City of Lost Souls (43 page)

Isabelle clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Valentine raised an angel in his cellar. I don’t see why you need all this space—”

“Because Valentine is just WAY MORE AWESOME than me,” snapped Magnus, dropping his pen. “Look—”

“Don’t shout at my sister,” said Alec. He said it quietly, but with force behind the words. Magnus looked at him in surprise. Alec continued, “Isabelle, the size of angels, when they appear in the earthly dimension, varies depending on their power. The angel Valentine summoned was of a lower rank than Raziel. And if you were to summon an angel of an even higher rank, Michael, or Gabriel—”

“I couldn’t make a spell that would bind them, even momentarily,” said Magnus in a subdued voice. “We’re
summoning Raziel in part because we’re hoping that as the creator of Shadowhunters, he will have a special compassion—or, really, any compassion—for your situation. He’s also of about the right rank. A less powerful angel might not be able to help us, but a more powerful angel… well, if something went wrong…”

“It might not just be me who dies,” said Simon.

Magnus looked pained, and Alec glanced down at the papers strewn across the table. Isabelle put her hand on top of Simon’s. “I can’t believe we’re actually sitting here talking about summoning an angel,” she said. “My whole life we’ve sworn on the Angel’s name. We know our power comes from angels. But the idea of seeing one… I can’t really imagine it. When I try to think about it, it’s too big an idea.”

A silence fell across the table. There was a darkness in Magnus’s eyes that made Simon wonder if he had ever seen an angel. He wondered whether he ought to ask, but was saved deciding by the buzzing of his cell phone.

“One second,” he muttered, and got to his feet. He flipped the phone open and leaned against one of the loft’s pillars. It was a text—several—from Maia.

GOOD NEWS! LUKE IS AWAKE AND TALKING. IT LOOKS LIKE HE’S GOING TO BE OKAY.

Relief poured over Simon in a wave. Finally, good news. He flipped the phone shut and reached for the ring on his hand.
Clary?

Nothing.

He swallowed his nerves. She was probably asleep. He looked up to find all three of the people at the table staring at him.

“Who called?” Isabelle asked.

“It was Maia. She says Luke’s up and talking. That he’s going to be okay.” There was a chatter of relieved voices, but Simon was still staring down at the ring on his hand. “She gave me an idea.”

Isabelle had been on her feet, heading toward him; at that, she paused, looking worried. Simon supposed he didn’t blame her. His ideas had been downright suicidal of late. “What is it?” she said.

“What do we need to summon Raziel? How much space?” Simon asked.

Magnus paused over a book. “A mile around at least. Water would be good. Like Lake Lyn—”

“Luke’s farm,” Simon said. “Upstate. An hour or two away. It should be shut up now, but I know how to get there. And there’s a lake. Not as big as Lyn, but…”

Magnus closed the book he was holding. “That’s not a bad idea, Seamus.”

“A few hours?” Isabelle said, looking up at the clock. “We could be there by—”

“Oh, no,” said Magnus. He pushed the book away from him. “While your enthusiasm is boundless and impressive, Isabelle, I’m too exhausted to properly cast the summoning spell at the moment. And this isn’t something I want to take risks with. I think we can all agree.”

“So when?” Alec asked.

“We need a few hours sleep at least,” Magnus said. “I say we leave early afternoon. Sherlock—sorry,
Simon
—call and see if you can borrow Jordan’s truck in the meantime. And now…” He pushed his papers to the side. “I’m going to sleep. Isabelle,
Simon, you’re more than welcome to use the spare room again if you like.”

“Different spare rooms would be better,” Alec muttered.

Isabelle looked at Simon with questioning dark eyes, but he was already reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be back by noon, but for now there’s something important I have to do.”

In the daylight Paris was a city of narrow, curving streets that opened out into wide avenues, mellow golden buildings with slate-colored roofs, and a glittering river that sliced across it like a dueling scar. Sebastian, despite his claim that he was going to prove to Clary that he had a plan, didn’t say much as they made their way up a street lined with art galleries and stores selling dusty old books, to reach the Quai des Grands Augustins by the river’s edge.

