The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(108)

He breathed slowly, steadily. She could see the rune on his chest through the torn fabric of his shirt. It seemed to pulse when he breathed. It was sickening, she thought, attached to him like that, like a leech, sucking out what was good, what was Jace.



She remembered what Luke had said to her about destroying a rune. If you disfigure it enough, you can minimize or destroy its power. Sometimes in battle the enemy will try to burn or slice off a Shadowhunter’s skin, just to deprive them of the power of their runes.

She kept her eyes fixed on Jace’s face. Forget about what’s happening, she thought.

Forget about Simon, about the knife at your throat. What you say now matters more than anything you’ve ever said before.

“Remember what you said to me in the park?” she whispered.

He looked down at her, startled. “What?”

“When I told you I didn’t speak Italian. I remember what you told me, what that quote meant. You said it meant love is the most powerful force on earth. More powerful than anything else.”

A tiny line appeared between his eyebrows. “I don’t . . .”

“Yes, you do.” Tread carefully, she told herself, but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the strain that surfaced in her voice. “You remember. The most powerful force there is, you said. Stronger than Heaven or Hell. It has to be more powerful than Lilith, too.”

Nothing. He stared at her as if he couldn’t hear her. It was like shouting down into a black, empty tunnel. Jace, Jace, Jace. I know you’re in there.

“There’s a way you could protect me and still do what she wants,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be the best thing?” She pressed her body closer against his, feeling her stomach twist.

It was like holding Jace and not like it, all at the same time, joy and horror mixed together. And she could feel his body react to her, the drumbeat of his heart in her ears, her veins; he had not stopped wanting her, whatever layers of control Lilith exerted over his mind.

“I’ll whisper it to you,” she said, brushing her lips against his neck. She breathed in the scent of him, as familiar as the scent of her own skin. “Listen.”



She tilted her face up, and he leaned down to hear her—and her hand moved from his waist to clamp down on the hilt of the knife in his belt. She whipped it upward, just as he had shown her when they had trained, balancing its weight in her palm, and she slashed the blade across the left side of his chest in a wide, shallow arc. Jace cried out—more in surprise than pain, she guessed—and blood burst from the cut, spilling down his skin, obscuring the rune. He put his hand to his chest; when it came away red, he stared at her, his eyes wide, as if somehow he was genuinely hurt, genuinely unable to believe in her betrayal.

Clary spun away from him as Lilith cried out. Simon was no longer bending over Sebastian; he had straightened up and was staring down at Clary, the back of his hand jammed against his mouth. Black demon blood dripped from his chin onto his white shirt.

His eyes were wide.

“Jace,” Lilith’s voice soared upward in astonishment. “Jace, get hold of her—I order it—

”

Jace didn’t move. He was staring from Clary, to Lilith, at his bloody hand, and then back again. Simon had begun to back away from Lilith; suddenly he stopped with a jerk and bent double, falling to his knees. Lilith whirled away from Jace and advanced on Simon, her hard face contorted. “Get up!” she shrieked. “Get on your feet! You drank his blood.

Now he needs yours!”

Simon struggled to a sitting position, then slid limply to the ground. He retched, coughing up black blood. Clary remembered him in Idris, saying that Sebastian’s blood was like poison. Lilith drew back her foot to kick him— then staggered back as if an invisible hand had pushed her, hard. Lilith screeched—not words, just a scream like the cry of an owl. It was a sound of unadulterated hatred and rage.

It was not a sound a human being could have made; it felt like jagged shards of glass being driven into Clary’s ears. She cried out, “Leave Simon alone! He’s sick. Can’t you see he’s sick?”

She was immediately sorry she’d spoken. Lilith turned slowly, her gaze sliding over Jace, cold and imperious. “I told you, Jace Herondale.” Her voice rang out. “Don’t let the girl leave the circle. Take her weapon.”

Clary had barely realized she was still holding the knife. She felt so cold she was nearly numb, but beneath that a wash of unbearable rage at Lilith—at everything—freed the movement of her arm. She flung the knife at the ground. It skidded across the tiles, fetching up at Jace’s feet. He stared down at it blindly, as if he’d never seen a weapon before.

Lilith’s mouth was a thin red slash. The whites of her eyes had vanished; they were all black. She did not look human. “Jace,” she hissed. “Jace Herondale, you heard me. And you will obey me.”

“Take it,” Clary said, looking at Jace. “Take it and kill either her or me. It’s your choice.”

Slowly Jace bent down and picked up the knife.



Alec had Sandalphon in one hand, a hachiwara—good for parrying multiple attackers—in the other. At least six cultists lay at his feet, dead or unconscious.

Alec had fought quite a few demons in his time, but there was something especially eerie about fighting the cultists of the Church of Talto. They moved all together, less like people than like an eerie dark tide—eerie because they were so silent and so bizarrely strong and fast. They also seemed totally unafraid of death. Though Alec and Isabelle shouted at them to keep back, they kept moving forward in a wordless, clustering horde, flinging themselves at the Shadowhunters with the self-destructive mindlessness of lemmings hurling themselves over a cliff. They had backed Alec and Isabelle down the hallway and into the big, open room full of stone pedestals, when the noise of the fight brought Jordan and Maia running: Jordan in wolf form, Maia still human, but with her claws fully out.