Cassandra Clare: City of Ashes

"There's nothing to know," said Luke, the tiredness in his eyes creeping into his voice.

Freaky Pete spoke, his voice a bass rumble. "He said the Clave wouldn't care about the death of a single lycanthrope, even a child. And it's a week after the Accords, Luke."

"Jace doesn't speak for the Clave," said Luke, "and there's nothing he could have done even if he'd wanted to. Isn't that right?"

He looked at Jace, who was very pale. "How do you—"

"I know what happened," said Luke. "With Maryse."

Jace stiffened, and for a moment Maia saw through the Daniel-like savage amusement to what was underneath, and it was dark and agonized and reminded her more of her own eyes in the mirror than of her brother's. "Who told you? Clary?"

"Not Clary." Maia had never heard Luke speak that name before, but he said it with a tone that implied that this was someone special to him, and to the Shadowhunter boy as well. "I'm the pack leader, Jace. I hear things. Now come on. Let's go to Pete's office and talk."

Jace hesitated for a moment before shrugging. "Fine," he said, "but you owe me for the Scotch I didn't drink."

"That was my last guess," Clary said with a defeated sigh, sinking down onto the steps outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art and staring disconsolately down Fifth Avenue.

"It was a good one." Simon sat down beside her, long legs sprawled out in front of him. "I mean, he's a guy who likes weapons and killing, so why not the biggest collection of weapons in the whole city? And I'm always up for a visit to Arms and Armor, anyway. Gives me ideas for my campaign."

She looked at him in surprise. "You still gaming with Eric and Kirk and Matt?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I thought gaming might have lost some of its appeal for you since…" Since our real lives started to resemble one of your campaigns . Complete with good guys, bad guys, really nasty magic, and important enchanted objects you had to find if you wanted to win the game.

Except in a game, the good guys always won, defeated the bad guys and came home with the treasure. Whereas in real life, they'd lost the treasure, and sometimes Clary still wasn't clear on who the bad and good guys actually were.

She looked at Simon and felt a wave of sadness. If he did give up gaming, it would be her fault, just like everything that had happened to him in the past weeks had been her fault. She remembered his white face at the sink that morning, just before he'd kissed her.

"Simon—," she began.

"Right now I'm playing a half-troll cleric who wants revenge on the Orcs who killed his family," he said cheerfully. "It's awesome."

She laughed just as her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and flipped it open; it was Luke. "We didn't find him," she said, before he could say hello.

"No. But I did."

She sat up straight. "You're kidding. Is he there? Can I talk to him?" She caught sight of Simon looking at her sharply and dropped her voice. "Is he all right?"

"Mostly."

"What do you mean, mostly?"

"He picked a fight with a werewolf pack. He's got some cuts and bruises."

Clary half-closed her eyes. Why, oh why, had Jace picked a fight with a pack of wolves? What had possessed him? Then again, it was Jace. He'd pick a fight with a Mack truck if the urge took him.

"I think you should come down here," Luke said. "Someone has to reason with him and I'm not having much luck."

"Where are you?" Clary asked.

He told her. A bar called the Hunter's Moon on Hester Street. She wondered if it was glamoured. Flipping her phone shut, she turned to Simon, who was staring at her with raised eyebrows.

"The prodigal returns?"

"Sort of." She scrambled to her feet and stretched her tired legs, mentally calculating how long it would take them to get to Chinatown on the train and whether it was worth shelling out the pocket money Luke had given her for a cab. Probably not, she decided—if they got stuck in traffic, it would take longer than the subway.

"…come with you?" Simon finished, standing up. He was on the step below her, which made them almost the same height. "What do you think?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again quickly. "Er…"

He sounded resigned. "You haven't heard a word I said these past two minutes, have you?"

"No," she admitted. "I was thinking about Jace. It sounded like he was in bad shape. Sorry."

His brown eyes darkened. "I take it you're rushing off to bind up his wounds?"

"Luke asked me to come down," she said. "I was hoping you'd come with me."

Simon kicked at the step above his with a booted foot. "I will, but—why? Can't Luke return Jace to the Institute without your help?"

"Probably. But he thinks Jace might be willing to talk to me about what's going on first."

"I thought maybe we could do something tonight," Simon said. "Something fun. See a movie. Get dinner downtown."

She looked at him. In the distance, she could hear water splashing into a museum fountain. She thought of the kitchen at his house, his damp hands in her hair, but it all seemed very far away, even though she could picture it—the way you might remember the photograph of an incident without really remembering the incident itself any longer.

"He's my brother," she said. "I have to go."

Simon looked as if he were too weary to even sigh. "Then I'll go with you."

The back office of Hunter's Moon was down a narrow corridor strewn with sawdust. Here and there the sawdust was churned up by footsteps and spotted with a dark liquid that didn't look like beer. The whole place smelled smoky and gamy, a little like—Clary had to admit it, though she wouldn't have said so to Luke—wet dog.

"He's not in a very good mood," said Luke, pausing in front of a closed door. "I shut him up in Freaky Pete's office after he nearly killed half my pack with his bare hands. He wouldn't talk to me, so"—Luke shrugged—"I thought of you." He looked from Clary's baffled face to Simon's. "What?"

"I can't believe he came here ," Clary said.

"I can't believe you know someone named Freaky Pete," said Simon.

"I know a lot of people," said Luke. "Not that Freaky Pete is strictly people, but I'm hardly one to talk." He swung the office door wide. Inside was a plain room, windowless, the walls hung with sports pennants. There was a paper-strewn desk weighted down with a small TV set, and behind it, in a chair whose leather was so cracked it looked like veined marble, was Jace.

The moment the door opened, Jace seized up a yellow pencil lying on the desk and threw it. It sailed through the air and struck the wall just next to Luke's head, where it stuck, vibrating. Luke's eyes widened.

Jace smiled faintly. "Sorry, I didn't realize it was you."

Clary felt her heart contract. She hadn't seen Jace in days, and he looked different somehow—not just the bloody face and bruises, which were clearly new, but the skin on his face seemed tighter, the bones more prominent.

Luke indicated Simon and Clary with a wave of his hand. "I brought some people to see you."

Jace's eyes moved to them. They were as blank as if they had been painted on. "Unfortunately," he said, "I only had the one pencil."

"Jace—," Luke started.

"I don't want him in here." Jace jerked his chin toward Simon.

"That's hardly fair." Clary was indignant. Had he forgotten that Simon had saved Alec's life, possibly all their lives?

"Out, mundane," said Jace, pointing to the door.

Simon waved a hand. "It's fine. I'll wait in the hallway." He left, refraining from banging the door shut behind him, though Clary could tell he wanted to.

She turned back to Jace. "Do you have to be so—," she began, but stopped when she saw his face. It looked stripped down, oddly vulnerable.