There was a cool wind coming off the Seine, and she shivered. Sebastian unwound the scarf from around his neck and handed it to her. It was a heathery black and white tweed, still warm from being wrapped around his neck.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “You’re cold. Put it on.”

Clary wound it around her neck. “Thanks,” she said reflexively, and winced.

There. She had thanked Sebastian. She waited for a bolt of lightning to shoot out of the clouds and strike her dead. But nothing happened.

He gave her an odd look. “You all right? You look like you’re going to sneeze.”

“I’m fine.” The scarf smelled like citrusy cologne and boy. She wasn’t sure what she’d thought it would smell like. They
started to walk again. This time Sebastian slowed his pace, walking alongside her, pausing to explain that neighborhoods in Paris were numbered, and they were crossing from the sixth into the fifth, the Latin Quarter, and that the bridge they could see spanning the river in the distance was the Pont Saint-Michel. There were a lot of young people walking past them, Clary noticed; girls her age or older, impossibly stylish in tight-fitting pants and sky-high heels, long hair blowing in the wind off the Seine. Quite a few of them stopped to give Sebastian appreciative glances, which he didn’t seem to notice.

Jace, she thought, would have noticed. Sebastian
was
striking, with his icy white hair and black eyes. She had thought he was handsome the first time she’d met him, and he’d had his hair dyed black then; it hadn’t suited him, really. He looked better like this. The pallor of his hair gave his skin some color, drew your eyes to the flush along his high cheekbones, the graceful shape of his face. His eyelashes were incredibly long, a shade darker than his hair, and curled slightly, just like Jocelyn’s—
so
unfair. Why hadn’t she gotten the curling lashes in the family? And why didn’t he have a single freckle? “So,” she said abruptly, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence, “what are we?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “What do you mean, ‘What are we?’”

“You said we’re the last of the Morgensterns. Morgenstern is a German name,” said Clary. “So, what are we, German? What’s the story? Why aren’t there any more but us?”

“You don’t know anything about Valentine’s family?” Incredulity tinged Sebastian’s voice. He had stopped next to the wall that ran along the Seine, beside the pavement. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you anything?”

“She’s your mother too, and no, she didn’t. Valentine’s not her favorite topic.”

“Shadowhunter names are compounded,” said Sebastian slowly, and he climbed up on top of the wall. He reached a hand down, and after a moment she let him take hers and pull her up onto the wall beside him. The Seine ran gray-green below them, fly-speck tourist boats chugging by at a leisurely pace. “Fairchild, Light-wood, White-law. ‘Morgenstern’ means ‘morning star.’ It’s a German name, but the family was Swiss.”

“Was?”

“Valentine was an only child,” Sebastian said. “His father—our grandfather—was killed by Downworlders, and our great-uncle died in a battle. He didn’t have any children. This”—he reached out and touched her hair—“is from the Fairchild side. There’s English blood there. I look more like the Swiss side. Like Valentine.”

“Do you know anything about our grandparents?” Clary asked, fascinated despite herself.

Sebastian dropped his hand and leaped down off the wall. He held his hand up for her, and she took it, balancing as she leaped down. For a moment she collided with his chest, hard and warm beneath his shirt. A passing girl shot her an amused, jealous look, and Clary pulled back hastily. She wanted to shout after the girl that Sebastian was her brother, and that she hated him anyway. She didn’t.

“I know nothing about our maternal grandparents,” he said. “How could I?” His smile was crooked. “Come. I want to show you a favorite place of mine.”

Clary hung back. “I thought you were going to prove to me that you had a plan.”

“All in due time.” Sebastian started to walk, and after a moment she followed him.
Find out his plan. Make nice until you do.
“Valentine’s father was a lot like him,” Sebastian went on. “He put his faith in strength. ‘We are God’s chosen warriors.’ That’s what he believed. Pain made you strong. Loss made you powerful. When he died…”

“Valentine changed,” Clary said. “Luke told me.”

“He loved his father and he hated him. Something you might understand from knowing Jace. Valentine raised us as his father had raised him. You always return to what you know.”

