City of Bones
By: Cassandra Clare
City of Bones by Cassandra Clare takes place in modern day New York, in Manhattan Island. The main character is a young girl named Clary, who is involuntarily sucked into a world that she never knew existed. It is the world of the Nephilim. The Nephilim are a group of warriors who battle demons and call themselves Shadowhunters. Shadowhunters are everywhere and worldwide.
The home of the Shadowhunters is Idris. Its location is not generally shown on a map because everything is hidden by glamour. However, all that changes on the night that Clary and her best friend Simon go to the Pandemonium Club. There, Clary experienced an incident that changed her life forever. She found out that she had the Sight, or the ability to see things through glamour.
She soon found out what she really was: A Shadowhunter. Since her mother was living as a Shadowhunter in exile, Clary still possessed the blood and potential of a Shadowhunter. Clary went on several adventures with the Nephilim that she met at the club that particular evening; Jace, Alec, and Isabelle. But mainly, Jace.
Their adventures take them everywhere, especially when they're trying to unveil what an old enemy of the Nephilim, Valentine, wants with the Mortal Cup, one of the instruments that are part of the Mortal Instruments which were given to the first Shadowhunter by the Angel Raziel. However, after all their adventures, they just find themselves deeper and deeper into the mystery of who Valentine is and what he intends on doing.
Chapter 23: Valentine
Jace's PoV (originally Clary's; starts from Paragraph 59)
Jace jerked his hand back. He couldn't believe the words that had just come out of his father's mouth. He couldn't believe that Clary—the girl he loved more than anything else in the world, the girl who looked at him with anything other than disgust—was his sister. He accidentally tipped the wineglass, and it leaned over, spilling frothing scarlet liquid across the otherwise white tablecloth.
"Jonathan," said his father. He was looking at his son in a reprimanding way. Jace knew exactly what his father was saying. He shouldn't be reacting like this. No; Valentine had taught him better than that. He was supposed to remain stoic, as if the sudden news had no affect on him.
But still. Jace could not believe it. There was no way—no complete way—that Clary was his sister. And Jace simply refused to believe it. Jace's face had gone an awful, greenish white color. Disbelief was spilling through him like the rapidity of a river. "That's not true," he said. "There's been a mistake. It couldn't possibly be true."
Valentine looked at his son with a steady gaze. Jace immediately felt like he wanted to shut himself up in a closet and never come out again. He didn't want to face the truth that Clary was his sister. He didn't want to believe it. And he couldn't believe that his father would drop a bombshell on him, especially something as big as this.
"A cause for rejoicing," Valentine said in a low voice, "I would have thought. Yesterday, you were an orphan, Jonathan. And now a father, a mother, a sister, you never knew you had."
"It. Isn't. Possible," Jace said again, in a slow, steady staccato. "Clary isn't my sister," he continued, panic rushing into his voice. "If she were…"
Valentine cut his son off abruptly with his soft yet booming voice. "Then what?" he asked his son.
Jace didn't reply. He was simply too sick with the thought of Clary being his sister. He seemed absolutely nauseous and looked like he was about to throw up.
Clary unexpectedly snapped him out of his thoughts. She stumbled around the table and knelt beside him, looking at him with pleading eyes.
She was too close for Jace. Too close. He didn't think that he could stand this close to her without holding her in his arms. All he wanted to do at the moment was wake up and think that this was all a monstrous nightmare. He wanted to pray this was all a dream. He wanted to hold Clary close and whisper calming things to her. Actually, that wasn't even accurate enough for him. He just wanted her. He wanted her.
"Jace—," she said in a voice so soft and as smooth as velvet.
Jace jerked away from her. He didn't want her to comfort him. He felt bad enough on the inside; thinking that he can't be with her now that she was his sister. He knotted his fingers in the sodden tablecloth. "Don't," he hissed sharply.
Jace sat silently in his chair as Clary and Valentine shared hateful glares. Jace would gladly ask why—his curiosity always took the better of him in these kinds of situations—but he was not in the mood. Jace was still trying to recover from the news. It crushed him inside out, and he hoped that Clary didn't notice. If she asked, it would just add more pain to his heavily laden heart.
However, Jace had enough courage to speak. "Tell me it's not true," Jace said, despite the burning he felt in his throat. He tried not to look at Clary as he said the words to her.
Clary swallowed hard and shook her head, her red curls flying everywhere. "I can't do that," she said somewhat apologetically.
"So you admit now that I've been telling the truth all this time?" Valentine said to Clary, his voice oozing with what felt like poison.
"No." Clary shot another murderous glare at Jace's father. The father that they shared. "You're telling lies with a little bit of the truth mixed in, is all."
"This grows tiresome," said Valentine. "If you want to hear the truth, Clarissa, this is the truth. You have heard stories of the Uprising and so you think I am a villain. Is that correct?"
Clary didn't say anything. Though he wasn't looking at her, Jace could feel Clary's gaze linger on him. He didn't want her doing that. He just felt sicker and sicker by the minute.
