City of Bones (37 page)

“I was thinking of your Simon,” Hodge said, “and of Alec and Jace, among others.”

She glanced out the window. It was raining, thick fat drops spattering against the panes. The sky was an impenetrable gray. “What do they have to do with each other?”

“Where there is feeling that is not requited,” said Hodge, “there is an imbalance of power. It is an imbalance that is easy to exploit, but it is not a wise course. Where there is love, there is often also hate. They can exist side by side.”

“Simon doesn’t hate me.”

“He might grow to, over time, if he felt you were using him.” Hodge held up a hand. “I know you do not intend to, and in some cases necessity trumps nicety of feeling. But the situation has put me in mind of another. Do you still have that photograph I gave you?”

Clary shook her head. “Not on me. It’s back in my room. I could go get it—”

“No.” Hodge stroked Hugo’s ebony feathers. “When your mother was young, she had a best friend, just as you have Simon. They were as close as siblings. In fact, they were often mistaken for brother and sister. As they grew older, it became clear to everyone around them that he was in love with her, but she never saw it. She always called him a ‘friend.’”

Clary stared at Hodge. “Do you mean Luke?”

“Yes,” said Hodge. “Lucian always thought he and Jocelyn would be together. When she met and loved Valentine, he could not bear it. After they were married, he left the Circle, disappeared—and let us all think that he was dead.”

“He never said—never even hinted at anything like that,” Clary said. “All these years, he could have asked her—”

“He knew what the answer would be,” said Hodge, looking past her toward the rain-spattered skylight. “Lucian was never the sort of man who would have deluded himself. No, he contented himself with being near her—assuming, perhaps, that over time her feelings might change.”

“But if he loved her, why did he tell those men he didn’t care what happened to her? Why did he refuse to let them tell him where she was?”

“As I said before, where there is love, there is also hatred,” said Hodge. “She hurt him badly all those years ago. She turned her back on him. And yet he has played her faithful lapdog ever since, never remonstrating, never accusing, never confronting her with his feelings. Perhaps he saw an opportunity to turn the tables. To hurt her as he’d been hurt.”

“Luke wouldn’t do that.” But Clary was remembering his icy tone as he told her not to ask him for favors. She saw the hard look in his eyes as he faced Valentine’s men. That wasn’t the Luke she’d known, the Luke she’d grown up with. That Luke would never have wanted to punish her mother for not loving him enough or in the right way. “But she did love him,” Clary said, speaking aloud without realizing it. “It just wasn’t the same way he loved her. Isn’t that enough?”

“Perhaps he didn’t think so.”

“What will happen after we get the Cup?” she said. “How will we reach Valentine to let him know we have it?”

“Hugo will find him.”

The rain smashed against the windows. Clary shivered. “I’m going to get a jacket,” she said, slipping off the window seat.

She found her green and pink hoodie stuffed down at the bottom of her backpack. When she pulled it out, she heard something crinkle. It was the photograph of the Circle, her mother and Valentine. She looked at it for a long moment before slipping it back into the bag.

When she returned to the library, the others were all gathered there: Hodge sitting watchfully on the desk with Hugo on his shoulder, Jace all in black, Isabelle with her demon-stomping boots and gold whip, and Alec with a quiver of arrows strapped across his shoulder and a leather bracer sheathing his right arm from wrist to elbow. Everyone but Hodge was covered in freshly applied Marks, every inch of bare skin inked with swirling patterns. Jace had his left sleeve pulled up, chin on his shoulder, and was frowning as he scrawled an octagonal Mark on the skin of his upper arm.

Alec looked over at him. “You’re messing it up,” he said. “Let me do that.”

“I’m left-handed,” Jace pointed out, but he spoke mildly and held his stele out. Alec looked relieved as he took it, as if he hadn’t been sure until now that he was forgiven for his earlier behavior. “It’s a basic
iratze
,” Jace said as Alec bent his dark head over Jace’s arm, carefully tracing the lines of the healing rune. Jace winced as the stele slid over his skin, his eyes half-closing and his fist tightening until the muscles of his left arm stood out like cords. “By the Angel, Alec—”

“I’m trying to be careful,” said Alec. He let go of Jace’s arm and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “There.”

