Chapter 51


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    “And you believe that crap?” ry said in disgust. “It


    isn’t true. Hodge was working for Valentine. They were


    in it together, getting the Cup. He set us up, it’s true, but


    he was just a tool.”


    “But he was the one who needed the Mortal Cup,” said


    Jace. “So he could get the curse off him and flee before


    my father told the ve about everything he’d done.”


    “I know that isn’t true!” said ry hotly. “I was there!”


    She turned on Valentine. “I was in the room when you


    came to get the Cup. You couldn’t see me, but I was


    there. I saw you. You took the Cup and you lifted the


    curse off Hodge. He couldn’t have done it by himself. He


    said so.”


    “I did lift his curse,” said Valentine measuredly, “but I


    was moved by pity. He seemed so pathetic.”


    “You didn’t feel pity. You didn’t feel anything.”


    “That’s enough, ry!” It was Jace. She stared at him.


    His cheeks were flushed as if he’d been drinking the


    wine at his elbow, his eyes too bright. “Don’t talk to my


    father like that.”


    “He’s not your father !”


    Jace looked as if she had pped him. “Why are you so


    determined not to believe us?”


    “Because she loves you,” said Valentine.


    ry felt the blood drain out of her face. She looked at


    him, not knowing what he might say next, but dreading


    it. She felt as if she were edging toward a precipice,


    some terrible hurtling fall into nothing and nowhere.


    Vertigo gripped her stomach.


    “What?” Jace looked surprised.


    Valentine was looking at ry with amusement, as if he


    could tell he had her pinned there like a butterfly to a


    board. “She fears I am taking advantage of you,” he


    said. “That I have brainwashed you. It isn’t so, of


    course. If you looked into your own memories, ry,


    you would know it.”


    “ry.” Jace started to get to his feet, his eyes on her.


    She could see the circles beneath them, the strain he


    was under. “I—”


    “Sit down,” said Valentine. “Let here to it on her


    own, Jonathan.”


    Jace subsided instantly, sinking back into the chair.


    Through the dizziness of vertigo, ry groped for


    understanding. Jonathan? “I thought your name was


    Jace,” she said. “Did you lie about that, too?”


    “No. Jace is a nickname.”


    She was very near to the precipice now, so close she


    could almost look down. “For what?”


    He looked at her as if he couldn’t understand why she


    was making so much of something so small. “It’s my


    initials,” he said. “J. C.”


    The precipice opened before her. She could see the


    long fall into darkness. “Jonathan,” she said faintly.


    “Jonathan Christopher.”


    Jace’s eyebrows drew together. “How did you’?”


    Valentine cut in. His voice was soothing. “Jace, I had


    thought to spare you. I thought a story of a mother who


    died would hurt you less than the story of a mother who


    abandoned you before your first birthday.”


    Jace’s slim fingers tightened convulsively around the


    ss’s stem. ry thought for a moment that it might


    shatter. “My mother is alive?”


    “She is,” said Valentine. “Alive, and asleep in one of the


    downstairs rooms at this very moment. Yes,” he said,


    cutting off Jace before he could speak, “Jocelyn is your


    mother, Jonathan. And ry—ry is your sister.”


    Jace jerked his hand back. The winess tipped,


    spilling frothing scarlet liquid across the white tablecloth.


    “Jonathan,” said Valentine.


    Jace had gone an awful color, a sort of greenish white.


    “That’s not true,” he said. “There’s been a mistake. It


    couldn’t possibly be true.”


    Valentine looked steadily at his son. “A cause for


    rejoicing,” he said in a low, contemtive voice, “I would


    have thought. Yesterday you were an orphan, Jonathan.


    And now a father, a mother, a sister, you never knew


    you had.”


    “It isn’t possible,” said Jace again. “ry isn’t my sister.


    If she were …”


    “Then what?” Valentine said.


    Jace did not reply, but his sick look of nauseous horror


    was enough for ry. Stumbling a little, she came


    around the table and knelt beside his chair, reaching for


    his hand. “Jace—”


    He jerked away from her, his fingers knotting in the


    sodden tablecloth. “Don’t.”


    Hatred for Valentine burned in her throat like unshed


    tears. He had held back, and by not saying what he


    knew—that she was his daughter—made herplicit


    in his silence. And now, having dropped the truth on


    them with the weight of a crushing boulder, he sat back


    to watch the results with a cool consideration. How


    could Jace not see how hateful he was?