Jace just glanced at his father, who continued despite Clary's silence. "It is simple, really. The story you heard was true in some of its parts, but in others—lies mixed with a little truth, as you said. The fact is that Michael Wayland is not and has never been Jace's father. Wayland was killed during the Uprising. I assumed Michael's name and place when I fled to Glass City with my son. It was easy enough; Wayland had no real relations, and his closest friends, the Lightwoods, were in exile. He himself would have been in disgrace for his part in the Uprising, so I lived that disgraced life, quietly enough, alone with Jace on the Waylands' estate. I read my books. I raised my son. And I bided my time." Jace watched as his father touched the edge of the glass carefully, with his left hand. He was, after all, left-handed, like Jace himself.
"Ten years on, I received a letter. The writer of the letter indicated that he knew my true identity, and if I were not prepared to take certain steps, he would reveal it. I did not know who the letter was from, but it did not matter. I was not prepared to give the writer of it what he wanted. Besides, I knew my safety was compromised, and would be unless he thought me dead, beyond his reach. I staged my death a second time, with the help of Blackwell and Pangborn, and for Jace's own safety made sure that my son would be sent here, to the protection of the Lightwoods." Valentine finally finished with a deep breath.
Jace couldn't take any more. But he knew that he should not speak out against his father because—dare he admit—he loved his father. Even though he knew that it was wrong of his father to let his own son think him dead, he still held a deep respect for his father. He could not dare contradict him. But apparently, Clary did.
"So you let Jace think you were dead? You just let him think you were dead, all these years? That's despicable," Clary said with such distaste, she nearly spat on Valentine.
"Don't," Jace spoke once more. He covered his face with his hands so they could not see the tears welling up in his eyes. He did not want his father see him like this or Clary. When he spoke, his voice sounded muffled. "Don't Clary," he repeated, feeling his heart contract.
Jace peaked through his fingers and saw his father smile at him. Jace should've felt proud. But he didn't. He didn't feel one ounce of pride at all. He felt sick and horrible. But he did not say anything for fear that he might offend his father. No, he did not want that to happen. The results could be disastrous.
"Jonathan had to think I was dead, yes," continued Valentine with that pompous smile. "He had to think he was Michael Wayland's son, or the Lightwoods would not have protected him as they did. It was Michael they owed a debt to, not me. It was on Michael's account that they loved him, not mine."
Jace's heavy heart felt heavier and heavier by the minute. He always considered the Lightwoods as his second family. He loved Maryse and Robert and Alec and Isabelle and even little Max… He loved them all like they were his own brother and sister. To think that they did not love him for him but because he was the son of Michael Wayland was unbearable. He didn't want to think of it.
"Maybe they loved him on his own account," Clary interjected, as if reading Jace's thoughts.
"A commendably sentimental interpretation," said Valentine, "but unlikely. You do not know the Lightwoods as I once did."
Jace flinched involuntarily and felt a shiver run down his spine. But instead of the reaction he expected from Valentine—he thought that Valentine would ask if he is all right—he did nothing and just ignored it.
"It hardly matters, in the end," Valentine continued. "The Lightwoods were intended as protection for Jace, not as a replacement family, you see. He has a family. He has a father."
And a mother and a sister, Jace thought mournfully. A mother who left me when I was a baby and a sister that I didn't even know of. There was a hitch in his breath, and an odd noise came from his throat. He finally removed his hands from his face and glanced at his father. He just now remembered his mother. "My mother—"
"Fled after the Uprising," Valentine finished for him. "I was a disgraced man. The Clave would have hunted me down had they thought I lived. She could not bear her association with me, and ran."
Jace could hear the hurt and pain in his voice. He could not believe how Clary thought that Valentine was a monster. A monster he most certainly was not. He cared, and Jace can tell that he misses his mother dearly. The hurt and pain in his voice said that much.
"I did not know she was pregnant at the time. With Clary." Valentine smiled once more, running his slender finger down the wineglass. "But blood calls to blood, as they say," he went on. "Fate has borne us to this convergence. Our family, together again. We can use the Portal," he said.
Jace felt another shiver run down his spine at the thought of going back home. The gruesome memories of the past sometimes haunted him in his sleep, but he was still glad that he was going back home. However, he was not happy that Clary was coming with. However, Jace nodded regardless, and stared at his fingers numbly.
"We'll be together there," said Valentine, his eyes looking distant and glazy. "As we should be."
Just great, thought Jace bitterly. Just us. You and me, a mother that left me and a sister who absolutely hates you. He felt tears sting his eyes. Not to mention that your two kids may be in love with each other. It sounds absolutely perfect. Just dandy. Jace continued to stare at his hands, only thinking to himself.
"I am not going anywhere with you, and neither is my mother," Clary said bravely.
"He's right, Clary," Jace said hoarsely, his throat feeling dry and parched. He flexed his hands, which were stained red with the wine that had spilled. "It's the only place for us to go. We can sort things out there."
"You can't be serious—," said Clary before she was interrupted by an enormous crash that was so loud that it sounded like one of the walls of the building had just collapsed.
Jace's long-running Shadowhunter training kicked in. Despite being nauseous himself, he jumped from his chair with a start. His hand jumped to his belt like he had done several times before. "Father, they're—"
"They're on their way," said Valentine, rising to his feet.
