The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(38)

Not that there were many such guardians left. Valentine had killed nearly all of them while searching for the Mortal Sword, leaving alive only the few who had not been in the Silent City at the time. New members had been added to their order since then, but Clary doubted there were more than ten or fifteen Silent Brothers left in the world.

The harsh clack of Maryse’s heels on the stone floor alerted them to her return before she actually appeared, a robed Silent Brother trailing in her wake. “Here you are,” she said, as if Clary and Luke weren’t exactly where she’d left them. “This is Brother Zachariah.

Brother Zachariah, this is the girl I was telling you about.”

The Silent Brother pushed his hood back very slightly from his face. Clary held back a start of surprise. He didn’t look like Brother Jeremiah had, with his hollowed eyes and stitched mouth. Brother Zachariah’s eyes were closed, his high cheekbones each marked with the scar of a single black rune. But his mouth wasn’t stitched shut, and she didn’t think his head was shaved, either. It was hard to tell, with the hood up, whether she was seeing shadows or dark hair.

She felt his voice touch her mind. You truly believe you can do this thing, Valentine’s daughter?

She felt her cheeks flush. She hated being reminded of whose daughter she was.



“Surely you’ve heard of the other things she’s done,” said Luke. “Her rune of binding helped us end the Mortal War.”

Brother Zachariah raised his hood to hide his face. Come with me to the Ossuarium.

Clary looked at Luke, hoping for a supportive nod, but he was staring straight ahead and fiddling with his glasses the way he did when he was anxious. With a sigh she set off after Maryse and Brother Zachariah. He moved as silently as fog, while Maryse’s heels sounded like gunshots on the marble floors. Clary wondered if Isabelle’s propensity for unsuitable footwear was genetic.

They followed a winding path through the pillars, passing the great square of the Speaking Stars, where the Silent Brothers had first told Clary about Magnus Bane.

Beyond the square was an arched doorway, set with a pair of enormous iron doors. Into their surfaces had been burned runes that Clary recognized as runes of death and peace.

Over the doors was written an inscription in Latin that made her wish she had her notes with her. She was woefully behind in Latin for a Shadowhunter; most of them spoke it like a second language.

TaceantColloquia.Effugiatrisus.Hiclocusestubi morsgaudetsuccurrerevitae.

“Let conversation stop. Let laughter cease,” Luke read aloud. “Here is the place where the dead delight to teach the living.”

Brother Zachariah laid a hand on the door. The most recent of the murdered dead has been made ready for you.

Are you prepared?

Clary swallowed hard, wondering exactly what it was she had gotten herself into. “I’m ready.”

The doors swung wide, and they filed through. Inside was a large, windowless room with walls of smooth white marble. They were featureless save for hooks on which hung silvery instruments of dissection: shining scalpels, things that looked like hammers, bone saws, and rib spreaders. And beside them on shelves were even more peculiar instruments: massive corkscrew-like tools, sheets of sandpapery material, and jars of multicolored liquid, including a greenish one labeled “Acid” that actually seemed to be steaming.

The center of the room featured a row of high marble tables. Most were bare. Three were occupied, and on two of those three, all Clary could see was a human shape concealed by a white sheet. On the third table lay a body, the sheet pulled down to just below the rib cage. Naked from the waist up, the body was clearly male, and just as clearly a Shadowhunter. The corpse-pale skin was inked all over with Marks. The dead man’s eyes had been bound with white silk, as per Shadowhunter custom.

Clary swallowed back her rising nausea and moved to stand beside the corpse. Luke came with her, his hand protectively on her shoulder; Maryse stood opposite them, watching everything with her curious blue eyes, the same color as Alec’s.



Clary drew her stele from her pocket. She could feel the chill of the marble through her shirt as she leaned over the dead man. This close, she could see details—that his hair had been reddish brown, and that his throat had been torn clean through in strips, as if by a massive claw.

Brother Zachariah reached out and removed the silk binding from the dead man’s eyes.

Beneath it, they were closed. You may begin.

Clary took a deep breath and set the tip of the stele to the skin of the dead Shadowhunter’s arm. The rune she had visualized before, in the entryway of the Institute, came back to her as clearly as the letters of her own name. She began to draw.

The black Mark lines spiraled out from the tip of her stele, much as they always did—but her hand felt heavy, the stele itself dragging slightly, as if she were writing in mud rather than on skin. It was as if the implement were confused, skittering over the surface of the dead skin, seeking the living spirit of the Shadowhunter that was no longer there. Clary’s stomach churned as she drew, and by the time she was done and had retracted her stele, she was sweating and nauseated.

For a long moment nothing happened. Then, with a terrible suddenness, the dead Shadowhunter’s eyes flicked open. They were blue, the whites flecked red with blood.

Maryse let out a long gasp. It was clear she hadn’t really believed the rune would work.