    “Tell me it’s not true,” Jace said, staring at the tablecloth.


    ry swallowed against the burning in her throat. “I


    can’t do that.”


    Valentine sounded as if he were smiling. “So you admit


    now that I’ve been telling the truth all this time?”


    “No,” she shot back without looking at him. “You’re


    telling lies with a little bit of the truth mixed in, is all.”


    “This grows tiresome,” said Valentine. “If you want to


    hear the truth, rissa, this is the truth. You have heard


    stories of the Uprising and so you think I am a viin. Is


    that correct?”


    ry said nothing. She was looking at Jace, who


    seemed as if he might be about to throw up. Valentine


    went on relentlessly. “It is simple, really. The story you


    heard was true in some of its parts, but not in others—


    lies mixed in with a little truth, as you said. The fact is


    that Michael Wand is not and has never been Jace’s


    father. Wand was killed during the Uprising. I


    assumed Michael’s name and ce when I fled the


    ss City with my son. It was easy enough; Wand


    had no real rtions, and his closest friends, the


    Lightwoods, were in exile. He himself would have been


    in disgrace for his part in the Uprising, so I lived that


    disgraced life, quietly enough, alone with Jace on the


    Wands’ estate. I read my books. I raised my son. And


    I bided my time.” He fingered the filigreed edge of a


    ss thoughtfully. He was left-handed, ry saw. Like


    Jace.


    “Ten years on, I received a letter. The writer of the letter


    indicated that he knew my true identity, and if I were not


    prepared to take certain steps, he would reveal it. I did


    not know who the letter was from, but it did not matter. I


    was not prepared to give the writer of it what he wanted.


    Besides, I knew my safety waspromised, and


    would be unless he thought me dead, beyond his reach.


    I staged my death a second time, with the help of


    ckwell and Pangborn, and for Jace’s own safety


    made sure that my son would be sent here, to the


    protection of the Lightwoods.”


    “So you let Jace think you were dead? You just let him


    think you were dead, all these years? That’s


    despicable.”


    “Don’t,” said Jace again. He had raised his hands to


    cover his face. He spoke against his own fingers, voice


    muffled. “Don’t, ry.”


    Valentine looked at his son with a smile Jace couldn’t


    see. “Jonathan had to think I was dead, yes. He had to


    think he was Michael Wand’s son, or the Lightwoods


    would not have protected him as they did. It was


    Michael they owed a debt to, not me. It was on


    Michael’s ount that they loved him, not mine.”


    “Maybe they loved him on his own ount,” said ry.


    “Amendably sentimental interpretation,” said


    Valentine, “but unlikely. You do not know the Lightwoods


    as I once did.” He did not seem to see Jace’s flinch, or if


    he did, he ignored it. “It hardly matters, in the end,”


    Valentine added. “The Lightwoods were intended as


    protection for Jace, not as a recement family, you


    see. He has a family. He has a father.”


    Jace made a noise in his throat, and moved his hands


    away from his face. “My mother—”


    “Fled after the Uprising,” said Valentine. “I was a


    disgraced man. The ve would have hunted me down


    had they thought I lived. She could not bear her


    association with me, and ran.” The pain in his voice was


    palpable—and faked, ry thought bitterly. The


    maniptive creep. “I did not know she was pregnant at


    the time. With ry.” He smiled a little, running his


    finger slowly down the winess. “But blood calls to


    blood, as they say,” he went on. “Fate has borne us to


    this convergence. Our family, together again. We can


    use the Portal,” he said, turning his gaze to Jace. “Go to


    Idris. Back to the manor house.”


    Jace shivered a little but nodded, still staring numbly at


    his hands.


    “We’ll be together there,” said Valentine. “As we should


    be.”


    That sounds terrific, thought ry. Just you, your


    comatose wife, your shell-shocked son, and your


    daughter who hates your guts. Not to mention that your


    two kids may be in love with each other. Yeah, that


    sounds like a perfect family reunion. Aloud, she said


    only, “I am not going anywhere with you, and neither is


    my mother.”


    “He’s right, ry,” said Jace hoarsely. He flexed his


    hands; the fingertips were stained red. “It’s the only


    ce for us to go. We can sort things out there.”