Jace heard footsteps echo down and around the building. A little while later, the door of the room swung open with a heavy creak. Luke stood by the door, looking beaten and bloody.
He looked like he had just come from a battle. Blood clotted his shirt and jeans and the blood continued to line his face, around the lower half of his jaw line. Jace was a little impressed; he never knew that a Downworlder could get as dirty as that. Then again, Luke used to be a Shadowhunter, one of the Nephilim.
Jace's thoughts were interrupted when Clary cried out his name. She was running across the room to him, nearly tripping in the process. Jace watched as Clary jumped into his burly arms, clinging onto his t-shirt and clutching it like her life depended on it. For a moment, his large hand came around her small shoulders and cupped her head tenderly, in a fatherly way. Then, he pushed her away, but very gently so. "I'm all over blood," he said as the corners of his mouth quirked up in what almost looked like a grin. "Don't worry—it isn't mine."
"Then whose is it?" Jace's head turned to his father, who spoke to Luke.
Clary turned around as well, with Luke's protective arm wrapped around her like a shield. Jace liked the way that Luke held her, with much warmth and security. He wished that it was him holding her across the room. He wanted her to feel comfortable and secure with him, and only him.
"Pangborn's," said Luke calmly.
Valentine made a soft groaning noise and passed a hand over his face, as if the news was painful to hear. "I see," Valentine said stoically. "Did you tear out his throat with your teeth?" Valentine said it almost teasingly, for which Jace felt a brief rush of disgust. Not towards Luke, but his father. His resentment for Downworlders was too much at times.
"Actually," said Luke, with a bright glimmer in his eyes, "I killed him with this." With his other hand—the one that didn't hold Clary—he pulled out a long thin dagger.
The dagger looked like the kindjal that Jace gave Clary. The way he held it in the light, Jace could see the small blue stones gleam and sparkle. So that's where the other one was, thought Jace, I've always wondered where that one went.
Luke sneered at Valentine and held the dagger high, as if in triumph. "Do you remember it?"
Valentine looked at it with his black eyes, and Jace saw his jaw clench and tighten. "I do," he replied with a sneer similar to Luke's.
"You handed it to me seventeen years ago and told me to end my life with it," said Luke has his grip on the weapon tightened.
Jace realized that the blade of that kindjal was longer than the red-hilted one that he kept in his belt. To Jace, the weapon looked like a cross between a dagger and a sword. Not to mention that its blade was needle-tipped.
"And I nearly did," finished Luke, staring solely at Valentine.
"Do you expect me to deny it?" asked Valentine, anger and hurt surging in his voice. This kind of pain was worse than what he had heard earlier when Valentine was talking about Jace's mother. This kind of pain was deeper. "I tried to save you from yourself, Lucian. I made a grave mistake. If only I'd had the strength to kill you myself, you could have died a man."
"Like you?" asked Luke bitterly. Though Jace could barely hear it, he could hear the bit of love and respect that Luke had once held for Valentine when he was in the circle. It was all curdled into a weary hatred. "A man who chains his unconscious wife to a bed in hopes of torturing her for information when she wakes up? That's your bravery?"
Jace stared at Valentine. In his features was mixed fear and awe. He was fearful for Clary and Luke, but most importantly, he was fearful for what might happen because he knew that his father was angry. He was deathly angry. It was there for a short, short moment, then in a flash, it was gone, and his face was as smooth as the stones on a beach. "I didn't torture her," he said. "She is chained for her own protection."
"Against what?" Luke demanded, stepping deeper into the room, his shoes echoing across the wooden floors. "The only thing endangering her is you. The only thing that ever endangered her was you. She's spent her life running to get away from you."
"I loved her," Valentine said with what sounds like sadness in his voice. "I would never have hurt her. It was you who turned her against me."
Luke laughed heartlessly. "She didn't need me to turn against you," he spat. "She learned to hate you on her own."
"That is a lie!" said Valentine, his face fuming with anger. His hand jumped to the sword that hung from the sheath at his waist. The blade was flat and a dull black, along with an intricate pattern of silver stars. Jace winced the slightest bit as he saw his father point the sword and leveled the blade at Luke's chest.
Jace took a step towards Valentine. "Father—," he started before Valentine cut his son off tersely.
"Jonathan, be silent!" Valentine shouted at his son in rage. It was all it took for Jace to be quiet. However, Luke was shocked, Jace could tell. Apparently, this revelation had not yet been told to him.
"Jonathan?" he whispered to him questioningly.
Jace's mouth twisted in an awful grimace. He didn't want to, really—in fact he quite like Luke, though he never personally met him. He just did it to look good in front of Valentine. To do him proud. "Don't call me that," he said fiercely, his golden eyes blazing like a warm flame. "I'll kill you myself if you call me that."
As soon as he said the words, he knew that Luke could see through them. He wasn't expecting it of course, but it may have been because his heart was not quite into the spirit of things.