Jace unclenched his fist, lowering his arm. “Thanks.” He seemed to sense Clary’s presence then, glancing over at her, his gold eyes narrowing. “Clary.”

“You look ready,” she said as Alec, suddenly flushed, moved away from Jace and busied himself with his arrows.

“We are,” Jace said. “Do you still have that dagger I gave you?”

“No. I lost it in the Dumort, remember?”

“That’s right.” Jace looked at her, pleased. “Nearly killed a werewolf with it. I remember.”

Isabelle, who had been standing by the window, rolled her eyes. “I forgot that’s what gets you all hot and bothered, Jace. Girls killing things.”

“I like anyone killing things,” he said equably. “Especially me.”

Clary glanced anxiously toward the clock on the desk. “We should go downstairs. Simon will be here any minute.”

Hodge stood up from his chair. He looked very tired, Clary thought, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“May the Angel watch over you all,” he said, and Hugo rose up from his shoulder into the air cawing loudly, just as the noon bells began to ring.

It was still drizzling when Simon pulled the van up at the corner and honked twice. Clary’s heart leaped—some part of her had been worried that he wasn’t going to show up.

Jace squinted through the dripping rain. The four of them had taken shelter under a carved stone cornice. “
That’s
the van? It looks like a rotting banana.”

This was undeniable—Eric had painted the van a neon shade of yellow, and it was blotched with dings and rust like splotches of decay. Simon honked again. Clary could see him, a blurred shape through the wet windows. She sighed and pulled her hood up to cover her hair. “Let’s go.”

They splashed through the filthy puddles that had collected on the pavement, Isabelle’s enormous boots making a satisfying noise every time she put her feet down. Simon, leaving the motor idling, crawled into the back to pull the door aside, revealing seats whose upholstery had half-rotted through. Dangerous-looking springs poked through the gaps. Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Is it safe to sit?”

“Safer than being strapped to the roof,” said Simon pleasantly, “which is your other option.” He nodded a greeting to Jace and Alec, ignoring Clary completely. “Hey.”

“Hey indeed,” said Jace, and lifted the rattling canvas duffel bag that held their weapons. “Where can we put these?”

Simon directed him to the back, where the boys usually kept their musical instruments, while Alec and Isabelle crawled into the van’s interior and perched on the seats. “Shotgun!” announced Clary as Jace came back around the side of the van.

Alec grabbed for his bow, strapped across his back. “Where?”

“She means she wants the front seat,” said Jace, pushing wet hair out of his eyes.

“That’s a nice bow,” said Simon, with a nod toward Alec.

Alec blinked, rain running off his eyelashes. “Do you know much about archery?” he asked, in a tone that suggested that he doubted it.

“I did archery at camp,” said Simon. “Six years running.”

The response to this was three blank stares and a supportive smile from Clary, which Simon ignored. He glanced up at the lowering sky. “We should go before it starts pouring again.”

The front seat of the car was covered in Doritos wrappers and Pop-Tart crumbs. Clary brushed away what she could. Simon started the car before she’d finished, flinging her back against the seat. “Ouch,” she said reprovingly.

“Sorry.” He didn’t look at her.

Clary could hear the others talking softly in the back among themselves—probably discussing battle strategies and the best way to behead a demon without getting ichor on your new leather boots. Though there was nothing separating the front seat from the rest of the van, Clary felt the awkward silence between her and Simon as if they were alone.

“So what’s with that ‘hey’ thing?” she asked as Simon maneuvered the car onto the FDR parkway, the highway that ran alongside the East River.

“What ‘hey’ thing?” he replied, cutting off a black SUV whose occupant, a suited man with a cell phone in his hand, made an obscene gesture at them through the tinted windows.

“The ‘hey’ thing that guys always do. Like when you saw Jace and Alec, you said ‘hey,’ and they said ‘hey’ back. What’s wrong with ‘hello’?”

She thought she saw a muscle twitch in his cheek. “‘Hello’ is girly,” he informed her. “Real men are terse. Laconic.”

“So the more manly you are, the less you say?”

“Right.” Simon nodded. Past him she could see the humid fog lowering over the East River, shrouding the waterfront in feathery gray mist. The water itself was the color of lead, churned to a whipped cream consistency by the steady wind. “That’s why when major badasses greet each other in movies, they don’t say anything, they just nod. The nod means, ‘I am a badass, and I recognize that you, too, are a badass,’ but they don’t say anything because they’re Wolverine and Magneto and it would mess up their vibe to explain.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Jace, from the backseat.

