The Mortal Instruments City Of Bones novel Chapter 37

He smiled unnervingly. “The answer is no. I mean, there may have been a time when one or the other of us considered it, but she’s almost a sister to me. It would be strange.”

“You mean Isabelle and you never—”

“Never,” said Jace.

“She hates me,” observed Clary.

“No, she doesn’t,” he said, to her surprise. “You just make her nervous, because she’s always been the only girl in a crowd of adoring boys, and now she isn’t anymore.”

“But she’s so beautiful.”

“So are you,” said Jace, “and very different from how she is, and she can’t help but notice that. She’s always wanted to be small and delicate, you know. She hates being taller than most boys.”

Clary said nothing to this, because she had nothing to say. Beautiful. He’d called her beautiful. Nobody had ever called her that before, except her mother, which didn’t count. Mothers were required to think you were beautiful. She stared at him.

“We should probably go downstairs,” he said again. She was sure she was making him uncomfortable with the staring, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop.

“All right,” she said finally. To her relief, her voice sounded normal. It was a further relief to look away from him as she turned around. The moon, directly overhead now, lit everything nearly to daylight brightness. In between one step and another she saw a white spark struck off something on the floor: It was the knife Jace had been using to cut apples, lying on its side. She jerked hastily back to avoid stepping on it, and her shoulder bumped his—he put a hand out to steady her, just as she turned to apologize, and then she was somehow in the circle of his arm and he was kissing her.

It was at first almost as if he hadn’t wanted to kiss her: His mouth was hard on hers, unyielding; then he put both arms around her and pulled her against him. His lips softened. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart, taste the sweetness of apples still on his mouth. She wound her hands into his hair, as she’d wanted to do since the first time she’d seen him. His hair curled around her fingers, silky and fine. Her heart was hammering, and there was a rushing sound in her ears, like beating wings—

Jace drew away from her with a muffled exclamation, though his arms were still around her. “Don’t panic, but we’ve got an audience.”

Clary turned her head. Perched on a nearby tree branch was Hugo, watching them beadily from bright black eyes. So the sound she’d heard had been wings rather than demented passion. That was disappointing.

“If he’s here, Hodge won’t be far behind,” said Jace under his breath. “We should go.”

“Is he spying on you?” Clary hissed. “Hodge, I mean.”

“No. He just likes to come up here to think. Too bad—we were having such a scintillating conversation.” He laughed soundlessly.

They made their way back downstairs the way they had come, but it felt like a different journey entirely to Clary. Jace kept her hand in his, sending tiny electrical shocks traveling up and down her veins from every point where he touched her: her fingers, her wrist, the palm of her hand. Her mind was buzzing with questions, but she was too afraid of breaking the mood to ask him any of them. He’d said “too bad,” so she guessed their evening was over, at least the kissing part.

They reached her door. She leaned against the wall beside it, looking up at him. “Thanks for the birthday picnic,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral.

He seemed reluctant to let go of her hand. “Are you going to sleep?”

He’s just being polite, she told herself. Then again, this was Jace. He was never polite. She decided to answer the question with a question. “Aren’t you tired?”

His voice was low. “I’ve never been more awake.”

He bent to kiss her, cupping her face with his free hand. Their lips touched, lightly at first, and then with a stronger pressure. It was at precisely that moment that Simon threw open the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall.

He was blinking and tousle-haired and without his glasses, but he could see well enough. “What the hell?” he demanded, so loudly that Clary leaped away from Jace as if his touch burned her.

“Simon! What are you—I mean, I thought you were—”

“Asleep? I was,” he said. The tops of his cheekbones had flushed dark red through his tan, the way they always did when he was embarrassed or upset. “Then I woke up and you weren’t there, so I thought …”

Clary couldn’t think of a thing to say. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that this might happen? Why hadn’t she said they should go to Jace’s room? The answer was as simple as it was awful: She had forgotten about Simon completely.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sure whom she was even speaking to. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw Jace shoot her a look of white rage—but when she glanced at him, he looked as he always did: easy, confident, slightly bored.

“In future, Clarissa,” he said, “it might be wise to mention that you already have a man in your bed, to avoid such tedious situations.”

“You invited him into bed?” Simon demanded, looking shaken.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” said Jace. “We would never have all fit.”

“I didn’t invite him into bed,” Clary snapped. “We were just kissing.”

“Just kissing?” Jace’s tone mocked her with its false hurt. “How swiftly you dismiss our love.”

“Jace …”

She saw the bright malice in his eyes and trailed off. There was no point. Her stomach felt suddenly heavy. “Simon, it’s late,” she said tiredly. “I’m sorry we woke you up.”

“So am I.” He stalked back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Jace’s smile was as bland as buttered toast. “Go on, go after him. Pat his head and tell him he’s still your super special little guy. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

“Stop it,” she said. “Stop being like that.”

His smile widened. “Like what?”

“If you’re angry, just say it. Don’t act like nothing ever touches you. It’s like you never feel anything at all.”