Luke never took his eyes off Jace as he whispered: "Your mother would be proud." His voice was so quiet and so gentle, that Jace softened for just a moment and felt a twinge of guilt bubbling in his stomach.
"I don't have a mother," Jace said, though his hands were shaking. "The woman who gave birth to me walked away from me before I learned to remember her face. I was nothing to her, so she is nothing to me." His words hurt him, and they stung his tongue like flames. He did not, however, show any sign of weakness.
"Your mother is not the one who walked away from you," said Luke as his gaze inched towards Valentine. "I would have thought that even you," he said to him slowly, "were above using your own flesh and blood as bait. I suppose I was wrong."
"That's enough," said Valentine, his tone ignorant and lazy. However, it was fierce, and it scared Jace to see his father this angry. It was a hungry threat of violence, he knew. "Let go of my daughter, or I'll kill you where you stand."
"I'm not your daughter," said Clary with equal fierceness and arrogance in her voice. Despite her protests, Luke pushed her away from him, so hard that she nearly fell to the ground.
Jace was about to reach out to her but held his ground as Luke spoke to Clary for what he knew could be the last time if his father was this angry.
"Get out of here," said Luke. "Get to where it's safe."
Clary looked indignantly at him and crossed her arms over her chest in a childish manner. "I'm not leaving you," she said.
"Clary, I mean it. Get out of here." Luke was already lifting his dagger. He looked at Valentine with such ferocity that Jace wasn't used to—other than, of course, his encounters with various gruesome demons. "This is not your fight," Luke said, his eyes piercing into Valentine's own.
Clary obediently did as she was told and stumbled to the door, but Jace had stood in front of her, blocking her path. He moved quickly thanks to the runes that his father had traced on him earlier in the day.
"Are you insane?!" he whispered to her shrilly. "They've broken down the front door. This place will be full of Forsaken."
Clary looked at him indifferently and shoved at him. "Let me out," she said irritably. She shoved at Jace once again.
However, Jace held her back with a vice grip as strong as iron. "So they can tear you apart?" asked Jace with a nervous sting in his voice. He shook his head, his golden locks spraying around him like small fireworks. "Not a chance."
Suddenly, there was an ear-piercing sound of clashing metal. Jace felt Clary pull hard away from him as she twisted around to see that Valentine had struck at Luke, who met his blow with a gentle strike of his dagger. Their blades clashed together once more, and sparks flew around them. Jace watched the Downworlder intently as he struck at Valentine. He was quite good, Jace observed, but his skills were mediocre compared with his father's.
"Oh my God," Clary whispered beside him. "They're going to kill each other."
Jace's eyes darkened under half-lidded eyes. "You don't understand," he said to her gently. "This is how it's done—" He took in a sharp intake of breath as he saw Luke slip past Valentine's guard. His father took a blow to the shoulder, stumbling back. Valentine's white shirt was now soaked entirely in red blood.
Valentine threw his head back and laughed maniacally. Jace just stood back thinking that his father had gone mad; that blow to the shoulder must have hurt a lot. "A true hit," Valentine said, "I didn't think you had it in you, Lucian."
Luke stood upright, part of the knife blocking Jace's and Clary's view of his face. "You taught me that move yourself," he said with a sneering grin.
"But that was years ago," said Valentine in his usual velvety voice, "and since then, you've hardly had need of a knife, have you? Not when you have claws and fangs at your disposal."
"All the better to tear your heart out with."
Valentine's features turned serious and solemn as he shook his head. 'You tore my heart out years ago," he said with definite sorrow in his voice. "When you betrayed and deserted me." Luke struck at Valentine again, but Valentine was moving quickly across the floor, despite his injuries and gigantic stature. "It was you who turned my wife against her own kind. You came to her when she was weakest, with your piteousness, your helpless need. I was distant and she thought you loved her. She was a fool." Valentine spat at Luke, who just grimaced at the sight of Valentine.
Jace tensed up beside Clary. He knew that he didn't want to at the moment, much less be this close to Clary, but he couldn't help it. He was no longer sure of what the truth was or is. Everybody kept telling him that Valentine was a monster, and Jace believed them. But now that his father was back into his life, he believed him. And he missed him. Yes; Jace missed his father. It was hard to believe, too. But he did, and he did not want to see his father lose to none other than a Downworlder. It was just too hard and too much to bear.
"That's your mother Valentine's talking about," Clary said in a small voice behind him. Jace's head whipped around so he was almost face-to-face with Clary.
"She abandoned me," Jace answered harshly. "Some mother."
Clary continued on with determination, Jace saw, no matter how much he claimed to have no mother. "She thought you were dead. You want to know how I know that?" she asked Jace demandingly.
Jace just looked on, but said nothing. He did not want to think about his mother, or the mother that he could have had. He just wanted to focus on his father right now. He wanted to make sure that his father was okay, and that he was pleased with him.
"Because she kept a box in her bedroom. It had your initials on it: J.C," Clary finished, trying her hardest to catch Jace's attention. However, Jace did not falter and instead, stared at his shoes, suddenly interested in them.
