City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(64)

They made their way from the subway station, Isabelle navigating with the Sensor, which seemed to have a sort of mapping system built in. Simon, who loved gadgets, was fascinated—or at least he was pretending it was the Sensor he was fascinated with. Hoping to avoid them, Clary lagged behind as they crossed through a scrubby park, its badly kept grass burned brown by the summer heat. To her right the spires of a church gleamed gray and black against the starless night sky.

“Keep up,” said an irritable voice in her ear. It was Jace, who had dropped back to walk beside her. “I don’t want to have to keep looking behind me to make sure nothing’s happened to you.”

“So don’t bother.”

“Last time I left you alone, a demon attacked you,” he pointed out.

“Well, I’d certainly hate to interrupt your pleasant night stroll with my sudden death.”

He blinked. “There is a fine line between sarcasm and outright hostility, and you seem to have crossed it. What’s up?”

She bit her lip. “This morning, weird creepy guys dug around in my brain. Now I’m going to meet the weird creepy guy who originally dug around in my brain. What if I don’t like what he finds?”

“What makes you think you won’t?”

Clary pulled her hair away from her sticky skin. “I hate it when you answer a question with a question.”

“No you don’t, you think it’s charming. Anyway, wouldn’t you rather know the truth?”

“No. I mean, maybe. I don’t know.” She sighed. “Would you?”

“This is the right street!” called Isabelle, a quarter of a block ahead. They were on a narrow avenue lined with old warehouses, though most now bore the signs of human residence: window boxes filled with flowers, lace curtains blowing in the clammy night breeze, numbered plastic trash cans stacked on the sidewalk. Clary squinted hard, but there was no way to tell if this was the street she’d seen at the Bone City—in her vision it had been nearly obliterated with snow.

She felt Jace’s fingers brush her shoulder. “Absolutely. Always,” he murmured.

She looked sideways at him, not understanding. “What?”

“The truth,” he said. “I would—”

“Jace!” It was Alec. He was standing on the pavement, not far away; Clary wondered why his voice had sounded so loud.

Jace turned, his hand falling away from her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Think we’re in the right place?” Alec was pointing at something Clary couldn’t see; it was hidden behind the bulk of a large black car.

“What’s that?” Jace joined Alec; Clary heard him laugh. Coming around the car, she saw what they were looking at: several motorcycles, sleek and silvery, with low-slung black chassis. Oily-looking tubes and pipes slithered up and around them, ropy as veins. There was a queasy sense of something organic about the bikes, like the bio-creatures in a Giger painting.

“Vampires,” Jace said.

“They look like motorcycles to me,” said Simon, joining them with Isabelle at his side. She frowned at the bikes.

“They are, but they’ve been altered to run on demon energies,” she explained. “Vampires use them—it lets them get around fast at night. It’s not strictly Covenant, but …”

“I’ve heard some of the bikes can fly,” said Alec eagerly. He sounded like Simon with a new video game. “Or go invisible at the flick of a switch. Or operate underwater.”

Jace had jumped down off the curb and was circling the bikes, examining them. He reached out a hand and stroked one of the bikes along the sleek chassis. It had words painted along the side, in silver: NOX INVICTUS. “‘Victorious night,’” he translated.

Alec was looking at him strangely. “What are you doing?”

Clary thought she saw Jace slide his hand back inside his jacket. “Nothing.”

“Well, hurry up,” said Isabelle. “I didn’t get this dressed up to watch you mess around in the gutter with a bunch of motorcycles.”

“They are pretty to look at,” said Jace, hopping back up on the pavement. “You have to admit that.”

“So am I,” said Isabelle, who didn’t look inclined to admit anything. “Now hurry up.”

Jace was looking at Clary. “This building,” he said, pointing at the red brick warehouse. “Is this the one?”

Clary exhaled. “I think so,” she said uncertainly. “They all look the same.”

“One way to find out,” said Isabelle, mounting the steps with a determined stride. The rest of them followed, crowding close to one another in the foul-smelling entryway. A naked bulb hung from a cord overhead, illuminating a large metal-bound door and a row of apartment buzzers along the left wall. Only one had a name written over it: BANE.

Isabelle pressed the buzzer. Nothing happened. She pressed it again. She was about to press it a third time when Alec caught her wrist. “Don’t be rude,” he said.

She glared at him. “Alec—”

The door flew open.

A slender man standing in the doorway regarded them curiously. It was Isabelle who recovered herself first, flashing a brilliant smile. “Magnus? Magnus Bane?”

“That would be me.” The man blocking the doorway was as tall and thin as a rail, his hair a crown of dense black spikes. Clary guessed from the curve of his sleepy eyes and the gold tone of his evenly tanned skin that he was part Asian. He wore jeans and a black shirt covered with dozens of metal buckles. His eyes were crusted with a raccoon mask of charcoal glitter, his lips painted a dark shade of blue. He raked a ring-laden hand through his spiked hair and regarded them thoughtfully. “Children of the Nephilim,” he said. “Well, well. I don’t recall inviting you.”