City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(58)

“And werewolves are what? Just overgrown puppies?”

“They kill demons,” said Isabelle. “So if they don’t bother us, we don’t bother them.”

Like letting spiders live because they eat mosquitoes, Clary thought. “So they’re good enough to let live, good enough to make your food for you, good enough to flirt with—but not really good enough? I mean, not as good as people.”

Isabelle and Alec looked at her as if she were speaking Urdu. “Different from people,” said Alec finally.

“Better than mundanes?” said Simon.

“No,” Isabelle said decidedly. “You could turn a mundane into a Shadowhunter. I mean, we came from mundanes. But you could never turn a Downworlder into one of the Clave. They can’t withstand the runes.”

“So they’re weak?” asked Clary.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Jace, sliding back into his seat next to Alec. His hair was mussed and there was a lipstick mark on his cheek. “At least not with a peri, a djinn, an ifrit, and God knows what else listening in.” He grinned as Kaelie appeared and distributed their food. Clary regarded her pancakes consideringly. They looked fantastic: golden brown, drenched with honey. She took a bite as Kaelie wobbled off on her high heels.

They were delicious.

“I told you it was the greatest restaurant in Manhattan,” said Jace, eating fries with his fingers.

She glanced at Simon, who was stirring his coffee, head down.

“Mmmf,” said Alec, whose mouth was full.

“Right,” said Jace. He looked at Clary. “It’s not one-way,” he said. “We may not always like Downworlders, but they don’t always like us, either. A few hundred years of the Accords can’t wipe out a thousand years of hostility.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t know what the Accords are, Jace,” said Isabelle around her spoon.

“I do, actually,” said Clary.

“I don’t,” said Simon.

“Yes, but nobody cares what you know.” Jace examined a fry before biting into it. “I enjoy the company of certain Downworlders at certain times and places. But we don’t really get invited to the same parties.”

“Wait.” Isabelle suddenly sat up straight. “What did you say that name was?” she demanded, turning to Jace. “The name in Clary’s head.”

“I didn’t,” said Jace. “At least, I didn’t finish it. It’s Magnus Bane.” He grinned at Alec mockingly. “Rhymes with ‘overcareful pain in the ass.’”

Alec muttered a retort into his coffee. It rhymed with something that sounded a lot more like “ducking glass mole.” Clary smiled inwardly.

“It can’t be—but I’m almost totally sure—” Isabelle dug into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of blue paper. She wiggled it between her fingers. “Look at this.”

Alec held out his hand for the paper, glanced at it with a shrug, and handed it to Jace. “It’s a party invitation. For somewhere in Brooklyn,” he said. “I hate Brooklyn.”

“Don’t be such a snob,” said Jace. Then, just as Isabelle had, he sat up straight and stared. “Where did you get this, Izzy?”

She fluttered her hand airily. “From that kelpie in Pandemonium. He said it would be awesome. He had a whole stack of them.”

“What is it?” Clary demanded impatiently. “Are you going to show the rest of us, or not?”

Jace turned it around so they could all read it. It was printed on thin paper, nearly parchment, in a thin, elegant, spidery hand. It announced a gathering at the humble home of Magnus the Magnificent Warlock, and promised attendees “a rapturous evening of delights beyond your wildest imaginings.”

“Magnus,” said Simon. “Magnus like Magnus Bane?”

“I doubt there are that many warlocks named Magnus in the Tristate Area,” said Jace.

Alec blinked at it. “Does that mean we have to go to the party?” he inquired of no one in particular.

“We don’t have to do anything,” said Jace, who was reading the fine print on the invitation. “But according to this, Magnus Bane is the High Warlock of Brooklyn.” He looked at Clary. “I, for one, am a little curious as to what the High Warlock of Brooklyn’s name is doing inside your head.”


The party didn’t start until midnight, so with a whole day to kill, Jace and Alec disappeared to the weapons room and Isabelle and Simon announced their intention of going for a walk in Central Park so that she could show him the faerie circles. Simon asked Clary if she wanted to come along. Stifling a murderous rage, she refused on the grounds of exhaustion.

It wasn’t exactly a lie—she was exhausted, her body still weakened from the aftereffects of the poison and the too-early rising. She lay on her bed in the Institute, shoes kicked off, willing herself to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. The caffeine in her veins fizzed like carbonated water, and her mind was full of darting images. She kept seeing her mother’s face looking down at her, her expression panicked. Kept seeing the Speaking Stars, hearing the voices of the Silent Brothers in her head. Why would there be a block in her mind? Why would a powerful warlock have put it there, and to what purpose? She wondered what memories she might have lost, what experiences she’d had that she couldn’t now recall. Or maybe everything she thought she did remember was a lie …?