Chapter 24
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“But he loved my mother,” said ry.
“Yes. He loved your mother. And he loved Idris ….”
“What was so great about Idris?” ry asked, hearing
the grumpiness in her own voice.
“It was,” Hodge began, and corrected himself, “it is
home—for the Nephilim, where they can be their true
selves, a ce where there is no need for hiding or
mour. A ce blessed by the Angel. You have never
seen a city until you have seen Alicante of the ss
towers. It is more beautiful than you can imagine.” There
was raw pain in his voice.
ry thought suddenly of her dream. “Were there ever
… dances in the ss City?”
Hodge blinked at her as if waking up from a dream.
“Every week. I never attended, but your mother did. And
Valentine.” He chuckled softly. “I was more of a schr.
I spent my days in the library in Alicante. The books you
see here are only a fraction of the treasures it holds. I
thought perhaps I might join the Brotherhood someday,
but after what I did, of course, they would not have me.”
“I’m sorry,” ry said awkwardly. Her mind was still full
of the memory of her dream. Was there a mermaid
fountain where they danced? Did Valentine wear white,
so that my mother could see the Marks on his skin even
through his shirt?
“Can I keep this?” she asked, indicating the photograph.
A flicker of hesitation passed over Hodge’s face. “I
would prefer you not show it to Jace,” he said. “He has
enough to contend with, without photos of his dead
father turning up.”
“Of course.” She hugged it to her chest. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” He looked at her quizzically. “Did you
come to the library to see me, or for some other
purpose?”
“I was wondering if you’d heard from the ve. About
the Cup. And—my mom.”
“I got a short reply this morning.”
She could hear the eagerness in her own voice. “Have
they sent people? Shadowhunters?”
Hodge looked away from her. “Yes, they have.”
“Why aren’t they staying here?” she asked.
“There is some concern that the Institute is being
watched by Valentine. The less he knows, the better.”
He saw her miserable expression, and sighed. “I’m sorry
I can’t tell you more, rissa. I am not much trusted by
the ve, even now. They told me very little. I wish I
could help you.”
There was something about the sadness in his voice
that made her reluctant to push him for more
information. “You can,” she said. “I can’t sleep. I keep
thinking too much. Could you …”
“Ah, the unquiet mind.” His voice was full of sympathy. “I
can give you something for that. Wait here.”
The potion Hodge gave her smelled pleasantly of
juniper and leaves. ry kept opening the vial and
smelling it on her way back down the corridor. It was
unfortunately still open when she entered her bedroom
and found Jace sprawled out on the bed, looking at her
sketchbook. With a little shriek of astonishment, she
dropped the vial; it bounced across the floor, spilling
pale green liquid onto the hardwood.
“Oh, dear,” said Jace, sitting up, the sketchbook
abandoned. “I hope that wasn’t anything important.”
“It was a sleeping potion,” she said angrily, toeing the
vial with the tip of a sneaker. “And now it’s gone.”
“If only Simon were here. He could probably bore you to
sleep.”
ry was in no mood to defend Simon. Instead she sat
down on the bed, picking up the sketchbook. “I don’t
usually let people look at this.”
“Why not?” Jace looked tousled, as if he’d been asleep
himself. “You’re a pretty good artist. Sometimes even
excellent.”
“Well, because—it’s like a diary. Except I don’t think in
words, I think in pictures, so it’s all drawings. But it’s still
private.” She wondered if she sounded as crazy as she
suspected.
Jace looked wounded. “A diary with no drawings of me
in it? Where are the torrid fantasies? The romance novel
covers? The—”
“Do all the girls you meet fall in love with you?” ry
asked quietly. Material ? N?velDrama.Org.
The question seemed to dete him, like a pin popping
a balloon. “It’s not love,” he said, after a pause. “At least
—”
“You could try not being charming all the time,” ry
said. “It might be a relief for everyone.”