"So she had a box," Jace mumbled, more to the ground than Clary herself. "Lots of people have boxes. They keep things in them. It's a growing trend, I hear." Jace's heart was not in the sarcasm, but he tried it nonetheless. Anything to steer away from the subject at hand.
"It had a lock of your hair in it. Baby hair. And a photograph, maybe two. She used to take it out every year and cry over it. Awful brokenhearted crying—"
Enough was enough for Jace. No matter how much Clary talked about her mother, he will never believe that that person is his mother. And no matter what Clary said, he knew that his mother left him when he was just an infant. How could he ever learn to love someone that cruel? "Stop it," Jace said as his hand clenched at his side. He spoke through gritted teeth and sounded restrained, as if he wanted to yell at Clary that very instant.
"Stop what?" Clary continued, adding a deeper burden onto his heavy heart. "Telling you the truth? She thought you had died—she'd never have left you if she'd known you were alive. You thought your father was dead—"
"I saw him die! Or I thought I did," said Jace, feeling a little queasy in the stomach."I didn't just—just hear about it and choose to believe it!" Jace felt more and more frustrated by the minute. He wanted Clary to stop. Just stop. Right now. He didn't want to have to listen to how much his mother had mourned over some pictures or a lock of his hair. In fact, he hardly cared. But now, it seems, Clary is changing that. Like she changed me, Jace thought, adding more to his feeling of nausea.
"She found your burned bones," Clary said quietly. "In the ruins of her house. Along with the bones of her mother and father."
Finally, Jace looked up and met her gaze. He could see her studying him, watching him closely. She had probably done that when she drew him on the night they went to Hotel Dumort. He could tell that she was waiting for him to break. But he wouldn't. And he refused. "That's ridiculous," he said. "He didn't die—there weren't any bones.
"There were," protested Clary, who sounded pleading.
"So it was glamour," Jace said gruffly as he shrugged her look off.
"Ask your father what happened to his mother and father-in-law." Though he wasn't looking at her, Jace felt Clary reach out and touch his hand, twining their fingers together. "Ask him if that was a glamour, too—"
"Shut up!" Jace's self-control left him, and he turned on her, his face washed of all color. Out of the corner of his eye, Jace saw that Luke had looked at the both of them for just a split second. But it was enough for Valentine to drive his sword into the other man's chest.
Jace saw Luke's eyes widen, looking bigger and more round with obvious surprise and astonishment. Valentine drew his hand back along with the sword, which was dripping with red liquid. Valentine gave a merciless laugh and struck at Luke again, this time knocking the dagger out of his hand. The dagger flew across the room and hit the floor with a metallic clang just as Luke collapsed onto the floor.
Valentine raised his sword over the other man's body, beaming with pride and smiling a malicious smile. Jace knew, in his heart, that this might be the last that he—that Clary—will see of Luke. For a moment, he felt a twinge of guilt, but it was gone as soon as it came.
Jace glanced back at Clary who merely stared at the two men, tears slowly dripping out of her eyelids. She looked horrified, and Jace instantly felt bad for her. It was not her fault. No, none of this was her fault. She should have stayed out of this in the first place. She wouldn't have gotten this hurt.
Jace however, seemingly read her mind and knew what she was going to do. He opted against it and turned to face her and gripped her wrist. "Clary—," he started warningly but it was already too late.
Clary had twisted away from his hold and began to run, escaping his outreached hands. Jace watched as she ran across the room to join Luke, who lay on the floor helplessly, supporting himself with one arm. Jace watched with a mildly horrified expression as she threw herself down at him just as Valentine's sword was about to strike—
But it didn't. Jace's hand jerked ever so slightly, so that the red-hilted kindjal flew out of his hands and towards the sword. Towards Valentine. There was a loud clang of metal, and Valentine yelled out in pain.
Jace turned pale as he watched his father closely. He did not mean to strike his hand but he did it. He did it. Jace lowered his arm and looked at Valentine, his eyes wide and pleading. "Father, I…"
Valentine gave his bleeding hand a fleeting glance, his face full of rage. However, when he spoke, his voice was smooth and silky. Jace, for a moment, thought that he was angry with him. "Don't," Valentine said. "That was an excellent throw, Jace."
Jace continued to stare at his father worriedly, with the love and respect that he had withheld all these long years. "But your hand," he said hesitantly. "I just thought—"
"I would not have hurt your sister," Valentine said in a velvety voice. He walked to his sword and the red-hilted kindjal and stuck both through his belt. "I would have stopped the blow. But your family concern is commendable."
That's what it was, Jace thought, family concern. Nothing more. He stopped for a moment before adding, under his breath, "At least I think there isn't."
Jace had been so lost in thought for a second that he forgot all about Luke and Clary. Clary was staring wide-eyed at Luke. Luke looked terrible. He was lying on his back with his eyes half-closed. Blood bubbled up from the recently torn hole in his shirt.
"I need a bandage," Clary pleaded. "Some cloth, anything."
Jace reached around himself and searched, quite impulsively, for something that Clary requested. Before he could however, Valentine stopped him.
