Cassandra Clare: City of Ashes

"It's been here as long as I have," said Jace, as the door clanged shut behind them. The ride up was brief, and none of them spoke. Clary played nervously with the fringe of her scarf. She felt a little guilty about having told Simon to go home and wait for her to call him later. She had seen from the annoyed set of his shoulders as he stalked off down Canal Street that he'd felt summarily dismissed. Still, she couldn't imagine having him—a mundane—here while Luke petitioned Maryse Lightwood on Jace's behalf; it would just make everything awkward.

The elevator came to a clanging stop and they stepped out to find Church waiting for them in the entryway, a slightly dilapidated red bow around his neck. Jace bent to rub the back of his hand along the cat's head. "Where's Maryse?"

Church made a noise in his throat, halfway between a purr and a growl, and headed off down the corridor. They followed, Jace silent, Luke glancing around with evident curiosity. "I never thought I'd see the inside of this place."

Clary asked, "Does it look like you thought it would?"

"I've been to the Institutes in London and Paris; this is not unlike those, no. Though somehow—"

"Somehow what?" Jace was several strides ahead.

"Colder," said Luke.

Jace said nothing. They had reached the library. Church sat down as if to indicate that he planned to go no farther. Voices were faintly audible through the thick wooden door, but Jace pushed it open without knocking and strode inside.

Clary heard a voice exclaim in surprise. For a moment her heart contracted as she thought of Hodge, who had all but lived in this room. Hodge, with his gravelly voice, and Hugin, the raven who was his almost constant companion—and who had, at Hodge's orders, nearly ripped out her eyes.

It wasn't Hodge, of course. Behind the enormous mahogany plank desk that balanced on the backs of two kneeling stone angels sat a middle-aged woman with Isabelle's ink black hair and Alec's thin, wiry build. She wore a neat black suit, very plain, in contrast to the multiple brightly colored rings that burned on her fingers.

Beside her stood another figure: a slender teenage boy, slightly built, with curling dark hair and honey-colored skin. As he turned to look at them, Clary couldn't hold back an exclamation of surprise. "Raphael?"

For a moment the boy looked taken aback. Then he smiled, his teeth very white and sharp—not surprising, considering that he was a vampire. " Dios ," he said, addressing himself to Jace. "What happened to you, brother? You look as if a pack of wolves tried to tear you apart."

"That's either a shockingly good guess," said Jace, "or you heard about what happened."

Raphael's smile turned into a grin. "I hear things."

The woman behind the desk rose to her feet. "Jace," she said, her voice full of anxiety. "Did something happen? Why are you back so soon? I thought you were going to stay with—" Her gaze moved past him to Luke and Clary. "And who are you?"

"Jace's sister," Clary said. Maryse's eyes rested on Clary. "Yes, I can see it. You look like Valentine." She turned back to Jace. "You brought your sister with you? And a mundane, as well? It's not safe for any of you here right now. And especially a mundane—"

Luke, smiling faintly, said, "But I'm not a mundane." Maryse's expression changed slowly from bewilderment to shock as she looked at Luke— really looked at him—for the first time. " Lucian ?"

"Hello, Maryse," said Luke. "It's been a long time."

Maryse's face was very still, and in that moment she looked suddenly much older, older even than Luke. She sat down carefully. "Lucian," she said again, her hands flat on the desk. "Lucian Graymark."

Raphael, who had been watching the proceedings with the bright, curious gaze of a bird, turned to Luke. "You killed Gabriel."

Who was Gabriel ? Clary stared at Luke, puzzled. He gave a slight shrug. "I did, yes, just like he killed the pack leader before him. That's how it works with lycanthropes."

Maryse looked up at that. "The pack leader?"

"If you lead the pack now, it's time for us to talk," said Raphael, inclining his head graciously in Luke's direction, though his eyes were wary. "Though not at this exact moment; perhaps."

"I'll send someone over to arrange it," said Luke. "Things have been busy lately. I might be behind on the niceties."

"You might," was all that Raphael said. He turned back to Maryse. "Is our business here concluded?"

Maryse spoke with an effort. "If you say the Night Children aren't involved in these killings, then I'll take you at your word. I'm required to, unless other evidence comes to light."

Raphael frowned. "To light?" he said. "That is not a phrase I like." He turned then, and Clary saw with a start that she could see through the edges of him, as if he were a photograph that had blurred around the margins. His left hand was transparent, and through it she could see the big metal globe Hodge had always kept on the desk. She heard herself make a little noise of surprise as the transparency spread up his arms from his hands—and down his chest from his shoulders, and in a moment he was gone, like a figure erased from a sketch. Maryse exhaled a sigh of relief.

Clary gaped. "Is he dead ?"

"What, Raphael?" said Jace. "Not likely. That was just a projection of him. He can't come into the Institute in his corporeal body."

"Why not?"

"Because this is hallowed ground," said Maryse. "And he is damned." Her wintry eyes lost none of their coldness when she turned her glance on Luke. "You, head of the pack here?" she asked. "I suppose I should hardly be surprised. It does seem to be your method, doesn't it?"

Luke ignored the bitterness in her tone. "Was Raphael here about the cub who was killed today?"

"That, and a dead warlock," Maryse said. "Found murdered downtown, two days apart."

"But why was Raphael here?"

"The warlock was drained of blood," said Maryse. "It seems that whoever murdered the werewolf was interrupted before the blood could be taken, but suspicion naturally fell on the Night Children. The vampire came here to assure me his folk had nothing to do with it."

"Do you believe him?" Jace said.

"I don't care to talk about Clave business with you right now, Jace—especially not in front of Lucian Graymark."

"I'm just called Luke now," Luke said placidly. "Luke Garroway."

Maryse shook her head. "I hardly recognized you. You look like a mundane."

"That's the idea, yes."

"We all thought you were dead."

"Hoped," said Luke, still placidly. "Hoped I was dead."

Maryse looked as if she'd swallowed something sharp. "You might as well sit down," she said finally, pointing toward the chairs in front of the desk. "Now," said Maryse, once they'd taken their seats, "perhaps you might tell me why you're here."

"Jace," said Luke, without preamble, "wants a trial before the Clave. I'm willing to vouch for him. I was there that night at Renwick's, when Valentine revealed himself. I fought him and we nearly killed each other. I can confirm that everything Jace says happened is the truth."

"I'm not sure," countered Maryse, "what your word is worth."

"I may be a lycanthrope," said Luke, "but I'm also a Shadowhunter. I'm willing to be tried by the Sword, if that will help."

By the Sword ? That sounded bad. Clary looked over at Jace. He was outwardly calm, his fingers laced together in his lap, but there was a shuddering tension about him, as if he were a hairsbreadth from exploding. He caught her look and said, "The Soul-Sword. The second of the Mortal Instruments. It's used in trials to determine if a Shadowhunter is lying."

"You're not a Shadowhunter," said Maryse to Luke, as if Jace hadn't spoken. "You haven't lived by the Law of the Clave in a long, long time."