The Mortal Instruments City Of Bones novel Chapter 12

“No.” Dorothea spoke the word almost reluctantly. “I’m sure she’s still alive. For now.”

“Then I have to find her,” Clary said. The world had stopped tilting; Jace was standing behind her, his hand on her elbow as if to brace her, but she barely noticed. “You understand? I have to find her before—”

Madame Dorothea held up a hand. “I don’t want to involve myself in Shadowhunter business.”

“But you knew my mother. She was your neighbor—”

“This is an official Clave investigation.” Jace cut her off. “I can always come back with the Silent Brothers.”

“Oh, for the—” Dorothea glanced at her door, then at Jace and Clary. “I suppose you might as well come in,” she said, finally. “I’ll tell you what I can.” She started toward the door, then halted on the threshold, glaring. “But if you tell anyone I helped you, Shadowhunter, you’ll wake up tomorrow with snakes for hair and an extra pair of arms.”

“That might be nice, an extra pair of arms,” Jace said. “Handy in a fight.”

“Not if they’re growing out of your …” Dorothea paused and smiled at him, not without malice. “Neck.”

“Yikes,” said Jace mildly.

“Yikes is right, Jace Wayland.” Dorothea marched into the apartment, her purple tent flying around her like a gaudy flag.

Clary looked at Jace. “Wayland?”

“It’s my name.” Jace looked shaken. “I can’t say I like that she knows it.”

Clary glanced after Dorothea. The lights were on inside the apartment; already the heavy smell of incense was flooding the entryway, mixing unpleasantly with the stench of blood. “Still, I think we might as well try talking to her. What have we got to lose?”

“Once you’ve spent a bit more time in our world,” Jace said, “you won’t ask me that again.”

7

THE FIVE-DIMENSIONAL DOOR

MADAME DOROTHEA’S APARTMENT SEEMED TO HAVE ROUGHLY the same layout as Clary’s, though she’d made a very different use of the space. The entryway, reeking of incense, was hung with bead curtains and astrological posters. One showed the constellations of the zodiac, another a guide to Chinese magical symbols, and another showed a hand with fingers spread, each line on the palm carefully labeled. Above the hand Latinate script spelled out the words In Manibus Fortuna. Narrow shelves holding stacked books ran along the wall beside the door.

One of the bead curtains rattled, and Madame Dorothea poked her head through. “Interested in chiromancy?” she said, noting Clary’s gaze. “Or just nosy?”

“Neither,” Clary said. “Can you really tell fortunes?”

“My mother had a great talent. She could see a man’s future in his hand or the leaves at the bottom of his teacup. She taught me some of her tricks.” She transferred her gaze to Jace. “Speaking of tea, young man, would you like some?”

“What?” Jace said, looking flustered.

“Tea. I find it both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea.”

“I’ll have tea,” Clary said, realizing how long it had been since she had eaten or drunk anything. She felt as if she’d been running on pure adrenaline since she woke up.

Jace succumbed. “All right. As long as it isn’t Earl Grey,” he added, wrinkling his fine-boned nose. “I hate bergamot.”

Madame Dorothea cackled loudly and disappeared back through the bead curtain, leaving it swaying gently behind her.

Clary raised her eyebrows at Jace. “You hate bergamot?”

Jace had wandered over to the narrow bookcase and was examining its contents. “You have a problem with that?”

“You may be the only guy my age I’ve ever met who knows what bergamot is, much less that it’s in Earl Grey tea.”

“Yes, well,” Jace said, with a supercilious look, “I’m not like other guys. Besides,” he added, flipping a book off the shelf, “at the Institute we have to take classes in basic medicinal uses for plants. It’s required.”

“I figured all your classes were stuff like Slaughter 101 and Beheading for Beginners.”

Jace flipped a page. “Very funny, Fray.”

Clary, who had been studying the palmistry poster, whirled on him. “Don’t call me that.”

He glanced up, surprised. “Why not? It’s your last name, isn’t it?”

The image of Simon rose up behind her eyes. Simon the last time she had seen him, staring after her as she ran out of Java Jones. She turned back to the poster, blinking. “No reason.”

“I see,” Jace said, and she could tell from his voice that he did see, more than she wanted him to. She heard him drop the book back onto the shelf. “This must be the trash she keeps up front to impress credible mundanes,” he said, sounding disgusted. “There’s not one serious text here.”

“Just because it’s not the kind of magic you do—” Clary began crossly.

He scowled furiously, silencing her. “I do not do magic,” he said. “Get it through your head: Human beings are not magic users. It’s part of what makes them human. Witches and warlocks can only use magic because they have demon blood.”

Clary took a moment to process this. “But I’ve seen you use magic. You use enchanted weapons—”

“I use tools that are magical. And just to be able to do that, I have to undergo rigorous training. The rune tattoos on my skin protect me too. If you tried to use one of the seraph blades, for instance, it’d probably burn your skin, maybe kill you.”

“What if I got the tattoos?” Clary asked. “Could I use them then?”

“No,” Jace said crossly. “The Marks are only part of it. There are tests, ordeals, levels of training—look, just forget it, okay? Stay away from my blades. In fact, don’t touch any of my weapons without my permission.”

“Well, there goes my plan for selling them all on eBay,” Clary muttered.

“Selling them on what?”

Clary smiled blandly at him. “A mythical place of great magical power.”

Jace looked confused, then shrugged. “Most myths are true, at least in part.”

“I’m starting to get that.”

The bead curtain rattled again, and Madame Dorothea’s head appeared. “Tea’s on the table,” she said. “There’s no need for you two to keep standing there like donkeys. Come into the parlor.”

“There’s a parlor?” Clary said.