"Don't move, Jonathan," he said to his son. Jace obediently froze where he was, although he had a hand reaching in his pocket. "Clarissa," Valentine continued, this time to his daughter, "this man is a n enemy of our family, an enemy of the Clave. We are hunters, and that means that sometimes we are killers. Surely you understand that."
"Demon hunters," growled Clary. "Demon killers. Not murderers. There is a difference."
"He is a demon, Clarissa," said Valentine in a still soft voice. "A demon with a man's face. I know how deceptive such monsters can be. Remember, I spared him once myself."
"Monster?" echoed Clary, looking at her father with a more terrified expression than ever. "Luke isn't a monster," she continued with a voice that matched Valentine's. "Or a murderer. You are."
"Clary!" Jace shouted unexpectedly. He was only defending his father. He thought that Clary was only saying these things because she did not know Valentine the way Jace had when he was a young boy. She was not there when Valentine taught him, and she was not there to experience Valentine's love, like he had.
Clary ignored Jace, nonetheless. Her eyes were fixed on Valentine. "You murdered your wife's parents," she continued, panic rising in her voice like a balloon, "not in battle but in cold blood. And I bet you murdered that Michael Wayland and his little boy, too. Threw their bones in with my grandparents' so that my mother would think you and Jace were dead. Put your necklace around Michael Wayland's neck before you burned him so everyone would think those bones were yours. After all your talk about the untainted blood of the Clave—you didn't care at all about their blood or their innocence when you killed them, did you? Slaughtering old people and children in cold blood"—she stopped very shortly, to give Valentine a murderous look—"that's monstrous."
Jace glared at Clary, though she could not see it. How could she think of their father that way? It would only make Valentine angrier, which it did. Jace watched as his father had another fit of uncontrollable rage on his face.
"That's enough!" Valentine roared once more, very angrily. He raised his sword, and for a second Jace thought that he was going to strike at Clary. "Jonathan!" Jace's head jerked up at the sound of his name. "Drag your sister out of my way, or by the Angel, I'll knock her down to kill the monster she's protecting!"
Jace hesitated, for just a nanosecond, but inclined to agree. "Certainly, Father," he replied obediently. He crossed the room to Clary who he grabbed roughly by the arm. He dragged her out of Valentine's way, yanking her to her feet.
"Jace," Clary whispered in a frightened voice.
"Don't." Jace's fingers dug deeper into Clary's arm, ensuring that she did not escape from his grip. "Don't talk to me."
"But—"
"I said, don't talk," Jace growled between gritted teeth. He shook Clary hard, and she stumbled, and for a moment, Jace felt sorry for what he had done. Jace watched as Clary stared at Valentine, mortified.
"Leave him alone!" cried Clary as she shoved hard through Jace's grip. Jace didn't say anything, but it was useless to fight it. He was much too strong thanks to the difficult years he's had in training.
"Stop it!" Jace hissed into her ear. "You'll just make it worse for yourself. It's better if you don't look."
"Like you do?" she hissed back, allowing Jace to wince momentarily. "Shutting your eyes and pretending something's not happening doesn't make it not true, Jace." Jace shut his eyes for a few brief seconds, purposely willing away tears that threatened to stream down his face. "You ought to know better—"
"Clary, stop," Jace said, aware that he had sounded desperate and nearly feral. He and Clary glanced towards Valentine once more, who chuckled at the sight of the helpless Downworlder.
"If only I had thought," he said, "to bring with me a blade of real silver, I could have dispatched you in the true manner of your kind, Lucian."
Luke snarled something coarse back. It only brought Jace more disgust for the horrible creature, but at the same time, he felt sorry for him, as well as Clary, because she was about to watch him die.
Clary twisted away from Jace, but he yanked her back towards him with an excruciating force. He put his arms around her, holding her back with a back-breaking hug. Jace flushed a little but said nothing.
"At least let me get up," he heard Luke say. "Let me die on my feet."
Jace glanced up and saw his father peering at Luke through the length of the blade. He merely shrugged. "You can die on your back or on your knees," he said. "But only a man deserves to die standing, and you are not a man."
"NO!" Clary's shout brought pain to Jace's ears as—though not looking at her—Luke began to pull himself into a painful kneeling position.
"Why do you have to make it worse for yourself?" Jace asked in a low, shrilling whisper. "I told you not to look."
Clary continued to pant against his bare arms, which brought along the sensation of chills. "Why do you have to lie to yourself?" Clary demanded.
"I'm not lying!" Jace tightened his grip on her, not caring whether or not she felt comfortable or uncomfortable. "I just want what's good in my life—my father—my family—I can't lose it all again."
Luke was upright and kneeling now. Jace saw his father raise the blood-tainted sword, yet again pointing the sword towards his chest. Luke's eyes were tightly shut as he murmured his last possible words.
Clary wrenched and twisted around in Jace's arms, turning to look at him. He tried to look away but he couldn't. Right then and there he knew that she had seen him pushed to the brink, about to break.