“Good,” Clary said, and was rewarded by the smallest of smiles from Simon as he turned the van onto the Manhattan Bridge, heading toward Brooklyn and home.

By the time they reached Clary’s house, it had finally stopped raining. Threaded beams of sunlight were burning away the remnants of mist, and the puddles on the sidewalk were drying. Jace, Alec, and Isabelle made Simon and Clary wait by the van while they went to check, as Jace said, the “demonic activity levels.”

Simon watched as the three Shadowhunters headed up the rose-lined walkway to the house. “Demonic activity levels? Do they have a device that measures whether the demons inside the house are doing power yoga?”

“No,” Clary said, pushing her damp hood back so she could enjoy the feel of the sunlight on her draggled hair. “The Sensor tells them how powerful the demons are—if there are any demons.”

Simon looked impressed. “That
is
useful.”

She turned to him. “Simon, about last night—”

He held up a hand. “We don’t have to talk about it. In fact, I’d rather not.”

“Just let me say one thing.” She spoke quickly. “I know that when you said you loved me, what I said back wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”

“True. I’d always hoped that when I finally said ‘I love you’ to a girl, she’d say ‘I know’ back, like Leia did to Han in
Return of the Jedi.
”

“That is
so geeky
,” Clary said, unable to help herself.

He glared at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Look, Simon, I—”

“No,” he said. “
You
look, Clary. Look at me, and really see me. Can you do that?”

She looked at him. Looked at the dark eyes, flecked with lighter color toward the outside edge of the iris, at the familiar, slightly uneven eyebrows, the long lashes, the dark hair and hesitating smile and graceful musical hands that were all part of Simon, who was part of her. If she had to tell the truth, would she really say that she’d never known that he loved her? Or just that she’d never known what she would do about it if he did?

She sighed. “Seeing through glamour is easy. It’s people that are hard.”

“We all see what we want to see,” he said quietly.

“Not Jace,” she said, unable to help herself, thinking of those clear, impassive eyes.

“Him more than anyone.”

She frowned. “What do you—”

“All right,” came Jace’s voice, interrupting them. Clary turned hastily. “We’ve checked all four corners of the house—nothing. Low activity. Probably just the Forsaken, and they might not even bother us unless we try getting into the upstairs apartment.”

“And if they do,” said Isabelle, her grin as glittering as her whip, “we’ll be ready for them.”

Alec dragged the heavy canvas bag out of the back of the van, dropping it on the sidewalk. “Ready to go,” he announced. “Let’s kick some demon butt!”

Jace looked at him a little oddly. “You all right?”

“Fine.” Not looking at him, Alec discarded his bow and arrow in favor of a polished wooden featherstaff, with two glittering blades that appeared at a light touch from his fingers. “This is better.”

Isabelle looked at her brother with concern. “But the bow …”

Alec cut her off. “I know what I’m doing, Isabelle.”

The bow lay across the backseat, gleaming in the sunlight. Simon reached for it, then drew his hand back as a laughing group of young women pushing strollers headed up the street in the direction of the park. They took no notice of the three heavily armed teenagers crouched by the yellow van. “How come I can see you guys?” Simon asked. “What happened to that invisibility magic of yours?”

“You can see us,” said Jace, “because now you know the truth of what you’re looking at.”

“Yeah,” said Simon. “I guess I do.”

He protested a little when they asked him to stay by the van, but Jace impressed upon him the importance of having a getaway vehicle idling by the curb. “Sunlight’s fatal to demons, but it won’t hurt the Forsaken. What if they chase us? What if the car gets
towed
?”

The last Clary saw of Simon as she turned to wave from the front porch was his long legs propped up on the dashboard as he sorted through Eric’s CD collection. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least Simon was safe.

The smell hit her the moment they walked through the front door. It was almost indescribable, like spoiled eggs and maggoty meat and seaweed rotting on a hot beach. Isabelle wrinkled her nose and Alec turned greenish, but Jace looked as if he were inhaling rare perfume. “Demons have been here,” he announced, with cold delight. “Recently, too.”