He looked down at his hands. They were like Hodge’s
hands already, snowked with tiny white scars, though
the skin was young and unlined. “If you’re really tired, I
could put you to sleep,” he said. “Tell you a bedtime
story.”
She looked at him. “Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious.”
She wondered if being tired had made them both a little
crazy. But Jace didn’t look tired. He looked almost sad.
She set the sketchbook down on the night table, andy
down, curling sideways on the pillow. “Okay.”
“Close your eyes.”
She closed them. She could see the afterimage of
lamplight reflected against her inner lids, like tiny
starbursts.
“Once there was a boy,” said Jace.
ry interrupted immediately. “A Shadowhunter boy?”
“Of course.” For a moment a bleak amusement colored
his voice. Then it was gone. “When the boy was six
years old, his father gave him a falcon to train. Falcons
are raptors—killing birds, his father told him, the
Shadowhunters of the sky.
“The falcon didn’t like the boy, and the boy didn’t like it,
either. Its sharp beak made him nervous, and its bright
eyes always seemed to be watching him. It would sh
at him with beak and talons when he came near: For
weeks his wrists and hands were always bleeding. He
didn’t know it, but his father had selected a falcon that
had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus was nearly
impossible to tame. But the boy tried, because his father
had told him to make the falcon obedient, and he
wanted to please his father.
“He stayed with the falcon constantly, keeping it awake
by talking to it and even ying music to it, because a
tired bird was meant to be easier to tame. He learned
the equipment: the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash
that bound the bird to his wrist. He was meant to keep
the falcon blind, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it—
instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as
he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust him.
He fed it from his hand, and at first it would not eat.
Later it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of his
palm. But the boy was d, because it was progress,
and because he wanted the bird to know him, even if
the bird had to consume his blood to make that happen.
“He began to see that the falcon was beautiful, that its
slim wings were built for the speed of flight, that it was
strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the
ground, it moved like light. When it learned to circle and
come to his wrist, he nearly shouted with delight.
Sometimes the bird would hop to his shoulder and put
its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and
when he was certain it was not just tamed but perfectly
tamed, he went to his father and showed him what he
had done, expecting him to be proud.
“Instead his father took the bird, now tame and trusting,
in his hands and broke its neck. ‘I told you to make it
obedient,’ his father said, and dropped the falcon’s
lifeless body to the ground. ‘Instead, you taught it to love
you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: They are
fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not
tamed; it was broken.’
“Later, when his father left him, the boy cried over his
pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the
body of the bird away and bury it. The boy never cried
again, and he never forgot what he’d learned: that to
love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one
destroyed.”
ry, who had been lying still, hardly breathing, rolled
onto her back and opened her eyes. “That’s an awful
story,” she said indignantly.
Jace had his legs pulled up, his chin on his knees. “Is
it?” he said ruminatively.
“The boy’s father is horrible. It’s a story about child
abuse. I should have known that’s what Shadowhunters
think a bedtime story is like. Anything that gives you
screaming nightmares—”
“Sometimes the Marks can give you screaming
nightmares,” said Jace. “If you get them when you’re too
young.” He looked at her thoughtfully. Thete afternoon
light came in through the curtains and made his face a
study in contrasts. Chiaroscuro, she thought. The art of
shadows and light. “It’s a good story if you think about
it,” he said. “The boy’s father is just trying to make him
stronger. Inflexible.”
“But you have to learn to bend a little,” said ry with a
yawn. Despite the story’s content, the rhythm of Jace’s
voice had made her sleepy. “Or you’ll break.”
“Not if you’re strong enough,” said Jace firmly. He
reached out, and she felt the back of his hand brush her
cheek; she realized her eyes were slipping shut.
Exhaustion made her bones liquid; she felt as if she
might wash away and vanish. As she fell into sleep, she
heard the echo of words in her mind. He gave me
anything I wanted. Horses, weapons, books, even a
hunting falcon.
“Jace,” she tried to say. But sleep had her in its ws; it
drew her down, and she was silent.
