City of Lost Souls

Magnus one, two, and three times. At last the door opened and they hurried up the stairs. The door to Magnus’s apartment was open, and the warlock was leaning against the architrave, waiting for them. He was wearing canary-yellow pajamas, and on his feet were green slippers with alien faces, complete with sproingy antennae. His hair was a tangled, curly, spiky mass of black, and his gold-green eyes blinked tiredly at them.

“Saint Magnus’s Home for Wayward Shadowhunters,” he said in a deep voice. “Welcome.” He threw an arm wide. “Spare bedrooms are that way. Wipe your boots on the mat.” He stepped back into the apartment, letting them pass through in front of him before shutting the door. Today the place was done up in a sort of faux-Victorian decor, with high-backed sofas and large gilt mirrors everywhere. The pillars were strung with lights in the shape of flowers.

There were three spare rooms down a short corridor off the main living room; at random Clary chose one on the right. It was painted orange, like her old bedroom in Park Slope, and had a sofa bed and a small window that looked out on the darkened windows of a closed diner. Chairman Meow was curled up on the bed, nose tucked under his tail. She sat down beside him and petted his ears, feeling the purring that vibrated through his small furry body. As she stroked him, she caught sight of the sleeve of her sweater. It was stained dark and crusted with blood. Luke’s blood.

She stood up and yanked the sweater off violently. From her backpack she took a clean pair of jeans and a black V-necked thermal shirt and changed into them. She glanced at herself briefly in the window, which showed her a pale reflection, her hair hanging limply, damp with snow, her freckles standing out like paint splotches. Not that it mattered what she looked like. She thought of Jace kissing her — it felt like days ago instead of hours — and her stomach hurt as if she’d swallowed tiny knives.

She held on to the edge of the bed for a long moment until the pain subsided. Then she took a deep breath and went back out into the living room.

Her mother was seated on one of the gilt-backed chairs, her long artist’s fingers wrapped around a mug of hot water with lemon. Magnus was slumped on a hot-pink sofa, his green slippers up on the coffee table. “The pack stabilized him,” Jocelyn was saying in an exhausted voice. “They don’t know for how long, though. They thought there might have been silver powder on the blade, but it appears to be something else. The tip of the knife—” She glanced up, saw Clary, and fell silent.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m old enough to hear what’s wrong with Luke.”

“Well, they don’t know exactly what it is,” Jocelyn said softly. “The tip of the blade Sebastian used broke off against one of his ribs and lodged in the bone. But they can’t retrieve it. It… moves.”

“It moves?” Magnus looked puzzled.

“When they tried to dig it out, it burrowed into the bone and nearly snapped it,” Jocelyn said. “He’s a werewolf, he heals fast, but it’s in there gashing up his internal organs, keeping the wound from closing.”

“Demon metal,” said Magnus. “Not silver.”

Jocelyn leaned forward. “Do you think you can help him? Whatever it costs, I’ll pay—”

Magnus stood up. His alien slippers and rumpled bed-head seemed extremely incongruous given the gravity of the situation. “I don’t know.”

“But you healed Alec,” said Clary. “When the Greater Demon wounded him…”

Magnus had begun to pace. “I knew what was wrong with him. I don’t know what kind of demon metal this is. I could experiment, try different healing spells, but it won’t be the fastest way to help him.”

“What’s the fastest way?” Jocelyn said.

“The Praetor,” said Magnus. “The Wolf Guard. I knew the man who founded it — Woolsey Scott. Because of certain… incidents, he was fascinated with minutiae about the way demon metals and demon drugs act on lycanthropes, the same way the Silent Brothers keep records of the ways Nephilim can be healed. Over the years the Praetor have become very closed-off and secretive, unfortunately. But a member of the Praetor could access their information.”

“Luke’s not a member,” Jocelyn said. “And their roster is secret—”

“But Jordan,” said Clary. “Jordan’s a member. He can find out. I’ll call him—”

“I’ll call him,” said Magnus. “I can’t get into Praetor headquarters, but I can pass on a message that ought to hold some extra weight. I’ll be back.” He padded off to the kitchen, the antennae on his slippers waving gently like seaweed in a current.

Clary turned back to her mother, who was staring down at her mug of hot water. It was one of her favorite restoratives, though Clary could never figure out why anyone would want to drink warm sour water. The snow had soaked her mother’s hair, and now that it was drying, it was beginning to curl, like Clary’s did in humid weather.

“Mom,” Clary said, and her mother looked up. “That knife you threw — back at Luke’s — was it at Jace?”

“It was at Jonathan.” She would never call him Sebastian, Clary knew.

“It’s just…” Clary took a deep breath. “It’s almost the same thing. You saw. When you stabbed Sebastian, Jace started to bleed. It’s like they’re — mirrored in some way. Cut Sebastian, Jace bleeds. Kill him, and Jace dies.”

“Clary.” Her mother rubbed her tired eyes. “Can we not discuss this now?”

“But you said you think he’ll come back for me. Jace, I mean. I need to know that you won’t hurt him—”

“Well, you can’t know that. Because I won’t promise it, Clary. I can’t.” Her mother looked at her with unflinching eyes. “I saw the two of you come out of your bedroom.”

Clary flushed. “I don’t want to—”

“To what? Talk about it? Well, too bad. You brought it up. You’re lucky I’m not in the Clave anymore, you know. How long have you known where Jace was?”

“I don’t know where he is. Tonight is the first time I’ve talked to him since he disappeared. I saw him in the Institute with Seb — with Jonathan, yesterday. I told Alec and Isabelle and Simon. But I couldn’t tell anyone else. If the Clave got hold of him — I can’t let that happen.”

Jocelyn raised her green eyes. “And why not?”

“Because he’s Jace. Because I love him.”

“He’s not Jace. That’s just it, Clary. He’s not who he was. Can’t you see that —”

“Of course I can see it. I’m not stupid. But I have faith. I saw him possessed before, and I saw him break free of it. I think Jace is still inside there somewhere. I think there’s a way to save him.”

“What if there isn’t?”

“Prove it.”

“You can’t prove a negative, Clarissa. I understand that you love him. You always have loved him, too much. You think I didn’t love your father? You think I didn’t give him every chance? And look what came of that. Jonathan. If I hadn’t stayed with your father, he wouldn’t exist—”

“Neither would I,” said Clary. “In case you forgot, I came after my brother, not before.” She looked at her mother, hard. “Are you saying it would be worth it never to have had me, if you could get rid of Jonathan?”

“No, I—”

There was the grating sound of keys in a lock, and the apartment door swung open. It was Alec. He wore a long leather duster open over a blue sweater, and there were white flakes of snow in his black hair. His cheeks were candy-apple red from the cold, but his face was otherwise pale.

“Where’s Magnus?” he said. As he looked toward the kitchen, Clary saw a bruise on his jaw, below his ear, about the size of a thumbprint.

“Alec!” Magnus came skidding into the living room and blew a kiss to his boyfriend across the room. Having discarded his slippers, he was barefoot now. His cat’s eyes shone as he looked at Alec.

Clary knew that look. That was herself looking at Jace. Alec didn’t return the gaze, though. He was shucking off his coat and hanging it on a hook on the wall. He was visibly upset. His hands were trembling, his broad shoulders tightly set.

“You got my text?” Magnus asked.

“Yeah. I was only a few blocks away anyway.” Alec looked at Clary, and then at her mother, anxiety and