a long street by a canal, lined with grand old houses. It reminded Simon of pictures of rich neighborhoods in Amsterdam. “That’s the Lightwoods’ house, there. The high Council members have houses on this street. The Consul, the Inquisitor, the Downworlder representatives. We just have to figure out which one is Raphael’s—”

“There,” Simon said, and indicated a narrow canal house with a black door. A star had been painted on the door in silver. “A star for the Night’s Children. Because we don’t see the light of the sun.” He smiled at her, or tried to. Hunger was burning up his veins; they felt like hot wires under his skin.

He turned away and mounted the steps. The door knocker was in the shape of a rune, and heavy. The sound it made as it dropped reverberated inside the house.

Simon heard Clary come up the stairs behind him just as the door opened. Raphael stood inside, carefully out of the light that spilled in through the open door. In the shadows Simon could make out only the general shape of him: his curly hair, the white flash of his teeth when he greeted them. “Daylighter. Valentine’s daughter.”

Clary made an exasperated noise. “Don’t you ever call anyone by their name?”

“Only my friends,” said Raphael.

“You have friends?” Simon said.

Raphael glared. “I assume you are here for blood?”

“Yes,” Clary said. Simon said nothing. At the sound of the word “blood” he’d started to feel slightly faint. He could feel his stomach contracting. He was beginning to starve.

Raphael cast a glance at Simon. “You look hungry. Perhaps
you should have taken my suggestion in the square last night.”

Clary’s eyebrows went up, but Simon just scowled. “If you want me to talk to the Inquisitor for you, you’re going to have to give me blood. Otherwise I’ll pass out on his feet, or eat him.”

“I suspect that would go over poorly with his daughter. Though she already seemed none too pleased with you last night.” Raphael disappeared back into the shadows of the house. Clary glanced at Simon.

“I take it you saw Isabelle yesterday?”

“You take it right.”

“And it didn’t go well?”

Simon was spared answering by Raphael’s reappearance. He was carrying a stoppered glass bottle full of red liquid. Simon took it eagerly.

The scent of the blood came through the glass, billowy and sweet. Simon yanked the stopper out and swallowed, his fang teeth snapping out, despite the fact that he didn’t need them. Vampires weren’t meant to drink out of bottles. His teeth scraped against his skin as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

Raphael’s brown eyes glittered. “I was sorry to hear about your werewolf friend.”

Simon stiffened. Clary put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that,” Simon said. “You hated me having a Praetorian Guard.”

Raphael hummed thoughtfully. “No guard, no Mark of Cain. All your protections stripped away. It must be strange, Daylighter, to know that you can truly die.”

Simon stared at him. “Why do you try so hard?” he said, and took another swallow from the bottle. It tasted bitter this
time, a little acidic. “To make me hate you? Or is it just that you hate me?”

There was a long silence. Simon realized that Raphael was barefoot, standing just at the edge of the sunlight where it lay in a stripe along the hardwood floor. Another step forward, and the light would char his skin.

Simon swallowed, tasting the blood in his mouth, feeling slightly unsteady. “You don’t hate me,” he realized, looking at the white scar at the base of Raphael’s throat, where sometimes a crucifix rested. “You’re
jealous
.”

Without another word Raphael shut the door between them.

Clary exhaled. “Wow. That went well.”

Simon didn’t say anything, just turned and walked away, down the steps. He paused at the bottom to finish his bottle of blood, and then, to her surprise, tossed it. It flew partway down the street and hit a lamppost, shattering, leaving a smear of blood on the iron.

“Simon?” Clary hurried down the steps. “Are you all right?”

He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know. Jordan, Maia, Raphael, it’s all—it’s too much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You mean, about talking to the Inquisitor for him?” Clary moved to catch up with Simon as he began walking aimlessly down the street. The wind had come up, ruffling his brown hair.

“About anything.” He wobbled a little as he walked away from her. Clary squinted suspiciously. If she hadn’t known better, she would have guessed he was drunk. “I don’t belong
here,” he said. He had stopped in front of the Inquisitor’s residence. He cocked his head back, staring up at the windows. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”

“Having dinner?” Clary guessed. The witchlight lamps were starting to come on, illuminating the street. “Living their lives? Come on, Simon. They probably knew people who died in the battle last night. If you want to see Isabelle, tomorrow is the Council meeting and—”

“She knows,” he said. “That her parents are probably breaking up. That her father had an affair.”

“He
what
?” Clary said, staring at Simon. “When?”

“Long time ago.” Simon’s voice was definitely slurred. “Before Max. He was going to leave but—he found out about Max, so he stayed. Maryse told Isabelle, years ago. Not fair, to put all that on a little girl. Izzy’s strong, but still. You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child. You should—carry your own burdens.”

“Simon.” She thought of his mother, turning him away from her door.
You shouldn’t do that. Not to your child.
“How long have you known? About Robert and Maryse?”

“Months.” He moved toward the front gate of the house. “I always wanted to help her, but she never wanted me to say anything, do anything—your mother knows, by the way. She told Izzy who Robert had the affair with. It wasn’t anyone she’d ever heard of. I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.”