City of Glass (The Mortal Instruments, #3)(108)

Simon was motionless. “The Clave,” he said. “They must have said no to Luke.”

“But they can’t have!” Clary’s voice rose sharply. “That would mean—”

“They’re going to give themselves up to Valentine.”

“They can’t!” Clary cried again, but even as she stared, she saw the groups of dark figures surrounding the wards turn and move away from the city, streaming like ants out of a destroyed anthill.

Simon’s face was waxy in the fading light. “I guess,” he said, “they really hate us that much. They’d really rather choose Valentine.”

“It’s not hate,” Clary said. “It’s that they’re afraid. Even Valentine was afraid.” She said it without thinking, and realized as she said it that it was true. “Afraid and jealous.”

Simon flicked a glance toward her in surprise. “Jealous?”

But Clary was back in the dream Ithuriel had showed her, Valentine’s voice echoing in her ears. I dreamed that you would tell me why. Why Raziel created us, his race of Shadowhunters, yet did not give us the powers Downworlders have—the speed of the wolves, the immortality of the Fair Folk, the magic of warlocks, even the endurance of vampires. He left us naked before the hosts of hell but for these painted lines on our skin. Why should their powers be greater than ours? Why can’t we share in what they have?

Her lips parted and she stared unseeing down at the city below. She was vaguely aware that Simon was saying her name, but her mind was racing. The angel could have showed her anything, she thought, but it had chosen to show her these scenes, these memories, for a reason. She thought of Valentine crying, That we should be bound to Downworlders, tied to those creatures!

And the rune. The one she had dreamed of. The rune as simple as a knot.

Why can’t we share in what they have?

“Binding,” she said out loud. “It’s a binding rune. It joins like and unlike.”

“What?” Simon stared at her in confusion.

She scrambled to her feet, brushing off the dirt. “I have to get down there. Where are they?”

“Where are who? Clary—”

“The Clave. Where are they meeting? Where’s Luke?”

Simon rose to his feet. “The Accords Hall. Clary—”

But she was already racing toward the winding path that led to the city. Swearing under his breath, Simon followed.

They say all roads lead to the Hall. Sebastian’s words pounded over and over in Clary’s head as she sprinted down the narrow streets of Alicante. She hoped it was true, because otherwise she was definitely going to get lost. The streets twisted at odd angles, not like the lovely, straight, gridded streets of Manhattan. In Manhattan you always knew where you were. Everything was clearly numbered and laid out. This was a labyrinth.

She darted through a tiny courtyard and down one of the narrow canal paths, knowing that if she followed the water, she’d eventually come out in Angel Square. Somewhat to her surprise, the path took her by Amatis’s house, and then she was racing, panting, down a wider, curving, familiar street. It opened out onto the square, the Accords Hall rising up wide and white before her, the angel statue shining at the square’s center. Standing beside the statue was Simon, his arms crossed, regarding her darkly.

“You could have waited,” he said.

She leaned forward, her hands on her knees, catching her breath. “You … can’t really say that … since you got here before me anyway.”

“Vampire speed,” Simon said with some satisfaction. “When we get home, I ought to go out for track.”

“That would be … cheating.” With a last deep breath Clary straightened up and pushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes. “Come on. We’re going in.”

The Hall was full of Shadowhunters, more Shadowhunters than Clary had ever seen in one place before, even on the night of Valentine’s attack. Their voices rose in a roar like a crashing avalanche; most of them had gathered into contentious, shouting groups—the dais was deserted, the map of Idris hanging forlornly behind it.

She looked around for Luke. It took her a moment to find him, leaning against a pillar with his eyes half-closed. He looked awful—half-dead, his shoulders slumped. Amatis stood behind him, patting his shoulder worriedly. Clary looked around, but Jocelyn was nowhere to be seen in the crowd.

For just a moment she hesitated. Then she thought of Jace, going after Valentine, doing it alone, knowing that he might well get himself killed. He knew he was a part of this, a part of all of it, and she was too—she always had been, even when she hadn’t known it. Adrenaline was still coursing through her in spikes, sharpening her perception, making everything seem clear. Almost too clear. She squeezed Simon’s hand. “Wish me luck,” she said, and then her feet were carrying her toward the dais steps, almost without her volition, and then she was standing on the dais and turning to face the crowd.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Gasps of surprise? A sea of hushed, expectant faces? They barely noticed her—only Luke looked up, as if he sensed her there, and froze with a look of astonishment on his face. And there was someone coming toward her through the crowd—a tall man with bones as prominent as the prow of a sailing ship. Consul Malachi. He was gesturing at her to get down from the dais, shaking his head and shouting something she couldn’t hear. More Shadowhunters were turning toward her now as he made his way through the throng.