City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(73)

“That doesn’t mean that I don’t—”

“What? Love him?” Alec scoffed, raising his voice. “You need to know someone to love them.”

“But that’s not all it is.” Isabelle sounded almost sad. “Didn’t you have any fun at the party, Alec?”

“No.”

“I thought you might like Magnus. He’s nice, isn’t he?”

“Nice?” Alec looked at her as if she were insane. “Kittens are nice. Warlocks are—” He hesitated. “Not,” he finished, lamely.

“I thought you might hit it off.” Isabelle’s eye makeup glittered as bright as tears as she glanced over at her brother. “Get to be friends.”

“I have friends,” Alec said, and looked over his shoulder, almost as if he couldn’t help it, at Jace.

But Jace, his golden head down, lost in thought, didn’t notice.

On impulse Clary reached to open the pack and glance into it—and frowned. The pack was open. She flashed back to the party—she’d lifted the pack, pulled the zipper closed. She was sure of it. She yanked the bag open, her heart pounding.

She remembered the time she’d had her wallet stolen on the subway. She remembered opening her bag, not seeing it there, her mouth drying up in surprise—Did I drop it? Have I lost it? And realizing: It’s gone. This was like that, only a thousand times worse. Mouth dry as bone, Clary pawed through the pack, shoving aside clothes and sketchpad, her fingernails scraping the bottom. Nothing.

She’d stopped walking. Jace was hovering just ahead of her, looking impatient, Alec and Isabelle already a block ahead. “What’s wrong?” Jace asked, and she could tell he was about to add something sarcastic. He must have seen the look on her face, though, because he didn’t. “Clary?”

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “Simon. He was in my backpack—”

“Did he climb out?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question, but Clary, exhausted and panic-stricken, reacted unreasonably. “Of course he didn’t!” she screamed. “What, you think he wants to get smashed under someone’s car, killed by a cat—”

“Clary—”

“Shut up!” she screamed, swinging the pack at him. “You were the one who said not to bother changing him back—”

Deftly he caught the pack as she swung it. Taking it out of her hand, he examined it. “The zipper’s torn,” he said. “From the outside. Someone ripped this bag open.”

Shaking her head numbly, Clary could only whisper, “I didn’t …”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Alec! Isabelle! You go on ahead! We’ll catch up.”

The two figures, already far ahead, paused; Alec hesitated, but his sister caught hold of his arm and pushed him firmly toward the subway entrance. Something pressed against Clary’s back: It was Jace’s hand, turning her gently around. She let him lead her forward, stumbling over the cracks in the sidewalk, until they were back in the entryway of Magnus’s building. The stench of stale alcohol and the sweet, uncanny smell Clary had come to associate with Downworlders filled the tiny space. Taking his hand away from her back, Jace pressed the buzzer over Magnus’s name.

“Jace,” she said.

He looked down at her. “What?”

She searched for words. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“Simon?” He hesitated then, and she thought of Isabelle’s words: Don’t ask him a question unless you know you can stand the answer. Instead of saying anything, he pressed the buzzer again, harder this time.

This time Magnus answered it, his voice booming through the tiny entryway. “WHO DARES DISTURB MY REST?”

Jace looked almost nervous. “Jace Wayland. Remember? I’m from the Clave.”

“Oh, yes.” Magnus seemed to have perked up. “Are you the one with the blue eyes?”

“He means Alec,” Clary said helpfully.

“No. My eyes are usually described as golden,” Jace told the intercom. “And luminous.”

“Oh, you’re that one.” Magnus sounded disappointed. If Clary hadn’t been so upset, she would have laughed. “I suppose you’d better come up.”

The warlock answered his door wearing a silk kimono printed with dragons, a gold turban, and an expression of barely controlled annoyance.

“I was sleeping,” he said loftily.

Jace looked as if he were about to say something rude, possibly about the turban, so Clary interrupted him. “Sorry to bother you—”

Something small and white peered around the warlock’s ankles. It had zigzag gray stripes and tufted pink ears that made it look more like a large mouse than a small cat.

“Chairman Meow?” Clary guessed.

Magnus nodded. “He has returned.”

Jace regarded the small tabby kitten with some scorn. “That’s not a cat,” he observed. “It’s the size of a hamster.”

“I am kindly going to forget you said that,” said Magnus, using his foot to nudge Chairman Meow behind him. “Now, exactly what did you come here for?”

Clary held out the torn pack. “It’s Simon. He’s missing.”