City of Bones (The Mortal Instruments, #1)(96)

He could think of only one reason for her to be there, though it made no sense after what he’d said to her. Words were weapons, his father had taught him that, and he’d wanted to hurt Clary more than he’d ever wanted to hurt any girl. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had ever wanted to hurt a girl before. Usually he just wanted them, and then wanted them to leave him alone.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, drawing his words out in that way he knew she hated. “Simon’s turned himself into an ocelot and you want me to do something about it before Isabelle makes him into a stole. Well, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I’m out of commission.” He pointed at himself—he was wearing blue pajamas with a hole in the sleeve. “Look. Jammies.”

Clary seemed barely to have heard him. He realized she was clutching something in her hands—her sketchpad. “Jace,” she said. “This is important.”

“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’ve got a drawing emergency. You need a nude model. Well, I’m not in the mood. You could ask Hodge,” he added, as an afterthought. “I hear he’ll do anything for a—”

“JACE!” she interrupted him, her voice rising to a scream. “JUST SHUT UP FOR A SECOND AND LISTEN, WILL YOU?”

He blinked.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him. Her eyes were full of uncertainty. An unfamiliar urge rose inside him: the urge to put his arms around her and tell her it was all right. He didn’t. In his experience, things were rarely all right. “Jace,” she said, so softly that he had to lean forward to catch her words, “I think I know where my mother hid the Mortal Cup. It’s inside a painting.”


“What?” Jace was still staring at her as if she’d told him she’d found one of the Silent Brothers doing nude cartwheels in the hallway. “You mean she hid it behind a painting? All the paintings in your apartment were torn out of the frames.”

“I know.” Clary glanced past him into his bedroom. It didn’t look like there was anyone else in there, to her relief. “Look, can I come in? I want to show you something.”

He slouched back from the door. “If you must.”

She sat down on the bed, balancing her sketchpad on her knees. The clothes he’d been wearing earlier were flung across the covers, but the rest of the room was neat as a monk’s chamber. There were no pictures on the walls, no posters or photos of friends or family. The blankets were white and pulled tight and flat across the bed. Not exactly a typical teenage boy’s bedroom. “Here,” she said, flipping the pages until she found the coffee cup drawing. “Look at this.”

Jace sat down next to her, shoving his discarded T-shirt out of the way. “It’s a coffee cup.”

She could hear the irritation in her own voice. “I know it’s a coffee cup.”

“I can’t wait till you draw something really complicated, like the Brooklyn Bridge or a lobster. You’ll probably send me a singing telegram.”

She ignored him. “Look. This is what I wanted you to see.” She passed her hand over the drawing; then, with a quick darting motion, reached into the paper. When she drew her hand back a moment later, there was the coffee cup, dangling from her fingers.

She had imagined Jace leaping from the bed in astonishment and gasping something like “Egad!” This didn’t happen—largely, she suspected, because Jace had seen much stranger things in his life, and also because nobody used the word “Egad!” anymore. His eyes widened, though. “You did that?”

She nodded.

“When?”

“Just now, in my bedroom, after—after Simon left.”

His glance sharpened, but he didn’t pursue it. “You used runes? Which ones?”

She shook her head, fingering the now blank page. “I don’t know. They came into my head and I drew them exactly how I saw them.”

“Ones you saw earlier in the Gray Book?”

“I don’t know.” She was still shaking her head. “I couldn’t tell you.”

“And no one ever showed you how to do this? Your mother, for instance?”

“No. I told you before, my mother always told me there was no such thing as magic—”

“I bet she did teach you,” he interrupted. “And made you forget it afterward. Magnus did say your memories would come back slowly.”

“Maybe.”

“Of course.” Jace got to his feet and started to pace. “It’s probably against the Law to use runes like that unless you’ve been licensed. But that doesn’t matter right now. You think your mother put the Cup into a painting? Like you just did with that mug?”

Clary nodded. “But not one of the paintings in the apartment.”

“Where else? A gallery? It could be anywhere—”

“Not a painting at all,” Clary said. “In a card.”

Jace paused, turning toward her. “A card?”

“You remember that tarot deck of Madame Dorothea’s? The one my mother painted for her?”

He nodded.

“And remember when I drew the Ace of Cups? Later when I saw the statue of the Angel, the Cup looked familiar to me. It was because I’d seen it before, on the Ace. My mother painted the Mortal Cup into Madame Dorothea’s tarot deck.”