The City of Fallen Angels (Mortal Instruments 4)(75)

The thought that he would stay sixteen while Clary got older, Jace got older, everyone he knew got older, grew up, had children, and nothing ever changed for him was too enormous and horrible to contemplate.

Being sixteen forever sounded good until you really thought about it. Then it didn’t seem like such a great prospect anymore.

Magnus’s cat eyes were a clear gold-green. “Staring eternity in the face,” he said. “Not so much fun, is it?”

Before Simon could reply, Maryse had returned. “Where’s Alec?” she asked, looking around in puzzlement.

“He went to see Isabelle,” said Simon, before Magnus had to say anything.

“Very well.” Maryse smoothed the front of her jacket down, though it wasn’t wrinkled.

“If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

“I’ll talk to Camille,” said Magnus. “But I want to do it alone. If you’d like to wait for me in the Institute, I’ll join you there when I’m finished.”

Maryse hesitated. “You know what to ask her?”

Magnus’s gaze was unwavering. “I know how to talk to her, yes. If she is willing to say anything, she’ll say it to me.”



Both of them seemed to have forgotten that Simon was there. “Should I go too?” he asked, interrupting their staring contest.

Maryse looked at him, half-distracted. “Oh, yes. Thank you for your help, Simon, but you’re no longer needed. Go home if you like.”

Magnus said nothing at all. With a shrug Simon turned and went toward the door that led to the vestry and the exit that would take him outside. At the door he paused and looked back. Maryse and Magnus were still talking, though the guard was already holding open the Institute door, ready to leave. Only Camille seemed to remember that Simon was there at all. She was smiling at him from her pillar, her lips curved up at the corners, her eyes shining like a promise.

Simon went out, and closed the door behind him.

“It happens every night.” Jace was sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up, his hands dangling between his knees.

He had put the knife on the bed next to Clary; she kept one hand on it while he talked—

more to reassure him than because she needed it to defend herself. All the energy seemed to have drained out of Jace; even his voice sounded emptyand far awaywhile he talked, as ifhe were speaking to her from a great distance. “Idream that you come into my room and we . . . start doing what we were just doing. And then I hurt you. I cut you or strangle or stab you, and you die, looking up at me with those green eyes of yours while your life bleeds away between my hands.”

“They’re only dreams,” Clary said gently.

“You just saw that they aren’t,” said Jace. “I was wide awake when I picked up that knife.”

Clary knew he was right. “Are you worried that you’re going crazy?”

He shook his head slowly. Hair fell into his eyes; he pushed it back. His hair had gotten a little too long; he hadn’t cut it in a while, and Clary wondered if it was because he couldn’t be bothered. How could she not have paid more attention to the shadows under his eyes, the bitten nails, the drawn exhausted look of him? She had been so concerned about whether he still loved her that she had not thought about anything else. “I’m not so worried about that, really,” he said. “I’m worried about hurting you. I’m worried that whatever poison it is that’s eating its way into my dreams will bleed through into my waking life and I’ll . . .” His throat seemed to close up.

“You would never hurt me.”

“I had that knife in my hand, Clary.” He looked up at her, and then away. “If I hurt you . .

.” His voice trailed off.

“Shadowhunters die young, a lot of the time,” he said. “We all know that. And you wanted to be a Shadowhunter, and I would never stop you because it isn’t my job to tell you what to do with your life. Especially when I’m taking the same kind ofrisks. What kind of personwould Ibe if Itold youitwas allrightfor me to risk mylife, but not for you?

So I’ve thought about what it would be like for me if you died. I bet you’ve thought about the same thing.”

“I know what it would be like,” Clary said, remembering the lake, the sword, and Jace’s blood spreading over the sand. He had been dead, and the Angel had brought him back, but those had been the worst minutes of her life. “I wanted to die. But I knew how disappointed in me you’d have been if I’d just given up.”

He smiled, the ghost of a smile. “And I’ve thought the same thing. If you died, I wouldn’t want to live. But I wouldn’t kill myself, because whatever happens after we die, I want to be with you there. And if I killed myself, I know you’d never talk to me again. In any life. So I’d live, and I’d try to make something out of my life, until I could be with you again. But if I hurt you—if I was the cause of your death—there’s nothing that would keep me from destroying myself.”

“Don’t say that.” Clary felt chilled to the bone. “Jace, you should have told me.”

“I couldn’t.” His voice was flat, final.

“Why not?”

“Ithought Iwas Jace Lightwood,”he said. “Ithoughtitwas possible that myupbringing hadn’t touched me. Butnow I wonder if maybe people can’t change. Maybe I’ll always be Jace Morgenstern, Valentine’s son. He raised me for ten years, and maybe that’s a stain that won’t ever bleach out.”