For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,
and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
Jordan stared blindly at the poem tacked to the wall of his bedroom. It was an old print that he'd found in a used-book store, the words surrounded by an elaborate border of leaves. The poem was by Rudyard Kipling, and it so neatly encapsulated the rules by which werewolves lived, the Law that bound their actions, that he wondered if Kipling hadn't been a Downworlder himself, or at least known about the Accords. Jordan had felt compelled to buy the print and stick it up on his wall, though he'd never been one for poetry.
He'd been pacing his apartment for the last hour, sometimes taking his phone out to see if Maia had texted, in between bouts of opening the refrigerator and staring into it to see if anything worth eating had appeared. It hadn't, but he didn't want to go out to get food in case she came to the apartment while he was out. He also took a shower, cleaned up the kitchen, tried to watch TV and failed, and started the process of organizing all his DVDs by color.
He was restless. Restless in the way he sometimes got before the full moon, knowing the Change was coming, feeling the pull of the tides in his blood. But the moon was waning, not waxing, and it wasn't the Change making him feel like crawling out of his skin. It was Maia. It was being without her, after almost two solid days in her company, never more than a few feet away from her.
She'd gone without him to the police station, saying that now wasn't the time to upset the pack with a nonmember, even though Luke was healing. There was no need for Jordan to come, she'd argued, since all she had to do was ask Luke if it was all right for Simon and Magnus to visit the farm tomorrow, and then she'd call up to the farm and warn any of the pack who might be staying up there to clear off the property. She was right, Jordan knew. There was no reason for him to go with her, but the moment she was gone, the restlessness kicked up inside him. Was she leaving because she was sick of being with him? Had she rethought and decided she'd been right about him before? And what was going on between them? Were they dating? Maybe you should have asked her before you slept together, genius, he told himself, and realized he was standing in front of the refrigerator again. Its contents hadn't changed-bottles of blood, a defrosting pound of ground beef, and a dented apple.
The key turned in the front door lock, and he jumped away from the refrigerator, spinning around. He looked down at himself. He was barefoot, in jeans and an old T-shirt. Why hadn't he taken the time while she'd been away to shave, look better, put on some cologne or something? He ran his hands quickly through his hair as Maia came into the living room, dropping his spare set of keys onto the coffee table. She had changed clothes, into a soft pink sweater and jeans. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her lips red and her eyes bright. He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt.
Instead he swallowed. "So-how did it go?"
"Fine. Magnus can use the farm. I already texted him." She strolled over to him and leaned her elbows on the counter. "I also told Luke what Raphael said about Maureen. I hope that's okay."
Jordan was puzzled. "Why'd you think he needed to know?"
She seemed to deflate. "Oh, God. Don't tell me I was supposed to keep it a secret."
"No-I was just wondering-"
"Well, if there really is a rogue vampire cutting her way through Lower Manhattan, the pack should know. It's their territory. Besides, I wanted his advice about whether we should tell Simon or not."
"What about my advice?" He was playing at sounding hurt, but there was a little part of him that meant it. They'd discussed it before, whether Jordan should tell his assignment that Maureen was out there and killing, or whether it would just be another burden to add to everything Simon was dealing with now. Jordan had come down on the side of not telling him-what could he do about it, anyway?-but Maia hadn't been so sure.
She jumped up on top of the counter and swung around to face him. Even sitting down, she was taller than him this way, her brown eyes sparkling down into his. "I wanted grown-up advice."
He grabbed hold of her swinging legs and ran his hands up the seams of her jeans. "I'm eighteen-not grown-up enough for you?"
She put her hands on his shoulders and flexed them, as if testing his muscles. "Well, you've definitely grown..."
He pulled her down from the counter, catching her around the waist and kissing her. Fire sizzled up and down his veins as she kissed him back, her body melting against his. He slid his hands up into her hair, knocking her knitted cap off and letting her curls spring free. He kissed her neck as she pulled his shirt up over his head and ran her hands all over him-shoulders, back, arms, purring in her throat like a cat. He felt like a helium balloon-high from kissing her, and light with relief. So she wasn't done with him after all.
"Jordy," she said. "Wait."
She almost never called him that, unless it was serious. His heartbeat, already wild, speeded up further. "What's wrong?"
"It's just-if every time we see each other, we fall into bed-and I know I started it, I'm not blaming you or anything-It's just that maybe we should talk."
He stared at her, at her big dark eyes, the fluttery pulse in her throat, the flush on her cheeks. With an effort he spoke evenly. "Okay. What do you want to talk about?"
She just looked at him. After a moment she shook her head and said, "Nothing." She locked her hands behind his head and pulled him close, kissing him hard, fitting her body against his. "Nothing at all."
Clary didn't know how long it was before Jace came out of the bathroom, toweling off his wet hair. She looked up at him from where she was still sitting on the edge of the bed. He was sliding a blue cotton T-shirt on over smooth golden skin marked with white scars.
She darted her eyes away as he came across the room and sat down next to her on the bed, smelling strongly of soap.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Now she did look at him, in surprise. She had wondered if he were capable of being sorry, in his current state. His expression was grave, a little curious, but not insincere.
"Wow," she said. "That cold shower must have been brutal."
His lips quirked up at the side, but his expression grew serious again almost immediately. He put his hand under her chin. "I shouldn't have pushed you. It's just-ten weeks ago, just holding each other would have been unthinkable."
"I know."
He cupped her face in his hands, his long fingers cool against her cheeks, tilting her face up. He was looking down at her, and everything about him was so familiar-the pale gold irises of his eyes, the scar on his cheek, the full lower lip, the slight chip in his tooth that saved his looks from being so perfect that they were annoying-and yet somehow it was like coming back to a house she had lived in as a child, and knowing that though the exterior might look the same, a different family lived there now. "I never cared," he said. "I wanted you anyway. I always wanted you. Nothing mattered to me but you. Not ever."
Clary swallowed. Her stomach fluttered, not just with the usual butterflies she felt around Jace but with real uneasiness.
"But Jace. That's not true. You cared about your family. And-I always thought you were proud of being Nephilim. One of the angels."
"Proud?" he said. "To be half angel, half human-you're always conscious of your own inadequacy. You're not an angel. You're not beloved of Heaven. Raziel doesn't care about us. We can't even pray to him. We pray to nothing. We pray for nothing. Remember when I told you I thought I had demon blood, because it explained why I felt the way I did about you? It was a relief in a way, thinking that. I've never been an angel, never even close. Well," he added. "Maybe the fallen kind."
"Fallen angels are demons."