"You have a family," Clary whispered to him. "Family, those are just the people who love you. Like the Lightwoods love you. Alec, Isabelle—" Jace heard Clary's voice crack with trepidation. "Luke is my family, and you're going to make me watch him die like you thought you watched your father die when you were ten years old? Is this what you want, Jace?" She breathed hard, and her breaths stung against his neck. "Is this the kind of man you want to be? Like—"
Jace didn't want to hear anymore and was, frankly, glad that Clary cut herself off. "Like my father," he said with a slow realization. The truth was, he never wanted to be like his father. He just wanted his father to be proud of him, to love him as Jace himself had learned. He didn't want to live the sort of cowardly life that Clary had been pointing out about their father. He didn't want to do that. He didn't even want to be known as a Morgenstern. A new determination filled Jace's blood with adrenaline, and he had thought of a new plan.
"Get down," he told Clary before he pushed her hard. Jace braced himself. He had to do this at least once. He kept telling himself over and over that he was doing this for Clary. He raced as fast as he could towards Luke, before his father would give the ending strike.
Jace couldn't see anything. It felt as though time had frozen all around him, and he was the only one mobile. At last, his hands found the Downworlder, and he pushed Luke hard so the sword missed and instead met the floor. Jace stood and faced his father with a steady face.
"I think you should leave," Jace said blankly.
"What did you say?" Valentine asked his son, looking at him incredulously.
Jace reached a hand out gently and almost lazily stoked the hilt of the sword that was driven into the floor. When he spoke, he sounded bored, but there was no mistaking the seriousness he held. "I think you heard me, Father."
"Jonathan Morgenstern—"
Quicker than he thought he could go, Jace had griped the hilt of the sword, tearing it free from the floorboards. He raised it high, where the light reflected back with a luminous quality. He pointed it level and flat, and it hovered just a few inches below his father's chin. "That's not my name," Jace said. "My name is Jace Wayland."
It had taken him several moments and several tries to finally see it, but Jace got the point. He was not Valentine's son. Valentine was merciless and cruel, but Jace was not like him, not at all. Jace didn't even want to be like him, and he was simply glad that Clary had helped him realize that. Clary—
"Wayland?" he roared at his son. "You have no Wayland blood! Michael Wayland was a stranger to you—"
"And so," said Jace, matching his father's deathly glare with his own, "are you." He jerked his wrist so the sword moved a little to the left. "Now move."
Valentine looked at Jace sourly, shaking his head in a reprimanding way. "Never. I will not take orders from a child."
Jace inched forward just a little bit more, so the tip of the sword touched his bare skin. "I am a very well-trained child," Jace said indifferently, but with a touch of humor. "You instructed me yourself in the art of killing. I only need to move two fingers to cut your throat, did you know that?" Jace gave his father a steely, iron-like glare. "I suppose you did."
"You're skilled enough," said Valentine dismissively. However, Jace knew that his father somewhat doubted his intentions because he stood very still. "But you could not kill me. You have always been softhearted."
To Jace, the words stung and reeked of poison. It was true indeed that he was softhearted. In fact, when he was telling Clary that story of the boy and his falcon, the boy was him. When his father had given him the falcon, it was hard to tame because it had been caught right out of the wild. As a young boy, Jace had always tried his hardest to please his father, even now. But as time grew, Jace had been persistent with the falcon, and soon the falcon grew to love him. Jace loved the falcon back. The falcon obeyed Jace's every order, but this was not what Valentine intended. Valentine merely wanted him to make the falcon obedient not teaching it to love him. So, on that fateful day, Valentine snapped the falcon's neck in half and told Jace something that he should learn: To love is to destroy.
"Perhaps he couldn't," said Luke from behind Jace. He got to his feet, still slightly pale and bloody. "But I could. And I'm not entirely sure he could stop me."
Valentine's gaze lingered over Luke before going back to Jace. Jace didn't move when Luke spoke and he continued to stand as still as a statue. He still pointed the sword at Valentine's neck. Jace decided that it actually looked quite at home there.
"You hear the monster threatening me, Jonathan," said Valentine. "You side with it?"
"It has a point," said Jace placidly. "I'm not entirely sure I could stop him if he wanted to do you damage. Werewolves heal so fast." Jace's voice was filled with the sarcasm and humor that it once had. It made him feel lighter.
"So," he spat as his lip curled up in a menacing growl, "like your mother, you prefer this creature, this half-bred demon thing to your own blood, your own family?"
At the sound of family, the sword that Jace had held so tightly trembled. "You left me when I was a child," Jace continued, mustering strength. "You let me think you were dead and you sent me away to live with strangers. You never told me I had a mother, a sister. You left me alone." Jace put extra emphasis on the word alone as his voice echoed around the room as a panicked cry.
"I did it for you," Valentine protested, "to keep you safe."
"If you cared about Jace, if you cared about blood, you wouldn't have killed his grandparents," Clary interjected. "You murdered innocent people."
"Innocent?" Valentine fumed at his daughter, anger bouncing off him in waves. "No one is innocent in a war! They sided with Jocelyn against me! They would have taken my son from me!"
Luke hissed in disgust. "You knew she was going to leave you," he said. "You knew she was going to run, even before the Uprising?"
