Cassandra Clare - City of Fallen Angels

“I hope this isn’t just because of Jace,” Jocelyn had said finally. “I know how it is when you’re in love with someone. You want to be where they are and do what they do, but Clary—”

“I am not you,” Clary had said, struggling to control her anger, “the Shadowhunters aren’t the Circle, and Jace isn’t Valentine.”

“I didn’t say anything about Valentine.”

“It’s what you were thinking,” Clary had said. “Maybe Valentine brought Jace up, but Jace isn’t anything like him.”

“Well, I hope not,” Jocelyn had said softly. “For all our sakes.” Eventually she had given in, but with some rules:

Clary wasn’t to live in the Institute but with her mother at Luke’s; Jocelyn got weekly progress reports from Maryse to assure her that Clary was learning and not just, Clary supposed, ogling Jace all day, or whatever she was worried about. And Clary wasn’t to spend the night at the Institute—ever. “No sleepovers where your boyfriend lives,” Jocelyn had said firmly. “I don’t care if it is the Institute. No.”

Boyfriend. It was still a shock, hearing the word. For so long it had seemed a total impossibility that Jace would ever be her boyfriend, that they could ever be anything to each other at all but brother and sister, and that had been too hard and horrible to face. Never seeing each other again, they had decided, would have been better than that, and that would have been like dying. And then, by a miracle, they had been set free. Now it had been six weeks, but Clary wasn’t tired of the word yet.

“I have to get home,” she said. “It’s almost eleven, and my mom freaks if I stay here past ten.”

“All right.” Jace dropped his gear, or at least the top half of it, onto the bench. He wore a thin T-shirt underneath; Clary could see his Marks through it, like ink bleeding through wet paper. “I’ll walk you out.”

The Institute was quiet as they passed through. There were no visiting Shadowhunters from other cities staying right now. Robert, Isabelle and Alec’s father, was in Idris helping set up the new Council, and with Hodge and Max gone forever, and Alec away with Magnus, Clary felt as if the remaining occupants were like guests in a mostly empty hotel. She wished other members of the Conclave would come around more often, but she supposed everyone was giving the Lightwoods time at the moment. Time to remember Max, and time to forget.

“So have you heard from Alec and Magnus lately?” she asked. “Are they having a good time?”

“Sounds like it.” Jace took his phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Alec keeps sending me annoying photos. Lots of captions like Wish you were here, except not really.”

“Well, you can’t blame him. It’s supposed to be a romantic vacation.” She flipped through the photos on Jace’s phone and giggled. Alec and Magnus standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Alec wearing jeans as usual and Magnus wearing a striped fisherman’s sweater, leather pants, and an insane beret. In the Boboli Gardens, Alec was still wearing jeans, and Magnus was wearing an enormous Venetian cloak and a gondolier’s hat. He looked like the Phantom of the Opera. In front of the Prado he was wearing a sparkling matador jacket and platform boots, while Alec appeared to be calmly feeding a pigeon in the background.

“I’m taking that away from you before you get to the India part,” said Jace, retrieving his phone. “Magnus in a sari. Some things you don’t ever forget.”

Clary laughed. They had already reached the elevator, which opened its rattling gate when Jace pushed the call button. She stepped inside, and Jace followed her. The moment the elevator started down—Clary didn’t think she’d ever get used to the initial heart-stopping lurch as it began its descent—he moved toward Clary in the dimness, and drew her close. She put her hands against his chest, feeling the hard muscles under his T-shirt, the beat of his heart beneath them. In the shadowy light his eyes shone. “I’m sorry I can’t stay,” she whispered.

“Don’t be sorry.” There was a ragged edge to his voice that surprised her. “Jocelyn doesn’t want you to turn out like me. I don’t blame her for that.”

“Jace,” she said, a little bewildered by the bitterness in his voice, “are you all right?”

Instead of answering he kissed her, pulling her hard against him. His body pressed hers against the wall, the metal of the mirror cold against her back, his hands sliding around her waist, up under her sweater. She always loved the way he held her. Careful, but not too gentle, not so gentle that she ever felt he was more in control than she was. Neither of them could control how they felt about each other, and she liked that, liked the way his heart hammered against hers, liked the way he murmured against her mouth when she kissed him back.

The elevator came to a rattling stop, and the gate opened. Beyond it, she could see the empty nave of the cathedral, light shimmering in a line of candelabras down the center aisle. She clung to Jace, glad there was very little light in the elevator so she couldn’t see her own burning face in the mirror.

“Maybe I can stay,” she whispered. “Just a little while longer.”

He said nothing. She could feel the tension in him, and tensed herself. It was more than just the tension of desire. He was shaking, his whole body trembling as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

“Jace,” she said.

He let go of her then, suddenly, and stepped back. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes fever-bright. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to give your mother another reason not to like me. She already thinks I’m the second coming of my father—”

He broke off, before Clary could say, Valentine wasn’t your father. Jace was usually so careful to refer to Valentine Morgenstern by name, never as “my father”—when he mentioned Valentine at all. Usually they stayed away from the topic, and Clary had never admitted to Jace that her mother worried that he was secretly just like Valentine, knowing that even the suggestion would hurt him badly. Mostly Clary just did everything she could to keep the two of them apart.

He reached past her before she could say anything, and yanked open the elevator gate. “I love you, Clary,” he said without looking at her. He was staring out into the church, at the rows of lighted candles, their gold reflected in his eyes. “More than I ever—” He broke off. “God. More than I probably should. You know that, don’t you?”

She stepped outside the elevator and turned to face him. There were a thousand things she wanted to say, but he was already looking away from her, pushing the button that would bring the elevator back up to the Institute floors. She started to protest, but the elevator was already moving, the doors closing as it rattled its way back up. They shut with a click, and she stared at them for a moment; the Angel was painted on their surface, wings outspread, eyes raised. The Angel was painted on everything.

Her voice echoed harshly in the empty room when she spoke. “I love you, too,” she said.

“You know what’s awesome?” said Eric, setting down hisdrumsticks. “Having a vampire in our band. This is the thing that’s really going to take us over the top.”

Kirk, lowering the microphone, rolled his eyes. Eric was always talking about taking the band over the top, and so far nothing had ever actually materialized. The best they’d ever done was a gig at the Knitting Factory, and only four people had come to that. And one of them had been Simon’s mom. “I don’t see how it can take us over the top if we’re not allowed to tell anyone he’s a vampire.”