    “You can’t be serious—”


    An enormous crash came from downstairs, so loud that


    it sounded as if a wall of the hospital had copsed in on


    itself. Luke, ry thought, springing to her feet.


    Jace, despite his look of nauseous horror, responded


    automatically, half-rising from his chair, his hand going


    to his belt. “Father, they’re—”


    “They’re on their way.” Valentine rose to his feet. ry


    heard footsteps. A momentter the door of the room


    was flung open, and Luke stood on the threshold.


    ry bit back a cry. He was covered in blood, his jeans


    and shirt dark and clotted, the lower half of his face


    bearded with it. His hands were red to the wrists, the


    blood that coated them still wet and running. She had no


    idea if any of the blood was his. She heard herself cry


    out his name, and then she was running across the


    room to him and nearly tripping over herself in her


    eagerness to grab at his shirtfront and hang on, the way


    she hadn’t done since she was eight years old.


    For a moment his big hand came up and cupped the


    back of her head, holding her against him in a one-


    armed bear hug. Then he pushed her away gently. “I’m


    covered in blood,” he said. “Don’t worry—it isn’t mine.”


    “Then whose is it?” It was Valentine’s voice, and ry


    turned, Luke’s arm protectively across her shoulders.


    Valentine was watching them both, his eyes narrow and


    calcting. Jace had risen to his feet ande around


    the table and was standing hesitantly behind his father.


    ry could not remember him ever doing anything


    hesitantly before.


    “Pangborn’s,” said Luke.


    Valentine passed a hand over his face, as if the news


    pained him. “I see. Did you tear out his throat with your


    teeth?”


    “Actually,” said Luke, “I killed him with this.” With his free


    hand he held out the long thin dagger he had killed the


    Forsaken with. In the light she could see the blue stones


    in the hilt. “Do you remember it?”


    Valentine looked at it, and ry saw his jaw tighten. “I


    do,” he said, and ry wondered if he, too, were


    remembering their earlier conversation.


    This is a kindjal, a Circassian dagger. This particr


    one used to be one of a matched pair.


    “You handed it to me seventeen years ago and told me


    to end my life with it,” said Luke, the weapon gripped


    tightly in his hand. The de of it was longer than the


    de of the red-hilted kindjal in Jace’s belt; it was


    somewhere between a dagger and a sword, and its


    de was needle-tipped. “And I nearly did.”


    “Do you expect me to deny it?” There was pain in


    Valentine’s voice, the memory of an old grief. “I tried to


    save you from yourself, Lucian. I made a grave mistake.


    If only I’d had the strength to kill you myself, you could


    have died a man.”


    “Like you?” asked Luke, and in that moment ry saw


    something in him of the Luke she’d always known, who


    could tell when she was lying or pretending, who called


    her on it when she was being arrogant or untruthful. In


    the bitterness of his voice she heard the love he’d once


    had for Valentine, curdled into a weary hatred. “A man


    who chains his unconscious wife to a bed in the hopes


    of torturing her for information when she wakes up?


    That’s your bravery?”


    Jace was staring at his father. ry saw the seizure of


    anger that momentarily twisted Valentine’s features;


    then it was gone, and his face was smooth. “I didn’t


    torture her,” he said. “She is chained for her own


    protection.”


    “Against what?” Luke demanded, stepping farther into


    the room. “The only thing endangering her is you. The


    only thing that ever endangered her was you. She’s


    spent her life running to get away from you.”


    “I loved her,” said Valentine. “I never would have hurt


    her. It was you who turned her against me.”


    Lukeughed. “She didn’t need me to turn her against


    you. She learned to hate you on her own.”


    “That is a lie !” Valentine roared with sudden savagery,


    and drew his sword from the sheath at his waist. The


    de was t and matte ck, patterned with a design


    of silver stars. He leveled the de at Luke’s heart.


    Jace took a step toward Valentine. “Father—”


    “Jonathan, be silent !” shouted Valentine, but it was too


    late; ry saw the shock on Luke’s face as he stared at


    Jace.


    “Jonathan?” he whispered.


    Jace’s mouth twisted. “Don’t you call me that,” he said


    fiercely, his gold eyes zing. “I’ll kill you myself if you


    call me that.”


    Luke, ignoring the de pointed at his heart, didn’t take


    his eyes off Jace. “Your mother would be proud,” he


    said, so quietly that even ry, standing beside him,


    had to strain to hear it.


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