City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(60)

“But he loved my mother,” said Clary.

“Yes. He loved your mother. And he loved Idris ….”

“What was so great about Idris?” Clary asked, hearing the grumpiness in her own voice.

“It was,” Hodge began, and corrected himself, “it is home—for the Nephilim, where they can be their true selves, a place where there is no need for hiding or glamour. A place blessed by the Angel. You have never seen a city until you have seen Alicante of the glass towers. It is more beautiful than you can imagine.” There was raw pain in his voice.

Clary thought suddenly of her dream. “Were there ever … dances in the Glass City?”

Hodge blinked at her as if waking up from a dream. “Every week. I never attended, but your mother did. And Valentine.” He chuckled softly. “I was more of a scholar. I spent my days in the library in Alicante. The books you see here are only a fraction of the treasures it holds. I thought perhaps I might join the Brotherhood someday, but after what I did, of course, they would not have me.”

“I’m sorry,” Clary said awkwardly. Her mind was still full of the memory of her dream. Was there a mermaid fountain where they danced? Did Valentine wear white, so that my mother could see the Marks on his skin even through his shirt?

“Can I keep this?” she asked, indicating the photograph.

A flicker of hesitation passed over Hodge’s face. “I would prefer you not show it to Jace,” he said. “He has enough to contend with, without photos of his dead father turning up.”

“Of course.” She hugged it to her chest. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.” He looked at her quizzically. “Did you come to the library to see me, or for some other purpose?”

“I was wondering if you’d heard from the Clave. About the Cup. And—my mom.”

“I got a short reply this morning.”

She could hear the eagerness in her own voice. “Have they sent people? Shadowhunters?”

Hodge looked away from her. “Yes, they have.”

“Why aren’t they staying here?” she asked.

“There is some concern that the Institute is being watched by Valentine. The less he knows, the better.” He saw her miserable expression, and sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, Clarissa. I am not much trusted by the Clave, even now. They told me very little. I wish I could help you.”

There was something about the sadness in his voice that made her reluctant to push him for more information. “You can,” she said. “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking too much. Could you …”

“Ah, the unquiet mind.” His voice was full of sympathy. “I can give you something for that. Wait here.”


The potion Hodge gave her smelled pleasantly of juniper and leaves. Clary kept opening the vial and smelling it on her way back down the corridor. It was unfortunately still open when she entered her bedroom and found Jace sprawled out on the bed, looking at her sketchbook. With a little shriek of astonishment, she dropped the vial; it bounced across the floor, spilling pale green liquid onto the hardwood.

“Oh, dear,” said Jace, sitting up, the sketchbook abandoned. “I hope that wasn’t anything important.”

“It was a sleeping potion,” she said angrily, toeing the vial with the tip of a sneaker. “And now it’s gone.”

“If only Simon were here. He could probably bore you to sleep.”

Clary was in no mood to defend Simon. Instead she sat down on the bed, picking up the sketchbook. “I don’t usually let people look at this.”

“Why not?” Jace looked tousled, as if he’d been asleep himself. “You’re a pretty good artist. Sometimes even excellent.”

“Well, because—it’s like a diary. Except I don’t think in words, I think in pictures, so it’s all drawings. But it’s still private.” She wondered if she sounded as crazy as she suspected.

Jace looked wounded. “A diary with no drawings of me in it? Where are the torrid fantasies? The romance novel covers? The—”

“Do all the girls you meet fall in love with you?” Clary asked quietly.

The question seemed to deflate him, like a pin popping a balloon. “It’s not love,” he said, after a pause. “At least—”

“You could try not being charming all the time,” Clary said. “It might be a relief for everyone.”

He looked down at his hands. They were like Hodge’s hands already, snowflaked with tiny white scars, though the skin was young and unlined. “If you’re really tired, I could put you to sleep,” he said. “Tell you a bedtime story.”

She looked at him. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious.”

She wondered if being tired had made them both a little crazy. But Jace didn’t look tired. He looked almost sad. She set the sketchbook down on the night table, and lay down, curling sideways on the pillow. “Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

She closed them. She could see the afterimage of lamplight reflected against her inner lids, like tiny starbursts.

“Once there was a boy,” said Jace.

Clary interrupted immediately. “A Shadowhunter boy?”