“Simon…,” she whispered—then she heard the sharp two-tone beep that signaled that a text message had just arrived on her cell phone. The phone itself was lying folded on the bedside table; Clary picked it up and saw that the message was from Isabelle.
She flipped the phone open and scrolled hastily down to the text. She read it twice, just to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. Then she ran to the closet to get her coat.
“Jonathan.”
The voice spoke out of the blackness: slow, dark, familiar as pain. Jace blinked his eyes open and saw only darkness. He shivered. He was lying curled on the icy flagstone floor. He must have fainted. He felt a stab of fury at his own weakness, his own frailty.
He rolled onto his side, his torn wrist throbbing in its manacle. “Is anyone there?”
“Surely you recognize your own father, Jonathan.” The voice came again, and Jace did know it: its sound of old iron, its smooth near-tonelessness. He tried to scramble to his feet but his boots slipped on a puddle of something and he skidded backward, his shoulders hitting the stone wall hard. His chain rattled like a chorus of steel wind chimes.
“Are you hurt?” A light blazed upward, searing Jace’s eyes. He blinked away burning tears and saw Valentine standing on the other side of the bars, beside the corpse of Brother Jeremiah. A glowing witchlight stone in one hand cast a sharp whitish glow over the room. Jace could see the stains of old blood on the walls—and newer blood, a small lake of it, which had spilled from Jeremiah’s open mouth. He felt his stomach roil and clench, and thought of the black formless shape he’d seen before with eyes like burning jewels. “That thing,” he choked out. “Where is it? What was it?”
“You are hurt.” Valentine moved closer to the bars. “Who ordered you locked up here? Was it the Clave? The Lightwoods?”
“It was the Inquisitor.” Jace looked down at himself. There was more blood on his pants legs and on his shirt. He couldn’t tell if any of it was his. Blood was seeping slowly from beneath his manacle.
Valentine regarded him thoughtfully through the bars. It was the first time in years Jace had seen his father in real battle dress—the thick leather Shadowhunter clothes that allowed freedom of movement while protecting the skin from most kinds of demon venom; the electrum-plated braces on his arms and legs, each marked with a series of glyphs and runes. There was a wide strap across his chest and the hilt of a sword gleamed above his shoulder. He squatted down then, putting his cool black eyes on a level with Jace’s. Jace was surprised to see no anger in them. “The Inquisitor and the Clave are one and the same. And the Lightwoods should never have allowed this to happen. I would never have let anyone do this to you.”
Jace pressed his shoulders back against the wall; it was as far as his chain would let him get from his father. “Did you come down here to kill me?”
“Kill you? Why would I want to kill you?”
“Well, why did you kill Jeremiah? And don’t bother feeding me some story about how you just happened to wander along after he spontaneously died. I know you did this.”
For the first time Valentine glanced down at the body of Brother Jeremiah. “I did kill him, and the rest of the Silent Brothers as well. I had to. They had something I needed.”
“What? A sense of decency?”
“This,” said Valentine, and drew the Sword from his shoulder sheath in one swift movement. “Maellartach.”
Jace choked back the gasp of surprise that rose in his throat. He recognized it well enough: The huge, heavy-bladed silver Sword with the hilt in the shape of outspread wings was the one that hung above the Speaking Stars in the Silent Brothers’ council room. “You took the Silent Brothers’ sword?”
“It was never theirs,” Valentine said. “It belongs to all Nephilim. This is the blade with which the Angel drove Adam and Eve out of the garden. And he placed at the east of the garden of Eden cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way,” he quoted, gazing down at the blade.
Jace licked his dry lips. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you that,” said Valentine, “when I think I can trust you, and I know that you trust me.”
“Trust you? After the way you sneaked through the Portal at Renwick’s and smashed it so I couldn’t come after you? And the way you tried to kill Clary?”
“I would never have hurt your sister,” said Valentine, with a flash of anger. “Any more than I would hurt you.”
“All you’ve ever done is hurt me! It was the Lightwoods who protected me!”
“I’m not the one who locked you up here. I’m not the one who threatens and distrusts you. That’s the Lightwoods and their friends in the Clave.” Valentine paused. “Seeing you like this—how they’ve treated you, and yet you remain stoic—I’m proud of you.”
At that, Jace looked up in surprise, so quickly that he felt a wave of dizziness. His hand gave an insistent throb. He pushed the pain down and back until his breathing eased. “What?”
“I realize now what I did wrong at Renwick’s,” Valentine went on. “I was picturing you as the little boy I left behind in Idris, obedient to my every wish. Instead I found a headstrong young man, independent and courageous, yet I treated you as if you were still a child. No wonder you rebelled against me.”
“Rebelled? I—” Jace’s throat tightened, cutting off the words he wanted to say. His heart had begun pounding in rhythm with the throbbing in his hand.
Valentine pressed on. “I never had a chance to explain my past to you, to tell you why I’ve done the things I’ve done.”
“There’s nothing to explain. You killed my grandparents. You held my mother prisoner. You slew other Shadowhunters to further your own ends.” Every word in Jace’s mouth tasted like poison.
“You only know half the facts, Jonathan. I lied to you when you were a child because you were too young to understand. Now you are old enough to be told the truth.”
“So tell me the truth.”
Valentine reached through the bars of the cell and laid his hand on top of Jace’s. The rough, callused texture of his fingers felt exactly the way it had when Jace had been ten years old.
“I want to trust you, Jonathan,” he said. “Can I?”
Jace wanted to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. His chest felt as if an iron band was being slowly tightened around it, cutting off his breath by inches. “I wish…,” he whispered.
A noise sounded above them. A noise like the clang of a metal door; then Jace heard footsteps, whispers echoing off the City’s stone walls. Valentine started to his feet, closing his hand over the witchlight until it was only a dim glow and he himself was a faintly outlined shadow. “Quicker than I thought,” he murmured, and looked down at Jace through the bars.