She was woken by an urgent voice. “Get up!”
ry opened her eyes slowly. They felt gluey, stuck
together. Something was tickling her face. It was
someone’s hair. She sat up quickly, and her head struck
something hard.
“Ow! You hit me in the head!” It was a girl’s voice.
Isabelle. She flicked on the light next to the bed and
regarded ry resentfully, rubbing at her scalp. She
seemed to shimmer in themplight—she was wearing
a long silvery skirt and a sequined top, and her nails
were painted like glittering coins. Strands of silver beads
were caught in her dark hair. She looked like a moon
goddess. ry hated her.
“Well, nobody told you to lean over me like that. You
practically scared me to death.” ry rubbed at her own
head. There was a sore spot just above her eyebrow.
“What do you want, anyway?”
Isabelle indicated the dark night sky outside. “It’s almost
midnight. We’ve got to leave for the party, and you’re
still not dressed.”
“I was just going to wear this,” ry said, indicating her
jeans and T-shirt ensemble. “Is that a problem?”
“Is that a problem?” Isabelle looked like she might faint.
“Of course it’s a problem! No Downworlder would wear
those clothes. And it’s a party. You’ll stick out like a sore
thumb if you dress that … casually,” she finished,
looking as if the word she’d wanted to use was a lot
worse than “casually.”
“I didn’t know we were dressing up,” ry said sourly. “I
don’t have any party clothes with me.”
“You’ll just have to borrow mine.”
“Oh no.” ry thought of the too-big T-shirt and jeans. “I
mean, I couldn’t. Really.”
Isabelle’s smile was as glittering as her nails. “I insist.”
“I’d really rather wear my own clothes,” ry protested,
squirming ufortably as Isabelle positioned her in
front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom.
“Well, you can’t,” Isabelle said. “You look about eight
years old, and worse, you look like a mundane.”
ry set her jaw rebelliously. “None of your clothes are
going to fit me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
ry watched Isabelle in the mirror as she riffled
through her closet. Her room looked as if a disco ball
had exploded inside it. The walls were ck and
shimmered with swirls of sponged-on golden paint.
Clothes were strewn everywhere: on the rumpled ck
bed, hung over the backs of the wooden chairs, spilling
out of the closet and the tall wardrobe propped against
one wall. Her vanity table, its mirror rimmed with
spangled pink fur, was covered in glitter, sequins, and
pots of blush and powder.
“Nice room,” ry said, thinking longingly of her orange
walls at home.
“Thanks. I painted it myself.” Isabelle emerged from the
closet, holding something ck and slinky. She tossed it
at ry.
ry held the cloth up, letting it unfold. “It looks awfully
small.”
“It’s stretchy,” said Isabelle. “Now go put it on.”
Hastily, ry retreated to the small bathroom, which
was painted bright blue. She wriggled the dress on over
her head—it was tight, with tiny spaghetti straps. Trying
not to inhale too deeply, she returned to the bedroom,
where Isabelle was sitting on the bed, sliding a set of
jeweled toe rings onto her sandaled feet. “You’re so
lucky to have such a t chest,” Isabelle said. “I could
never wear that without a bra.”
ry scowled. “It’s too short.”
“It’s not short. It’s fine,” Isabelle said, toeing around
under the bed. She kicked out a pair of boots and some
ck fis tights. “Here, you can wear these with it.
They’ll make you look taller.”
“Right, because I’m t-chested and a midget.” ry
tugged the hem of the dress down. It just brushed the
tops of her thighs. She hardly ever wore skirts, much
less short ones, so seeing this much of her own legs
was rming. “If it’s this short on me, how short must it
be on you?” she mused aloud to Isabelle.
Isabelle grinned. “On me it’s a shirt.”
ry flopped down on the bed and pulled the tights and
boots on. The shoes were a little loose around the
calves, but didn’t slide around on her feet. Sheced
them to the top and stood up, looking at herself in the
mirror. She had to admit that thebination of short
ck dress, fiss, and high boots was fairly badass.
The only thing that spoiled it was—
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