“But Jace,” Clary said. “Valentine taught him more than just fighting. He taught him languages, and how to play the piano—”

“That was Jocelyn’s influence.” Sebastian said her name unwillingly, as if he hated the sound of it. “She thought Valentine ought to be able to talk about books, art, music—not just killing things. He passed that on to Jace.”

A wrought iron blue gate rose to their left. Sebastian ducked under it and beckoned Clary to follow him. She didn’t have to duck but went after him, her hands stuffed into her pockets. “What about you?” she asked.

He held up his hands. They were unmistakably her mother’s hands—dexterous, long-fingered, meant for holding a brush or a pen. “I learned to play the instruments of war,” he said, “and paint in blood. I am not like Jace.”

They were in a narrow alley between two rows of buildings made of the same golden stone as many of the other buildings of Paris, their roofs sparkling copper-green in the sunlight. The street underfoot was cobblestone, and there were no cars or motorcycles. To her left was a café, a wooden sign dangling
from a wrought iron pole the only clue that there was any commercial business on this winding street.

“I like it here,” Sebastian said, following her gaze, “because it’s as if you were in a past century. No noise of cars, no neon lights. Just—peaceful.”

Clary stared at him.
He’s lying,
she thought.
Sebastian doesn’t have thoughts like this. Sebastian, who tried to burn Alicante to the ground, doesn’t care about “peaceful.”

She thought then of where he’d grown up. She’d never seen it, but Jace had described it to her. A small house—a cottage, really—in a valley outside Alicante. The nights would have been silent there and the sky full of stars at night. But would he miss that?
Could
he? Was that the sort of emotion you could have when you weren’t really even human?

It doesn’t bother you?
she wanted to say.
Being in the place the real Sebastian Verlac grew up and lived, until you ended his life? Walking these streets, bearing his name, knowing that somewhere, his aunt is grieving for him? And what did you mean when you said he wasn’t supposed to fight back?

His black eyes regarded her thoughtfully. He had a sense of humor, she knew; there was a streak of mordant wit in him that was sometimes not unlike Jace’s. But he didn’t smile.

“Come on,” he said then, breaking off her reverie. “This place has the best hot chocolate in Paris.”

Clary wasn’t sure how she’d know if this were true or not, given that this was the first time she’d ever been to Paris, but once they sat down, she had to admit the hot chocolate was excellent. They made it at your table—which was small and wooden, as were the old-fashioned high-backed chairs—in a blue ceramic pot, using cream, chocolate powder, and sugar.
The result was a cocoa so thick your spoon could stand up in it. They had croissants, too, and dunked them into the chocolate.

“You know, if you want another croissant, they’ll bring you one,” said Sebastian, leaning back in his chair. They were the youngest people in the place by decades, Clary noticed. “You’re attacking that one like a wolverine.”

“I’m hungry.” She shrugged. “Look, if you want to talk to me, talk. Convince me.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. She was reminded of looking into his eyes the night before, of noticing the silver ring around the iris of his eye. “I was thinking about what you said last night.”

“I was hallucinating last night. I don’t remember what I said to you.”

“You asked me who I belonged to,” said Sebastian.

Clary paused with her cup of chocolate halfway to her mouth. “I did?”

“Yeah.” His eyes studied her face intently. “And I don’t have an answer.”

She set her cup down, feeling suddenly, intensely uncomfortable. “You don’t have to belong to anyone,” she said. “It’s just a figure of speech.”

“Well, let me ask you something now,” Sebastian said. “Do you think you can forgive me? I mean, do you think forgiveness is possible for someone like me?”

“I don’t know.” Clary gripped the edge of the table. “I—I mean, I don’t know much about forgiveness as a religious concept, just your garden-variety kind of forgiving people.” She took a deep breath, knowing she was babbling. It was something in the steadiness of Sebastian’s dark gaze on her,
as if he actually expected her to give him the answers to questions no one else could answer. “I know you have to do things, to earn forgiveness. Change yourself. Confess, repent—and make amends.”