"Of course I knew!" Valentine continued. Jace could see that the control he had cracked under the pressure. Jace could finally see the molten rage that he had underneath, the rage that he had expertly hidden from Jace all this long time. Valentine's hands clenched into fists, and the veins on his pale neck popped out and shown in the light. "I did what I had to to protect my own, and in the end I gave them more than they ever deserved: the funeral pyre awarded only to the greatest warriors of the Clave!"
"You burned them," Clary said in a deflated voice.
"Yes!" shouted Valentine, almost triumphantly. "I burned them."
Jace made a strangled noise, choking back a cry. "M-my grandparents…," Jace managed to choke out before Valentine cut him off.
"You never knew them," Valentine said flatly. "Don't pretend to a grief you do not feel." But in his mind, Jace felt mortified. He wanted—could've wanted—to meet his grandparents. Perhaps laugh at how old-fashioned they are, but now he couldn't because they were dead.
Jace looked away, but the hand that held the sword trembled more violently. He was panting now, with sweat running down his temple and sliding down his collar-bone. The veins in his neck popped out, and there was deep ache in his heart. Jace suddenly felt a warm hand upon his shoulder. Without glancing behind himself, he knew that it was Luke.
"Steady," he said from behind Jace.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jace saw Clary step forward. "Jace—we need the Cup. Or you know what he'll do with it."
Jace licked his dry lips and tried to look at his father with a steady, measured gaze. "The Cup, Father," he said, unfaltering. "Where is it?"
"In Idris," said Valentine in a deathly calm voice. "Where you will never find it," he added smugly.
Jace's hand trembled once more as he gave his father a measured look. "Tell me—"
"Give me the sword, Jonathan," said Luke kindly from behind Jace.
Jace's voice sounded small and distant, like he was at the bottom of a well. "What?" he said.
"Give Luke the sword," said Clary as she took one more step forward. "Let him have it, Jace."
Jace shook his head, and said, "I can't do that."
Clary took one more step towards him. With a jolt, Jace realized that she was close—close enough to touch. "Yes, you can." Her voice was soft and gentle. "Please."
Jace, however, did not meet her gaze. His eyes were locked onto his father's and they took turns glaring at each other. All the while, the moment lingered on and on, shaving away time. Jace tried his hardest to understand what his father was up to, and to see through the mask that Clary claims that he wears. It made him feel like a child—naïve and clueless.
At last, Jace nodded curtly and lowered his hand. He did not glance at Clary, but he let Luke stand beside him as he put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You can let go now, Jonathan," he said. Jace tensed up, and Luke, who seemingly sensed it, corrected himself almost immediately. "Jace."
Jace let go of the sword's hilt and moved away from Valentine. Suddenly, he felt his heart ache for Clary. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her—not the way that he had earlier—but hold her in his arms and ensure her safety.
"I have a suggestion," Valentine said, referring to Luke.
"Let me guess," said Luke as he picked up the sword and spun it expertly around on his hand. "It's 'Don't kill me,' isn't it?"
Valentine's laugh sounded cold and heartless in Jace's ears. "I would hardly lower myself to ask you for my life," he simply said, his eyes matching his tone—cold and heartless.
"Good," Luke said as he nudged Valentine's chin with the tip of the blade. "I'm not going to kill you unless you force my hand, Valentine. I draw the line at murdering you in front of your own children. What I want is the Cup."
Jace's ears pricked up at the sound of roaring downstairs. It grew louder and louder along with the sound of footsteps that echoed in the hallway.
"Luke—," said Valentine before he got cut off abruptly.
"I hear it," said Luke warningly.
"The Cup is in Idris, I told you," Valentine repeated. His eyes darted past Luke, as if they expected someone to burst in at any given moment.
Luke was sweating and breathing heavily, Jace noticed, and when he spoke he sounded tired and weary. "If it's in Idris, you used the Portal to bring it there. I'll go with you. Bring it back."
Luke's eyes darted around as well, like Valentine's, alert and observant. The noises outside grew louder now, and Jace was on high alert, his hands ready to jump to the nearest weapon. There was the sound of something shattering, and someone shouting.
"Clary, stay with your brother. After we go through, you use the Portal to take you to a safe place." Luke's eyes were locked with Valentine's now.
"I won't leave," said Jace, who wanted more than anything to go with them. The truth was, he wanted to go back home. He wanted to see his home again. No matter how many bad memories it held, to him, Idris was still home. And plus, he wanted to know the truth from his father.
"Yes you will," Luke urged as something thudded against the door. It was heavy and hard. Luke spoke louder and more authorative, "Valentine, the Portal. Move."
"Or what?" Valentine's eyes focused on the door behind Luke with a considering look.
"I'll kill you if you force my hand." Luke waved the sword around lazily, taunting Valentine. "In front of them, or not. The Portal, Valentine. Now."
Author's Note:
This, I repeat, is only FAN-FICTION. As a book report project, I rewrote a portion of a chapter of Cassandra Clare's City of Bones. No copyright infringement was intended, as this is REWRITTEN and NOT COPIED WORD FOR WORD, which would be an act of plagiarism.
With that said, this chapter is also available on my Wattpad account, so this was all rewritten by me, derived from Cassie Clare's book.